Good evening, 919 Gang. Another early deadline because I’m
still battling the cold robbies.
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JOHN PRICE
writes:
Chuck
Boyd: Loved your post on fire engines. I love them too. Probably the reason
that when I found a 1948 Seagrave pumper sitting in a farm in the wilds of
southern Idaho, I bought it. Who could resist the weathered and faded
appearance of this old war horse? Or the 904-cubic-inch Pierce Arrow 12-cylinder
engine? Apparently not me. I had dreams of restoring the faded lady to her
original glory so I could take my grandkids riding in parades. Or maybe even
going to a fire engine club Pump Off! That is when a bunch of grown men gather
around a lake or pond and see who can shoot a stream of water into the air
higher than the rest. I know...nobody said we have to grow up did they? I never
did get it restored. Something about gray hair and rusty tools. So when we
headed for Guatemala a couple of years ago, I donated it to the Blackfoot Idaho
Old Time Firefighters Association instead. Ah, but I shall always have the
memories… and the old captain's helmet I found in the toolbox.
DANA WILKIE
writes:
I read with interest Chuck Boyd's account of growing up
right near a fire station. Strangely, I've lived right next to three fire
stations. Maybe I gravitated toward them because the housing costs were cheap?
When I was pregnant and looking to buy a place, I scouted
the properties in the Potomac area of Alexandria, Va., which is now known as "Del Ray." At
that time, 18 years ago, the neighborhood was a little spotty: Old homes, many
in disrepair, some shady characters hanging on the streets. But there were also
young families in handsomely refurbished homes, baby strollers on the
sidewalks, and a super-cool coffee shop that I'd frequented when I rented a
home in the 'hood years earlier.
Money was tight, so I asked my realtor to find me a modest
place, preferably a fixer-up. She took me around and nothing grabbed me. Then I
spotted a for-sale sign on a brick duplex directly across the street from a
fire station. Knowing the 'hood as I did, the house was smack in the middle of
the "action" -- within walking distance to the coffee shop I loved,
an elementary school, a middle school, the quirky restaurants that were
starting to crop up. And it was steps from the main avenue that cut through the
'hood, where artisans had started selling their goods during street fairs and
where children marched during a Halloween parade.
I asked my realtor if we could see it.
"Oh no," said this mother of three, aghast at the
prospect. "That's right across from a fire station!"
"I'd still like to
see it," I insisted.
"You're having a baby!" she exclaimed. "No
baby could sleep through the noise!"
We went to see it. Windows were shattered. The kitchen was
a wreck, barely habitable. The shed in the back yard was practically crumbling.
But the "bones" of the house were solid and the wood floors were
shiny new. And the price was right. And I knew I had enough time before the
baby was born to whip the place into shape.
Clearly worried about my mental state, the realtor steered
me to another property in the area -- sparkling kitchen, intact windows, even a
fireplace! -- and insisted this was the right house for me. But all I could see
was that it was too far from the 'hood's main drag. I wouldn't be able to walk
to everything. It didn't feel right. I think her mouth literally fell open when
I said I wanted to put an offer on the place across from the fire station.
After moving in and remodeling -- new windows, new kitchen,
new shed, finished the basement, glazed the tub, replaced the bathroom floor,
put in ceiling fans -- I had a dinner party for friends. One of them -- not so
much my friend as the friend of a friend and a true snob -- looked up,
startled, when the living room began to flash red and the air was pierced by
the wail of a siren from across the street. She turned to me, shocked:
"You didn't BUY this place, did you?" she asked in disbelief.
Three months after I took my daughter home from the
hospital, I had a christening party at the house. Ellie was snoozing in her
bassinet as guests milled about. Again, flashing red lights and the screech of
the fire engine. One of my guests asked: "How can the baby possibly sleep
through that racket? You must be up all night!" I looked over at Ellie:
She didn't bat an eyelash.
