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Fuzzy Gray Day…

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High, flat, smooth-looking clouds coat the morning sky. The sun tries to blast its way through the grey blanket, with only half-way luck. Doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain…but…what the heck, this IS what we have the Internet for, right? Look it up on Wunderground…

hmmm….   80 degrees just now; 97 forecast. (WHAT are they smoking? It’s damp, cloudy, warm, and soggy out here on the back porch. And solidly socked-in overcast. Ninety-seven degrees will turn this place into a bathtub!) Looks like temps will hover in the 90s and then the low 80s for the next couple days. Ugh….less than perfectly balmy.

A dove in the palm tree off the back porch holds forth monotonously:  cuCOO cucooo…cuCOO cucooo…cuCOO cucooo…  Aren’t you glad you’re not a bird?

Yeah, it would be grand to be able to soar through the air on feathery wings. But all the rest of it?  Dodging cats and dogs, baking in the sun, soaking in the rain, chowing down on random seeds….naaaahhhhh!  Not so great.

The dawg has gone back to bed. Feeling a little under the (heh!!) weather, I may follow her.

Contemplating…do I want to follow SDXB out to Sun City, after all?

Except for the blasting jets from Luke Air Force Base, it’s probably quieter and safer out there: fewer criminals, less ambulance noise, far less traffic…

But…but…GAWD, I hated living out there with my parents!

Now, obviously this time I would be free of the parental reins.

Back on the other hand, though:  ugh.

  • The noise from that air base(!!)
  • The staggeringly incompetent medical care (with any luck, that has improved…I hope!)
  • The mile on mile on mile of ticky-tacky look-alike cinderblock houses
  • The hatred of anyone who doesn’t look like you…especially if their skin is darker than yours
  • The paucity of decent grocery stores to shop in
  • The endless drive to see your family in Phoenix — or for them to get to you
  • The ease of break-ins: a tabby cat could burglarize your home, with no problem

One could go on and on…every which way you look, some drawback lurks. A big one, IMHO, is the relatively low sale value of the houses. When I finally croak over, my son will be able to sell my house here in middle-class North Phoenix and retire to Tahiti on the proceeds. If he inherited a Sun City house, the selling price would barely buy him a submarine sandwich.

This house, on the other hand, because of its central location AND because the city ran that crazy light-rail up our western border, makes it possible — easily possible — to live comfortably without a car. We have three major supermarkets within walking distance, plus two computer stores, a hair stylist’s, a veterinary hospital, a major drugstore/pharmacy, two huge regional hospitals staffed by highly trained and experienced medicos…on and on and on. Because of that central location and because of the neighborhood’s overall quality, if and when M’hijto inherits this house, he’s going to be set.

He either can move in and loaf his way through life the way I’m doing, or sell this place for damn near enough to retire on. Maybe, by then, for altogether enough to retire!

😀

Wouldn’t that be neat? What a great inheritance to leave for him!

Whew! Hotter than the Hubs!

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Well…no. Maybe not. It’s probably NOT hotter than the hubs of Hades out on the lovely streets of north Phoenix. No…it’s just hot and humid. Light overcast, 93 degrees, 0% chance of rain, 14% humidity….whatEVER! It surely feels hotter than the hubs, to say nothing of sticky-damp.

Not your standard Arizona springtime afternoon, that’s for sure.

Ruby and I strolled into Upper Richistan: the tony, fancy part of the ‘Hood. Ohhh, how we miss “The Ole Guy,” as SDXB used to call him. What a nice man he was!

The Ole Guy and his wife were deep into retirement, living in a handsome upscale home. Every day when SDXB and I would pass his house during our morning stroll, he would be out in front fiddling with something: whittling a piece of wood or repairing a gadget or whatever. We would say hello — sometimes chat a bit — and consider that encounter one of the high points of our daily stroll.

He’s gone now, presumably “late” or else hauled off to an old-folkery. And much missed.

The two of them lived in the more upscale section of the ‘Hood: custom or semi-custom houses, as opposed to our tract shacks. If that house were to come on the market, I’d surely want to look at it…maybe even consider buying it. But…what the hey! I surely couldn’t afford it. So on my part, that would be nothing more than an exercise in curiosity.

Meanwhile, the corner of the ‘Hood just to the south of my neighborhood is undergoing some mad gentrification. Good grief! New roofs, new plastering, new paint jobs, on and on. Dunno why a bunch of residents decided all at once to fancify the place…but if they put any of those houses on the market, you can be sure that antic will jack up our property values (and our taxes) some more.

{chortle!} I do feel exceptionally lucky to have stumbled across this corner of North Central Phoenix, guided here by a savvy Realtor. If I can hang onto this house until I croak over, my son will inherit a very nice asset, one worth more than most houses in this part of the Valley. If my son feels like moving — and likes taking on the care of a swimming pool(!) — he’ll be able to come right on in to this place. If not, though, he can either sell it for more than enough to pay off his own mortgage, or rent it for enough to let him retire!

Either way, it’ll be a nice gift to leave to him. 

