Love's Real Stories

November 19, 2014

Bad Forestry

“Hey Doc, I was up on Wildcat Hill this mornin’ and seen some real bad forestry!” I held the phone receiver at arm’s length. Mr. Davis shouted as if the phone was useless covering the 15 miles between us. Mr. Davis is a logger and too many chainsaws got the best of his hearing.

“Forestry?” I yelled back. Shouting over the phone is contagious.

An hour later I stood with Mr. Davis on his land. “Thanks for comin’ up here, Doc,” he said. “I owe ya.”

“No you don’t,” I said.

A swath of destroyed timberland lay before and below us. A stripe ran straight across the forest as if a giant lawn mower with a hundred-foot blade had gone through it like tall grass. Within the stripe lay mangled trunks and branches of pine, oak, sycamore, and dogwood trees.

“Dang Power Company done it, for sure,” said Mr. Davis. “Look at my crick. They clogged it with slash and done kilt the water flow. Kilt some big timber, too. Small-time logger like me gets hurt bad.”

Mr. Davis turned to me. “Reckon they devalued my land, Doc?”

“It sure looks like it,” I said.

About a month later I got a letter from an attorney.

“Dear Mr. Love,” it read, “I am lead legal counsel for the Power Company. We received a demand from a Reginald Davis for a monetary claim related to so-called destruction of property associated with clearing of over-growth within the boundaries of my client’s power-line easement appurtenant and dominant to Mr. Davis’ land. You are quoted as stating the Power Company has devalued Mr. Davis’ land. If you would like to make a statement in that regard please complete and send the enclosed form. I should inform you that in so doing you will be subject to subpoena, deposition, cross-examination, and possible prosecution.”

I slid the letter in my desk drawer. I looked from side to side and maybe clucked like a chicken. A couple months later, I got a call from Mr. Davis. “Hey Doc,” he shouted, “did you hear from that Power Company attorney?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I….”

“I knew it!” he bellowed. “I just got a letter from the court. Listen here: ‘The court finds in favor of the complainant, Mr. Davis, for loss of timber and land value. The court rules against the Power Company for bad forestry practices.’ What’d I tell ya! Bad forestry!”

He told me he was awarded a nice amount of money.

“Thanks for your help, Doc,” said Mr. Davis. “I owe ya!”

“No you don’t,” I said.

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October 30, 2014

Boo

“Now set yourself down right here, honey, and I’ll get you some juice and cookies,” said this bent little lady. The floorboards creaked as she shuffled away. I admired the room I occupied, the dining room. Its woodwork, plaster walls and high-domed plaster ceiling embodied old-world craftsmanship. I wondered when the house was built. Turn of the century, maybe.

“Nineteen and fifteen,” said the lady. I jumped an inch off my chair; I hadn’t seen her return.

“My daddy built this house in nineteen and fifteen,” she said. She told me her father milled the lumber from rough to finish and built the windows and doors himself.

“Now let’s get down to business,” she said.

I spread out my market analysis paperwork. The lady sat across the table from me and stared directly at my face, unblinking. Upon my conclusion: silence. I looked around the room and flinched at the sight of a cat eyeballing me, unblinking, from a chair in the corner. My knee twitched.

“I’ll ask Mama,” she announced, and shuffled away down the hall.

Mama must be up there in years, I thought, this lady had to be in her eighth or ninth decade.

“Mama says you’ll do,” she said. “We’re ready to get to selling.”

I asked if her mother needed to sign the listing documents.

“Hee hee hee,” she wheezed, “Mama’s been dead 20 years and more.” She stopped smiling and whispered, “But Mama visits.”

Next morning I called the California Association of Realtors Legal Hotline. “Do I need to disclose a ghost?” I asked.

“Hearsay and anecdotal comments regarding the existence of the paranormal are not within the legal guidelines of disclosure obligations,” said the attorney. “However, if your client believes apparitions of the supernatural exist upon the premises, it may be prudent for you to disclose that belief, in the event a buyer has a pre-conditioned abhorrence to such phantasm.”

I visited the little lady. “Listen,” I said, “I think we need to disclose your mother’s visits.”

She laughed and wheezed. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said, “Mama’s coming with me, and we ain’t a-coming back.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” I said. “By the way, the cat is going with you, too, right?”

“Cat? Honey, I haven’t had a cat for 20 years and more.”

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October 2, 2014

Going Downhill

“Think like a roofer!” said John James Miskella. John James took it personally when people mistreated their roofs. “See all those leaves sitting on that roof?” he said. “Leaves are acidic, dang it all, acidic! The acid eats through the mineral coating, destroying the shingles. I can’t believe people let layer after layer of leaves pile up and destroy their roof!”

I thought smugly of myself sweeping the leaves off my roof with my push-broom, a commercial variety, with a wide brush made of stiff bristle. I could move a lot of leaves with that broom. Even the deepest layer of leaves, the ones glued to the roofing, came off under the force of that commercial push-broom.

“Worse than the leaves are these idiots with their commercial push-brooms,” said John James. “They brush so hard; they rip the mineral coating clean off the surface and ruin their own roof! Idiots!”

I shook my head as if to say: How could there be such idiots?

Actually, I had recently obtained a commercial-variety leaf-blower which made the job even easier. The leaf-blower made it possible to blow leaves in all directions, not just downhill as with the push-broom.

“Worse than the idiots with their push-brooms,” said John James, “are the maniacs with their commercial-variety leaf-blowers.”

“Oh?” I said innocently, “How could a leaf-blower hurt the roof?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Look,” he said, “these maniacs with their leaf-blowers push the leaves in all directions instead of the proper direction: Downhill!”

“So?”