We lived in that house about five years. Ellie slept, well,
like a baby. So did I. After a while, you just don't hear the trucks. And there
are real benefits to living across from a fire house. One, you get a real break
on your home insurance. Two, help is just steps away. One night when Ellie was
maybe 7 months old, she was sleeping with me and rolled out of bed. A fire
truck could never wake that kid, but falling to the floor sure could. She
wailed inconsolably, and being a new mother, my mind went to the worst places
-- did she have brain damage? Did she break something and I couldn't tell? I
dialed 911, and within 2 minutes I had five firefighters in my living room --
some of whom I knew already from the 'hood -- suited to the teeth in heavy
boots, heavy coats, fire hats. I explained what happened and the lead guy,
looking a little bemused, checked Ellie out and pronounced her just fine.
"It's scary when your first baby falls out of bed," said this father
of several, who meant, I think, to make me feel less foolish about having
called in a brigade for what was apparently a garden variety occurrence in a
baby's life.
After we moved to a larger place, I rented the duplex for
several years. By that time, Del Ray had truly gentrified, housing costs there
were sky-high, and the duplex would stay on the market maybe a couple of days
before someone would snatch it up. Firehouse? What firehouse? One time, I had
two prospective renters looking at the place and when each realized they had
competition, they slyly started offering "extras" if I chose them as
renters, like a longer-term lease.
When I sold the duplex about six years ago, it was on the
market only 14 days. It sold for nearly triple what I paid for it 12 years
earlier. The couple who bought it were going to have a baby. Firehouse? What
firehouse?
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JIM GOLDSBOROUGH writes:
All Rebergram members (plus friends, relatives, mere
acquaintances and anyone else) are invited to Bay Books in Coronado Saturday at
2 p.m. for a book signing of "Waiting for Uncle John," a riveting
historical novel about the first U.S. invasion of Cuba, in 1851 (yes, there
have been three). Coffee, cookies and opinions will be shared, and afterward we
will adjourn next door to Clayton's. When's the last time you were in beautiful
Coronado? Changes afoot in Cuba. Brother Raul Castro exits this week.
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RICK SMITH writes:
Sad state of
newspapers. I watched the Aztecs win on television last night. At 5 a.m. this
morning I picked up my daily Union-Tribune, went to the sports section and was
greeted with an all-caps probably 48 or 60-point headline "POPE IN THE
CLEAR". Reminded me of the front pages on the old Tribune Green Sheet. The
news about Malik Pope being cleared to play was at least 18 hours old. Not a
word, of course, because of impossible deadlines, about the Montezumans' win
over Boise State. There was a call-out in Mark Zeigler's story advising that
the Aztecs led, 58-53, "in the second half at press time" and
suggested going to the Union's online vehicle for the final score. I haven't yet
succumbed to the idea of reading my newspaper on the computer.
I thought I was reading a national edition of USA
Today or the N.Y. Post. I live in Scripps Ranch. A friend of mine in Talmadge Park
(East San Diego) got the complete game story. The Pope story was inside in his
paper,
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JAY JOHNSON writes:
Thanks to Preston Turegano for the link to the video of all
the Best Movie Oscar winners. Got me thinking about the worst of that bunch. I
wrote my list (omitting films made prior to 1939, most of which I didn't know
much about) and compared that to those compiled by experts, including Variety.
Mostly in agreement. Here's my list of the worst of the best.
9. Ordinary People
8. Crash
7. Shakespeare in Love
6. Argo
5. The Artist
4. Chicago
3. Dances with Wolves
2. Greatest Show on
Earth
1. Around the World in
80 Days
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DAVID FARMER
writes:
As retailers raise the age to buy guns
to 21, minors will simply do what my friends and I did in high school: send a
cooperative adult into the store to buy the weapon(s) in exchange for a small
fee.
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DANA WILKIE
writes:
Boy, I'd be very interested to hear more from Arthur Golden
about properties in the Canary Islands, if he's so inclined.
REBER: Several people
have written that they share your interest, Dana. How about it, Arthur? Another
good story might be what I need to beat this cold.
P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.
