Kids & Family | Love's Real Stories

October 25, 2020

Clean Air

We took a ride up the hill to Paradise to get out of the wildfire smoke in our Canyon. Mind you, this was a week before the massive surrounding fires exploded, combined smoke plumes, bombed ash, and blocked out the sun completely. This was before our air quality reached the “Hazardous” range.

This day the Air Quality Index on my cell phone weather app showed a level 120 for Chico, “Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups.” For Paradise, the app showed a level of 50, “Good.” A twenty-minute drive for clean air? Let’s go! We’ll take the kid with us. A stop at the store to buy the kid new balls and dolls and treats, and we’re on our way.

A worthy escape! Bright sunshine in the piney foothills felt good and looked good. And the air smelled really, really good. Compared to the orange glow and dank smoke in the valley down below, Paradise was a paradise.

First stop in clean Paradise was the Starbuck’s drive-through. The little kid strapped into the car seat in the back needed a drink, and so did the people in the front seat, my wife and I, otherwise known as Grandma and Grandpa.

The people inside the Starbuck’s drive-through window were exceedingly nice and cheery. It seems Paradise people, having been through the Camp Fire of 2018, will not be brought down by the current Covid pandemic or a few more fires. They made a big deal of the kid in the back seat. “What’s your name?” they asked. The kid shyly and quietly said, “Camille.”

“Oh, how pretty!” they said. They loaded her up with a sweet drink and treats. Grandma and Grandpa loaded up with caffeine, and we were on our way.

We drove around to check out the Real Estate scene in Paradise. New houses stand here and there among the sparse neighborhoods. New construction is underway. Houses are steadily going up and businesses are steadily filling in the commercial spaces as the rebuild of a town continues, pandemic or not. Burnt trees and twisted metal are less and less the dominant focal point of the Paradise landscape.

We hung a left off the main drag and crawled into the parking lot at Bille Park. Green grass rolled out in an expanse of open space and freshness, shaded by big healthy pines. Bille Park, with good tree-spacing and tree-trimming made it through the Camp Fire. The dogs hopped out of the camper shell smiling and prancing, ready to rumble. We unstrapped the little kid from the car seat, and her three-year-old legs were churning through the green grass in no time.

We played with the bouncy balls we bought the kid, and she hugged the doll we bought her. We feasted on the crackers and cheese, and sandwiches, and cookies we bought her. Grandma and Grandpa were out to spoil the kid, loading her up with those toys and treats.

After the kid and the grandparents ran around in the moist grass and piney clean air of Bille Park, we drove over to Ace Hardware for chain saw oil and pre-mixed 2-stroke gasoline. The ladies at the key-making station made a big deal out of the kid. “Oh, my goodness!” they said. “What a cute little girl! Would you like a ring of keys?” They showed her six or seven old used keys held on a piece of wire.

The kid wasn’t too sure about wanting a ring of keys until one of the ladies said, “Look, this one has a butterfly on it.” One of the used keys had a crinkled sticker of a butterfly stuck to it.

We drove back down the hill reluctantly into the layers of smoke and returned the kid to her mother. We unloaded the kid, and proudly displayed all the shiny toys and packages of treats we had spoiled her with. The kid ran to her mother, past the shiny spoilage, and said, “Look Mama, keys! And a butterfly!” She held aloft the old used ring of keys as the prize of the day.

A worthy escape. We spoiled ourselves with some clean air, and the kid was spoiled with some old used keys on a piece of wire.

April 5, 2020

Letter to a Quarantined Mother

Dearest Mother,

How weird that after all these years, we now have you sequestered away, alone in your little box, unavailable for visits by your loving family. You, at 95 years old now, mother of three, grandmother of eight, great-grandmother of a handful. You, the one who never misses any family get-together, or any chance to hang out with your off-spring and their friends, and your friends, and the world at large.

Weird, but here we are in the Coronavirus World.

To say you are sequestered in your little box is unkind. You have a great place. Small, maybe, but hey, your cute little brown-shingle Bay Area house has it all. And the neighborhood is great. You are the first to say that you are “one lucky old lady” and we get that. Sister of mine and grandkids of yours are all within minutes, if not seconds, of your front door.

But right now, nobody, absolutely nobody, can come or go through your front door. Well, you can. But just for your little walks around the neighborhood with your facemask and gloves on, keeping your social-distancing abilities intact, waving and smiling to the neighbors who cross the street to avoid you and to avoid breaking the Coronavirus Rules.

And your Queenly greetings from your funny second-story doll-house deck, waving and toasting, lifting the drink in your hand. Your adoring family, friends and neighbors, down in the street, waving and toasting back to you. No words are spoken to speak of, because you can’t hear worth a hoot anyway, right? It’s a party, regardless.

How’s my Real Estate life up here in the North Valley? Weird, too. Like you, I am sequestered in my little box. Unlike you, my little box does not have it all. But not too bad. A desk. A phone. A computer. It’s an upstairs office in a big bright building which usually has 50 to 100 people buzzing around inside. It is now 99% dark. It’s quiet. It matters not how well one can hear. Everyone is sequestered away in their own boxes, little or big. No worries. I am slathered in Hand Sanitizer. I hug my bottle of Antiseptic Wipes.

