Love's Real Stories

December 22, 2013

Play Ball

Business over pleasure is understandable, but business over baseball is unacceptable when the San Francisco Giants make the playoffs. A season when the Giants make the playoffs is as rare as hen’s teeth, to quote a saying by my Old Grand-Dad. If you were to recite all the sayings by my Old Grand-Dad it would take a month of Sundays. The list would be as long as your arm and I’m not pulling your leg.

The Giants were as hot as blue blazes and won their division for the first time in 16 years, so I was as happy as a dog with two tails. But like all long-suffering Giants fans, I was also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

Right now I was as mad as a wet hen as I drove toward the country property to be sold by Jack and Ethel Birdson. I had been as dumb as a box of rocks for booking my appointment the same time as the opening playoff game between the Giants and the Cubs. I could at least, I thought, catch the first couple of innings on the car radio. But alas, as I left the valley behind, the radio reception faded until it was just as clear as mud.

The road was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg as I approached the mountain dale that was the Birdson homestead. It was as pretty as a picture and I would dearly love to list the place. But on my previous visit Jack had been as cool as a cucumber toward me, so I felt my chances were as slim as a broomstick. I wondered: How can I butter him up and make our relationship as warm as toast?

“Jack, you come down here, right now,” Ethel yelled. “Mr. Love is here!” She turned to me. “Jack’s as crazy as a loon about those Giants. He’s up in that big pine tree trying to get radio reception.”

Quick as a flash I was up that pine tree. “What inning?” I asked.

An hour later Ethel brought out a couple more beers for us.

“You guys are like two peas in a pod,” she said.

Yes we were, and we stayed that way as sure as the day is long.

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December 22, 2013

No Bull

Spring sunshine floated down through the sycamores and oaks and splashed upon the country lane, spreading dappled shades of yellow and green across the graveled surface. In the fields on either side, cows munched new spring grass, and calves hopped and bucked about the pasture.

My passengers, buyer clients Mark and Janice, sat smiling in a dreamy way. Janice said softly, “This place has good vibes.”

We rolled to a stop, stepped out of the car and drank in the air, a heady fragrance of almond blossoms, tilled earth, and a light bovine bouquet from barns and pastures.

Janice took Mark’s hand and they strolled onto the long covered porch of the 1930’s ranch house. From its front-door oval window and glass door knob, to its stone hearth and hardwood floors, the place inspired confidence in its stability and structure.

“They kept it in good shape,” said Mark.

“It’s beautiful,” said Janice.

Sensing a sale, I had an urge to recite the list of amenities included, like the new forced air system, the R-30 attic insulation and the updated electrical panel. But the voice of my wise old mentor KDV came to mind: “Never miss a chance to shut up, my brother. Give your buyer some room. Let the magic happen, babe.”

I meandered into the neighboring pasture alone to give Mark and Janice some space. They eventually joined me, smiling hand-in-hand. Mark said, “We’ve decided we want to make an off…….” He froze. The ground rumbled. I turned around and caught sight of a streaking mountain of quivering bull-flesh thundering toward us. Mark and Janice went one way, and I went the other, each of us diving through strands of barbed wire as the bull stomped and spun in our tracks, cross-eyed and crazy.

In the sanctuary of the car, Janice said, “That was a bad sign. I can’t raise my kids in vibes like that.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Mark.

Back at the office, KDV said, “Did you make the sale, bro?”

I shook my head slowly.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “It sounded perfect for your people, and the write-up on the place was impressive.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it turned out to be a whole lot of bull.”

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December 17, 2013

The Deal

Twenty-five billion dollars used to sound like a lot of money. But next to the trillions we’ve seen thrown around in bank bailouts, tarp funds, and mortgage scandals, it’s no surprise we barely lifted an eyebrow and had to stifle a yawn at the new National Mortgage Settlement. The government has settled with the five biggest banks for a collective fine of $25 billion as compensation for mortgage and foreclosure fraud. The money is supposed to go to homeowners who were wrongly foreclosed upon or wrongly denied loan modifications.

Depending on which politician, consumer advocate, or analyst you listen to, the deal is either a boon or a bust.

Version one, boon:

The government has finally gotten somewhere with their commitment to justice by nailing the banks for their fraudulent loan practices. This is the biggest money settlement in our nation’s history, and it’s just the beginning. The banks are also obligated to open up loan modifications in the form of principal reductions for hard-working people who are “underwater” in their homes, whose loans are more than their homes are worth. If the banks don’t play this right, they will be whacked for more fines. This will break the back of the foreclosure crisis, our economy will straighten up, and home values will rise.

