Navajo Mesa

Navajo Mesa is the community where I'm moving. It's rural. At the sign for Navajo Mesa the paved road becomes dirt, washboard dirt road. Those will be fun on the old suspension. I'm not too worried. I managed 2 years above Tabernash and there were more dirt roads and they were worse than the ones in Florissant. I know they periodically add dirt and grade them, so not a big problem, and certainly nothing to keep me from moving up there.

That is the side between the 2 decks and the doors that go down under the house into the crawl space, except you don't need to crawl. It's built like a bomb shelter and enough head room to stand up. No, that is not a real deer. It is plastic. Someone has a sense of humor. That is the place where I'll plant my herb garden though. It will be easy to get to and will look nice laid out there in a circular pattern.

One of the pluses of living up there is seclusion. Then there is peace and quiet and a small community of people my age, which means I will have to mingle from time to time. Another small price to pay. Neighbors can be helpful and even nice as long as they don't consider my doors (and there are 4) always open to them. I'll be the exotic for a while, but not too long a while.

I have plans, like planters full of growing food on the decks until I get the greenhouse built, up, and running. I did notice that one of the outbuildings is a lot larger than I thought. That has possibilities too. David suggested a chicken coop, but I don't plan on raising chickens. I'll figure out something.

There are the 2 outbuildings, and the one on the left is the larger of the two. It's a nice size for an office or gaol for miscreants or maybe a place to hide from irritating neighbors. It used to be the pump house. Or maybe that is the other shed on the right. I'll check it out again when I go up there.

That's a nicer close-up, but you can't see the picnic table on the other side. More pictures will be required. 


Right now, it's all organizing and planning and forcing myself to pack, knowing I will eventually have to unpack. I hate both jobs, but I will do them and I will get them done before the movers descend on the 3rd.

The hardest problem I've run into is setting up a change of address with the post office. Not only do they mess up my mail, but they charge for changing my address on line -- twice -- and claim that I'm doing it wrong and my debit card doesn't work, in spite of charging me twice for the service. Not only do the snails get stuck in their slime trails, but they evidently look upon me as one of the millions of people willing to give up their money to fund their business, which has been failing for years. After the experience of dealing with the mail carrier at this address for more than 5 years, I understand why.

No matter what happens here, the bills keep coming and I still have to pay for them. Luckily, I planned that into my budget and I should be all right. Better than all right since the mover will charge me less than I expected and I'm keeping my money unspent. I'll save a lot over the next 12 months while building my nonexistent crediting rating into an actual credit rating. No more living off the grid if I expect to buy this house.

And so it goes.

On my down from the house on Saturday last, I took a few pictures.  These pictures are of the cabin and outbuilding that are going back to the earth. They look much older than what has popped up over recent years and may even date back to the 19th century. I'll have to do some research and find out.

The outbuilding but not a great view. I'll have to get out of the car next time.

The cabin. I'm torn between wanting to salvage the wood and rebuilding it. Since I don't own the land, that isn't possible. I'll check into it. It's far enough away from my house to be a great guest house and could be a great vacation property if it can be restored.

Don't forget to click on the photos to see them better. 

That is all. Disperse.

The Good Men

Three weeks ago when I was told by the bank that I would have to leave my home of 6 years, I was thrown back into a place where I did not want and had not expected to be - back to apartment hunting. I found a place I liked and contacted the owner who was enthusiastic (at first) to rent her house to me. Three bedrooms and 2 baths and a kitchen to die for. I wanted the house the moment I saw the photos. That was not to be. After that initial burst of communications and promises, and asking her to send the application, I heard nothing more.

Did I offend her? Did I not praise the place too much? Did I not move quickly enough? What had I done wrong? These are all default positions for me.

I found her Yahoo! email and forwarded my messages to her there and waited, but did not sit idle. I kept looking and found a 1-bedroom house 2 blocks away. It was spacious and had a bay window with a tiled window seat. I had visions of sitting in the window seat reading or just watching the seasons change and people go by. Against my better judgment, I paid the $30 fee and put in my application. I also had to forward copies of 3 pay stubs and provide a phone number for the previous landlord, the one who lost $2 million in properties, my house and the one next door included, to foreclosure. That was Tuesday. That day everything changed.