“So?” he mocked. “So when they blow the leaves sideways and uphill, they force the leaves and grit under the shingles where it rots and destroys the most vulnerable part of the roofing. Can’t they see the shingles flapping under the force of the air from that machine?”

In my mind, I saw a picture of myself on the roof with my leaf-blower; leaves rocketing in all directions as I grinned maniacally, feeling the power of administering hurricane-force winds. Through the storm of leaves and grit I saw the shingles flapping like wings.

“So, what do we tell these idiots?” I asked.

“Trim the branches to eliminate leaves in the first place. Then sweep the leaves gently; or blow them gently: Downhill!” said John James.

He tapped the side of his head. “Think like a roofer!”

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September 28, 2014

No Cell Phone

Cell phones are great, but they deprive people of monumental moments in life. For instance, if I’d had a cell phone the day I ran out of gas on the Oro Bangor Highway, I never would have experienced the monumental moment in which I met the Meanest Man on Earth.

That day I sputtered to the side of the road on that deserted stretch of highway when the temperature reached 110 degrees, instead of wondering if I would live to see another cold beer, I would have simply whipped out my cell phone and called my buddy Tim, who is never far from a can of gas, not to mention a cold beer.

But cell phones had not been invented, so no option existed other than to start hoofing down the Oro Bangor Highway in search of a friendly face. I saw none except for the face of a cow, or maybe it was a bull. We were both too hot to care about the difference.

An hour later, dehydrated, disoriented, and delirious, I veered down a dirt road and came upon a residence surrounded by a barricade made of crisscrossed strands of barbed wire and warped sheets of corrugated metal. Four or five “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing” signs, perforated with bullet holes, dangled here and there.

I realized a shadow in the corner of the front porch was a man sitting in a tiny chair. Actually, the chair wasn’t tiny. The man was huge. He wore overalls with no shirt, and he had a bald head the size of a watermelon. He stood up, and the instant he did, two Redbone hounds shot at me with outstretched teeth and slobbering lips.

“Hut!” said the man, and the hounds slid to a halt. They stood on guard, watching me through droopy bloodshot eyes.

I smiled hopefully and blabbered, “I’m a Realtor…listing a property up the road….ran out of gas…..sure is hot…ha ha….. maybe I could use your phone.…?”

My smile faded as the man stared at me.

“Well I’m not sellin’,” he said, and went inside.

I stood weaving and wobbling in the heat, in disbelief. “That’s it?” I thought. “Kill me or help me, but don’t do nothing.” That was a double-negative, but that’s how I felt.

“That’s gotta be the meanest man on earth,” I muttered to the Redbones. They weaved and wobbled in the heat, and nodded in agreement. I eventually tiptoed backwards, then turned and trudged back up the dirt road.

A pickup passed on the highway and came to a stop a few yards in front of me. I recognized the watermelon-head at the wheel. The Redbones in the back of the pickup recognized me, and bayed and bellowed and slobbered.

The man lumbered out and beckoned to me.

“Git in,” said the man. I moaned hoarsely through cracked lips.

“I’m Harold Robbins,” he said, shaking my hand as I got in the truck. “Here, you better drink some cool water.” He opened a cooler and handed me a thermos. Then he pulled out a sandwich and a piece of pie.

“You took off before I got the gas can loaded in the pickup, partner. A man could die in this heat!”

We pulled up to my car and Harold gassed it up. Then he smiled and reached in the cooler and pulled out a cold beer.

Good thing I didn’t have a cell phone that day. I would have missed a monumental moment in life.

I never would have met the Nicest Guy in the World.

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September 18, 2014

No Buddy

”How old is Flora?” I asked Martha Hart. Martha puffed her cigarette and kept an eye on the T.V. in the corner of the kitchen.

“Nine,” said Martha, sighing through a wet cough. “She’s nine, and in her own little world.”

I had met Flora briefly with her dad outside. Flora looked me over with a steady gaze as she shook my hand. She possessed a quiet and serious nature despite her wild curly red hair and the smiling beagle dog dancing at her side. Mr. Hart asked about the difference between personal property and fixtures, to be included in the sale of their property.

“Personal property,” I said, “are free-standing things like refrigerators and furniture, and aren’t included in a sale without a seller’s consent. Fixtures, on the other hand, are attached to the property, things like ceiling fans and curtain rods. Fixtures are included in a sale. ”

Flora asked hopefully, “Is my swing-set personal property?”

Mr. Hart leaned down toward Flora, red-faced and neck muscles bulging. “Stop interrupting!” he yelled. “Mr. Love is here for business, not your silly questions, Flora!”

Flora’s question was actually a good one, and stumped me. The swing-set’s legs were set in the ground, which made it a fixture, yet its intended use was as personal property. Mr. Hart solved my quandary. He looked at Flora and said, “The swing-set stays with the property.” I made note on the listing contract: “Swing-set included.”

Flora narrowed her eyes and gave her dad the stink-eye. I shrugged apologetically when she looked at me, but she gave me the stink-eye, too. Flora stomped away and Mr. Hart left. I measured the outside of the house, then toured the inside, and ran into Martha in the kitchen.

“Yeah, she’s a funny one,” Martha said toward the T.V. She exhaled smoke and rattled the ice cubes in her drink glass. I caught sight of Flora out back. I don’t think Martha noticed or cared. I left the kitchen out the back door.

“What’s your dog’s name?” I asked Flora. She huddled under a tree with her arm around the beagle’s neck.

“Buddy,” she said softly, and wiped her cheek.

She looked up at me and asked, “Is Buddy personal property?”

I nodded yes, and told her Buddy goes with her.

“Will you write that down?” She pointed at my listing contract.

I did: “Buddy not included.”

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