But I have Zoom! Zoom is the great new trick! THE online gathering place. Because of Zoom, I’m face-to-face with more people, more often, than I ever have been. You’ve tried Zoom. Yes, I heard. My brother told me he put you on a Zoom call. Seeing brother and his wife was great, and on Zoom they were right there on your computer screen in living color. But, alas, you couldn’t hear. Bummer.

Anyway, how’s the Real Estate life in the North Valley, you ask. Amazingly, we continue to operate. Homes can be shown Virtually. Meaning online. They can be Zoomed! They can be videoed! They can be FaceTimed!

An offer is typed up by a Realtor and emailed to a Buyer who signs it by clicking the keys on their keyboard. The signed offer is then sent to the Seller who follows suit on their own keyboard. Nobody leaves their box. Realtors and Buyers and Sellers can see each other, talk to each other, look at property in the Virtual World, and do business.

Dearest Mother, from 1924 to 2020, you’ve seen more than most. You made it through World War II. Now it’s Covid-19. How weird, that after all these years, we have you sequestered away in your little box. But we can’t risk losing you.

Precious jewels are kept in little boxes.

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December 26, 2019

More Christmas Blues

As I was saying in the last column, this Christmas season has been particularly sentimental and emotional. Partially, as I said, because I miss KDV, my old Real Estate mentor.

KDV was Mr. Christmas. He was the guy who tied the wreath to the front of his car and drove around wearing a Santa hat, shouting “Ho, ho, ho!” through a speaker mounted to the car roof. He was also the guy who rolled his own smokes and flicked the ashes out the sunroof as he cruised through town, giving the impression that he was possibly a Bad Santa. But he always came through with generosity and smiles, delivering presents to friends, especially kids of friends, and even kids he didn’t know but met along the way. KDV was eccentric, unpredictable, and irreverent, but he was a Good Santa.

“Listen, babe,” said KDV back in the day, “This is the time of year when we are on a mission to forget our troubles and help others forget theirs.”

As I was also saying in my last column, I inherited KDV’s place at the podium telling Christmas stories to the hundred or so Realtors at the final meeting of the year of our Realtors weekly Multiple Listings meeting. I inherited the position six years go when KDV passed away.

This year’s final meeting of the year was yesterday. In addition to missing old KDV, I also had that sentimental and emotional feeling because of Paradise lost in the Camp Fire last year; the people we know who suffered then, the people we know suffering now, the ongoing PTSD and anxiety throughout our community. Yes, we are excited and determined to rebuild Paradise and we are involved in the effort, but the one-year anniversary made the disaster fresh.

So, my Christmas story this year at the Multiple Listings meeting was once again about KDV and his holiday antics throughout the years; but also about KDV’s wife and widow, dear Alla, who passed away two weeks ago. Alla was 95 years old. The conclusion of a good life and a great run, for sure. A cause for celebration, even. But just days before she slipped away, Alla was still her smiling and laughing self, so you can’t help pondering the fragility of life.

At the conclusion of my story-telling, the curtain on the stage behind me rolled back, and there stood our Band, the Richard Moore Memorial Chico Association of Realtors Holiday Band. There stood six members of the Band in their Santa hats, with guitars, horns, keyboards and drums. I jumped up on stage, making it a seven-member band, and we kicked it off with Blue Christmas, which was KDV and Alla’s favorite Christmas song. We played five Christmas songs, finishing with Feliz Navidad, and Santa jumping into the room from behind the curtain at stage right, handing out sombreros and maracas and throwing candy canes and chocolates. Santa led a Conga line around the room and the place was aglow in Christmas spirit.

Underlying the festive mood for me was the knowledge that during this very merry moment, my sister was visiting with her oncologist to get the results of the previous day’s scan. It’s been three years of scans and surgeries as she battles her cancer. The doctors warned her to keep her expectations down, because of the nature of her particular cancer, and the knowledge that tumors in her lungs were still present and likely growing after her last surgery.

We broke down the equipment, stuffed it in the truck, said our goodbyes, and I checked my phone. There was the text from my sister: “NO GROWTH & ONE DISAPPEARED!!!! Next scan in 6 months!” Replies followed on the 8-person family text line: “Christmas miracle!” “Tears of Joy!!” “Thanking God!!”

Mission accomplished. Troubles forgotten. Happy Holidays!

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December 25, 2019

Christmas Blues

I have a case of the Christmas blues. One reason is because I miss my brilliant old friend and Real Estate mentor, KDV, sometimes known as Ken DuVall. KDV’s favorite time of year was Christmas, so his memory looms large this time of year. Like me, he loved Christmas songs. And like me, KDV’s two favorite Christmas songs were “Blue Christmas” by Elvis Presley and “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” by Nat King Cole.