I called about another apartment in Divide, Colorado west of Colorado Springs and up Hwy 24. As I spoke with the landlord I found he and I had similar feelings about application fees. His father owned a property in Florissant he was getting ready to sell. Would I like to speak with his father about buying the house and 3 acres? Of course, especially since his father owned the house free and clear and would be willing to hold the mortgage note and take my payments directly. Then everything hit the fast track.

The next day after running the numbers and my meager resources, I decided I had to tell David I couldn't afford to accept his offer. It was outside my budget.  He said, "We'll make it work. I want you to have the house. Whatever it takes we will do. I don't need the money; I have more than I can spend now."

We agreed on a monthly rate I could afford and then I called the realtor about the house 2 blocks away. I listened as she told me they had not received a call back from my previous landlord. No surprise there. I explained she probably wouldn't any time soon. Then she told me my employer had not called back so they couldn't verify my income.

Uh, excuse me, but they had 3 pay stubs and my 2013 tax return and a bank statement proving my deposits. The pay stubs had the name of the company on them and waiting for a call from my employer was no longer necessary, but I didn't tell her that. Instead, I told her to cancel my application. I was buying a house in Florissant. She sounded a bit deflated, but I felt powerful and good. I was no longer at her mercy, or the mercy of any realtor any more. I was buying my own home.

Things have progressed since last week and I have been up to the house. I hate the pattern on the commercial carpets, but they are durable and thick and I know how to use area and throw rugs to best effect. Not a problem. A few minor things still need to be done, e.g.; rods for the closets, shower rods for the 2 bathrooms, phone jacks throughout the house, and a few other little details, like tightening up the hand rails all the stairs and both decks. David agreed to all of it quickly, and he agreed to remove the trash from the build before I move in next month.

But there must be a fly in this ointment. A sick feeling came over me that somehow, some way I was about to be screwed. Talking to David again last night and this morning have removed that doubt. His son Mike, the man I originally called about the apartment in Divide, will move all my things from this poky little cottage to the most beautiful home I have ever lived in -- and the first I've ever owned. He will also hook up my washer and dryer and help set up everything. This is real. I am moving. But there is more.

I found out through the realtor that David had been held in a concentration camp, specifically Auschwitz. He was taken there with his family in 1940 when he was 13 years old and was liberated by the Americans under General Patton in 1945 when he was 18 years old. That is one hell of an 18th birthday present. David was liberated without his family, all of whom died in Auschwitz. I knew he had come from Poland to the United States, but I did not know he had been imprisoned for 5 years.

Susan, the realtor, suggested I offer to write David's memoirs. I am a writer after all. I spoke with David and he agreed, so what was initially a casual acquaintance willing to sell me his house and hold the mortgage for me has become much more. He put me in touch with Susan, the realtor, to handle the paperwork, and Susan put me in touch with Ingrid who is a mortgage broker and will help me establish credit.

This man who knows nothing about me other than that I was looking for a house, has become a part of my life, and not just because of the house but because of his generosity and his indomitable spirit.

David and my father were both born in 1927. Their lives were so very different. Dad began his military career in about 1949 and David began his life as a free man, a citizen of the United States in 1949. The link they share is me. My father was a good man and that is the highest compliment any man can get. David is also a good man, not just because of what he has done for me, but because he is a good man. I have been privileged to know them both.

Just when I thought I had no options, I found options and the realization of a long held dream to own a cabin in the mountains here in Colorado. I don't have to wait 2 or 3 years; it is happening now and I am grateful.

If you like to read a little more about David, follow the link. The only thing that surprises me is that his own daughter, a newspaper reporter, never wrote about her father. Then again, maybe not so surprising, I never wrote about my father either, at least not in a memoir. Maybe now that will change as well. Two such good men should be celebrated and cherished.