Goodbye, Laramie

We've sold our home.  It's a seller's market and we got an offer the first day we listed it.  As we head toward closing, I'm feeling nostalgic and having flashbacks like the final episode of a great sitcom.

When we moved in five years ago, the house needed love.  It was suitable for keeping pit bulls, which the former occupant did.  It was not designed for comfort.  There was no carpeting, no grass and no shade except at the darkened doorstep behind a fortress-like front wall that blotted out the sun and the sky and provided privacy for whatever shenanigans were going on inside.  The double front doors were fake; one was really the outer wall of the kitchen.  The hard tile flooring withstood any abuse you could throw at it and was unforgiving to the occasional ceramic mug or wine glass dropped upon it.  The neighbor's yard was lush from his landscaping business, but ours was mostly cement and had three barren rings of stone.   A roving Google camera took this picture just after we moved in and had started the upgrades with new windows.



A work in progress

Fortunately, Marilyn has a talent for improving everything in her life.  I'm living proof.  She gave the home curb appeal and she knows a great handyman, Clint Cable.  She ordered carpet, carriage lights, front patio furniture, a new garage opener, crown molding, faucets, mirrors, shelves, windows and coverings and the sliding door to the patio.  Clint recommended and installed the new air conditioning, new insulation, new ducts, new registers, a patio cover in the backyard  and a beautiful oak front door.  His subcontractor cut out a portion of the front wall to expose the kitchen and front porch to natural light and a great view looking west down the street.  Two stone rings were demolished and Marilyn converted the third into a vegetable garden.  She planted roses, designed a water feature, picked out a birdbath, and had native plants put in.  One hot summer morning we cleared out the dead brush from all the flower beds.  Slowly but surely, the house became a home. 

We sure had some good times.  We threw a party when my article was published in Toastmaster magazine and had our 50th birthday parties catered.   We took advantage of the location -- the house sits on a hill just east of Mission Valley -- and hosted three annual "Flashlight Hike and Fireworks Night" fests in late-September featuring a walk up a trail to a lookout with a spectacular view of  radio KGB's Skyshow.  That spot seemed to be San Diego's best kept secret.  I don't know why it didn't become more popular over the years.  Another night we trapped a wild rabbit in our backyard.  For bait we used sliced apples and carrots suspended in pantyhose in a wire cage.  (Thanks, eHow.)  Then we drove the scared critter to Mission Trails and released it near the visitors center.

It was a slice of country in the city.  And just as safe.  Any night, you could leave a Mac book and your wallet on the front seat of your car parked unlocked with your keys in the ignition and there's a 99.99% chance both the car and the valuables would be there in the morning.  The biggest crime ever at our house occurred the night someone drove by the curb and knocked over one of our trash cans, breaking one of the lid hinges and forcing us to buy a new receptacle from the city.  In five years, I've seen police on our street only twice.  The neighbors are the greatest; watchful retirees living among working stiffs like me.  

I'm going to miss the kitchen and our small dog's trick of turning the kitchen lights on and off.  There's a  switch on the side of the counter and for Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers she caught on pretty quick.

Now is the right time to go.  Marilyn loves the house and would happily live here the rest of her life or until we're escorted to assisted living.  But she indulged my wishes to live in a walkable neighborhood closer to our friends and our weekend activities.  I suspect her motives aren't entirely altruistic; she'll have a walk-in closet all to herself.  The new owner on Laramie lives around the corner and wants the house for her daughter and four-year-old granddaughter.  That girl will have great family support growing up and probably befriend the next-door landscaper's twin six-year-old girls.  Note to our buyer: if you have a dog, teach it to turn on the lights in the kitchen.  It's a cool trick especially when come home at night.  And don't worry if you occasionally forget to lock the front door.

So long, Laramie.