Hence, KDV’s two favorite Christmas jokes:
1. “Who is Santa’s favorite singer? Elf-is Presley.”
2.“What did the naughty Jazz singer get for Christmas? A lump of coal. Nat King Coal.”

KDV always said, “I made up that second one myself! Not bad, huh, bro?”

Every December, at the final Realtors’ Multiple Listings meeting of the year, KDV would start the meeting with a Christmas story, usually sentimental, sometimes funny, and often both sentimental and funny. KDV did that for most of the forty years he was a Realtor. Every year, he had that roomful of Realtors, a hundred or so people, enthralled with his deep voice.

There were more Christmas jokes, of course. KDV was a walking encyclopedia of jokes. Like: “Hey, I told my neighbor I bought my wife a beautiful diamond ring for Christmas. My neighbor said, ‘I thought she wanted a new car.’ I said, ‘She did, but where would I find a fake Cadillac?’”

After KDV passed away six years ago, I inherited that role he held at the December Multiple Listings meetings. So, now it’s up to me to come up with a Christmas story every year. It’s been easy for me, though, because every year all I need to do is resurrect a Christmas story or two about KDV. Like the Christmas season when he brought a car full of goodies and gifts to the decrepit little group of shacks occupied by migrant workers which he called Shanty Town. KDV threw open the doors of his car and blared ‘Blue Christmas’ by Elvis till all the people came out and celebrated with us. Shanty Town was on E. 8th street and has long been demolished. Then there was the time he convinced me to go on a mission with him to each of our favorite restaurants and bars in town, have a drink, and decide which establishment most evoked the spirit of Christmas. The Hatch Cover won, with decorations and music and a friendly rosy glow. The owners received a plaque presented by KDV. The Hatch Cover, iconic restaurant and bar that it was, is long gone, too.

KDV loved life. But more than life, KDV loved his wife. His dear Alla. KDV had one wish, the same wish, every time we broke a wishbone, which we did as a tradition on our respective birthdays.

“My wish, babe,” said KDV, “is that I die before Alla. My world is over without her.”

KDV got his wish in 2012. Alla has remained a great friend. She tells me stories from the Hollywood days as a hat-check girl in nightclubs, a dental hygienist, and meeting her crazy neighbor, KDV, who raced motorcycles and worked as a Hollywood stuntman. He became the love of her life.

Here’s the other reason I have the Christmas Blues. Dear Alla DuVall passed away two weeks ago. I was lucky enough to see her the day before she died. We sang her favorite Christmas song, Blue Christmas. Alla was 95 years old. Her granddaughter, Maura, who took care of her until the end, texted me with the news:

“I’m so honored I was able to help her and watch over her last act,” she said. “I made sure it was good. I played her ‘Blue Christmas’ and ‘Chestnuts Roasting’ as she passed. I placed my hand on her heart and told her I loved her as she breathed her last. I told her Ken was here to get her and it’s time to go. Goodbye Sweetheart.”

Merry Christmas, Ken and Alla DuVall.

January 10, 2015

Ship-Shape

I got a behind-the-scenes look at two households in action one evening. The first was the household of my new client, the Burbanks. The second was my own.

I had arrived at the Burbank home with my market analysis in hand, to discuss listing their home for sale. Mrs. Burbank answered the door with a dishrag in her hand and a harried look on her face. She waved me in before I could finish my introduction.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes; make yourself at home,” she said quickly as she cleared a spot at the table.

She pointed toward the kitchen as she hurried away. “Help yourself to some juice or water.”

“Darlene!” she shouted, “I told you no T.V. till your homework is done! Bobby! Maxine! Clean up your messes and get ready for dinner!”

Coloring books, shoes, papers, backpacks, and kid stuff were scattered throughout the living room and family room, and the kids bounded around happily screaming and chasing each other through the chaos. Mrs. Burbank barked more orders to no effect. The TV blared.

The sound of a phone ringing was faintly heard above the racket.

“That was your father!” yelled Mrs. Burbank. “He’ll be home in ten minutes!”

Those were the magic words. The T.V. silenced. The kids snapped to attention and went to the business of cleaning up.

When Mr. Burbank came through the front door, the kids and Mrs. Burbank were there to greet him like a military line-up ready for inspection. He looked the part of The General in his crisp suit and tie, attaché case in hand. His troops were smiling, quiet, and in order; his domain ship-shape. I was impressed and felt a pang of envy.

Back at the office, I called home and announced I was on my way in a General-like manner.

When I came through the front door, I surveyed my domain: Chaos. My oldest sat at the coffee table surrounded by an explosion of paper, schoolbooks, pens, pencils, and paint. The middle and youngest were careening about the place screeching and flinging toys this way and that. The T.V. blared.

“Daddy!” they screamed when they saw me. They all rushed me.

“What a mess, you guys,” I said.

My words were ignored. The kids climbed me like a Jungle Gym and made me swing them by their arms. They made me get down on my hands and knees, climbed onto my back, and rode me around through the chaos and mess.

I was envious of Mr. Burbank, but I felt bad he missed out on all the chaos.

Category: Kids & Family