Version two, bust:

The big bank boys are slapping each other on the back, lighting big cigars, and clinking their drinks together in celebration of being let off the hook once again. For the equivalent of a parking ticket in their big-buck world, they are absolved of high crimes against the people of our country. No banker has been brought to justice in this scandal, and they have just been given a new “Get Out of Jail-Free” card. Now with no fear of lawsuits they will drop the hammer on foreclosures they’ve been stalling, which will further depress home values.

Twenty-five billion is a big number. Get out the calculator and start dividing. Please, let’s figure out who gets how much, and if it will make a difference.

No yawning.

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December 17, 2013

Downtown

Secrets live in the basements and attics of old brick buildings in downtown Chico and Oroville. One man knows of a few, sealed off and abandoned in dark dusty rooms, untouched and unseen for decades. Jim, the Inspector, is hired by buyers of houses and buildings to check for problems with wires, pipes, wood, concrete; all things structural. He owns a reputation of thoroughness. Jim took to heart his mentor’s words: “People pay us to do this job. If we can get there, we go. It’s where we find the big stuff, where people don’t go.”

Jim finished inspecting the main floor and second story of an old downtown building, and asked the owner where he could find access to the basement. “We don’t have a basement,” said the owner. Jim knew better. He was sure the whole block stood over basement area. He went below adjoining buildings and found old openings into the basement in question, sealed shut with brick and concrete.

Jim patrolled the outside perimeter of the building, then searched the interior again, and found no sign or clue of any door, hatch, or secret panel. But it had to be there. Jim focused on a back room on the main level that had a section of floor covered with pre-war linoleum, a likely spot for an access door. Buried under that linoleum, perhaps? Jim told the owner of his hypothesis.

“Well, now I’m curious,” said the owner. He produced a flat-bar and hammer, and chipped up the old linoleum straightaway. There it was, a hinged square hatch-cover cut in to the thick sub-flooring. The hatch-cover lifted smoothly, exposing a narrow iron circular stairway spiraling into the darkness below. Jim descended, and came upon a half-circular bar and eight bar stools.

“It was as if they had just left,” said Jim, “I could picture the scene in my mind.” Women in flapper dresses and pearls, men in zoot suits and spats, laughing and drinking illegal booze in their private prohibition-era Speakeasy.

“Where is this treasure?” one might ask. Jim’s answer would be, “Somewhere beneath an old building in the Northern Sacramento Valley.”

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December 11, 2013

Fan Base

I met a Realtor at a convention luncheon in the Bay Area who seemed to think I would be impressed by hearing she did all of her business with celebrities. I was half-listening when she said something about specializing in a certain type of celebrity.

“My first clients were Will Clark and Vida Blue,” she said. “Ever heard of them?” I froze, with my sandwich in hand, mid-way from the table to my face. She was referring to my two favorite players from my all-time favorite team, the San Francisco Giants, late 1980’s version. The sweet-swinging lefty Will the Thrill, and the fire-balling southpaw pitcher Vida Blue. Oh, I’d heard of them alright. They were baseball gods.

I looked at her and nodded slowly, my mouth hanging open.

“This one time at Candlestick Park,” she chortled, “I was in the clubhouse during the seventh inning of a game, getting papers signed by both of them for their separate deals. They kept running back and forth from the what- do-you-call-it, the dugout, like a couple of kids sneaking out of class. What a hoot!”

She looked at me for a moment and said, “Are you okay? You’re drooling on your sandwich.”

I was imagining myself as the Realtor for those Giants players. I would ask Will about his famous inside-out swing; how he managed to always get the sweet spot of his bat on the ball. I would get Vida to show me his two-seam fastball grip and his change-up that buckled the knees of the best hitters in the game.

“You’re a Giants fan, aren’t you?” the Realtor asked me.

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, just the Giants pen in your shirt pocket, the Giants logo on your jacket, and the fact that you’re wearing a full-on Giants uniform at a real estate convention.”

“Good call,” I said.

She told me she couldn’t care less about baseball; that working with Giants players was just like working with anyone else.

“So what if they’re good at baseball?” she said. “They’re like a bunch of overgrown kids.”

She’s not worthy! She’s not even a fan! I thought.

“But that’s probably why they like me as their Realtor,” she said. “I don’t think they would want me blathering on incessantly about baseball. Celebrities need a Realtor, not a fan.”

If that’s the case, I guess I would make a great Realtor for Miley Cyrus.

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