Circumnavigating…

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Yea verily: another dog-and-human circumnavigation of our lovely North Central Phoenix ‘hood. This morning no sh!thead was holding forth in the park — too early for him, presumably. Whatever: it was a relief to walk around without having obscenities shouted at me.

A new (presumably) owner is re-renovating the handsome, classic home on the corner of the park and Main Drag Central. That place is gonna be worth about a zillion dollars by the time they get through with it.

Seriously: property values here in the ‘Hood are headed for the stratosphere. By the time M’hijito inherits this house (as I sincerely hope he will), he’ll be able to retire to Tahiti on whatever he can sell it for.

Meanwhile, directly behind that fancfiying house, the lovely green park stretches out in three directions — constrained by the presence of Main Drag Central. I personally wouldn’t want to be that close to MDC…or, for that matter, to a wide-open park that beckons to every pot-headed bum who staggers past. But still: get a little deeper into the neighborhood around it, and it’s pretty fine.

If I manage to stay out of an old-folkerie (big IF!), my son will inherit my house and its ever-inflating value. That will give him a juicy choice: he can either move in here and enjoy its classy construction, its lovely pool, and its outrageously central location; or he can sell it and move…just about anyplace he pleases.

Tahiti presumably would not be his first choice. His dad came from Grand Junction, Colorado, a mining town on the Western Slope which, over the years, has evolved into the largest town in Western Colorado. He has remarked that he’d like to move there…so I can imagine him making his escape to those climes, after his dad and I pass on to our furry fathers.

That, unfortunately for him, is likely to be quite a while. Longevity is a Thing in my family: women who didn’t smoke have lived into their mid-90s…and because they were Christian Scientists, they never saw a doctor or had an immunization, either. I do go to doctors and do take flu shots and tetanus shots and the like, so as long as I manage to stay off the local roads, chances are I’ll live nigh unto 100 years old.

He’s doing OK for himself, though…as a practical matter, he could sell his house and get himself into Grand Junction without undue suffering.

Hmmm… What would I do, if I were him and I inherited a pile of dough at just about the time I was ready to retire with a decent pension & Social Security?

Hmmmm…indeed! Y’know…probably not much. I’ve seen the world, having grown up in the Middle East and traveled all over those environs, Europe, and the United States. Absolutely ZERO interest in any further junketing.

Chances are, I’d simply stay right where I am, invest the money, and let it support me comfortably for the rest of my life. I might even get a job just to keep myself amused. Of course, adjunct teaching jobs are all over the place. A journalistic job would be more fun and more interesting — and a lot less work of the unpaid variety. Whatever…I figure money is for loafing.

Robin Hood’s Barn: Round & Round!

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Hotter than the hubs outside. Ruby and I have circumnavigated the’Hood…and circumnavigated it…and circumnavigated it…and….WHEW! 

We’re finally back at the Funny Farm. The Human is pooped. Apparently the Dawg is, too: she’s flopped on the cool tiles, looking like she figures it’s nap-time.

Thinking…thinking…thinking of long-lost friends who are SO missed.

Really, Your Godship, did you have to arrange to leave me to last, for the great exodus to the sky?

My friend Jo-Ann: oh, how I do miss her! We met in the church choir and held forth there until we had nothing left to hold…  After we each left that group, Joan and her husband Lee moved to Colorado, where her daughter lives. And that was about the last I heard from her.

Recently, we got word that Lee had passed away. Not surprising: he was a superbly elderly man. But sad: because he was a wonderful man.

So apparently Joan must have moved in with the daughter. Which would be good: very good. I gather the daughter has a spacious home in a pleasant area. And nothing could be better for Joan than to be close by a family member.

Hm. That kind of defines life, eh? You start out, trot along the path. and ultimately (if you live long enough) go round and round and round…often coming back to where you started from. Or mighty close to it.

Summertime in Arizona

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Dog and I just returned from roaming loose around the ‘Hood. Ye GAWDS, but it’s hot out there!!!

Prob’ly not really that hot…Wunderground claims it’s only 90 degrees, in fact rather mild for this time of year. Humidity: supposedly only 9%…..couldn’t prove that by me!  Feels hot and damp outside just now, come 2:30 in the afternoon.

This is when I yearn to go back to the San Francisco Bay Area, where my relatives lived.

They’re all late relatives now — the ones who would have anything to do with us W.T. So there’s no one to call me back there, alas.

Actually, there’s still a cousin…she’s a nurse now. But she doesn’t live in the old neighborhood, and she never thought much of me, far’s I can tell. Dunno what I did to pi$$ her off, but she seems not to like me. My father — now long late — was exceptionally stupid about her: disapproved vocally of her conversion to Catholicism. As if that were any of his business, or anyone else’s business!

I hope he didn’t say anything to her…but given the unfriendly way she behaves, my guess is that he did. And you can be assured: whatever he said would have been passing nasty.

So, in reality: no one who would welcome me to the East Bay is still there. So there really would be no point in going back, even for a sight-seeing visit.

That notwithstanding…if I could get back there, I shoot back in an instant!

Ain’t a-gunna happen, though.

GET’em!!!

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Boyoboy, would I love to be able to GET them: the bastards who start blitzing me with phone soliciting around 7 a.m., and on into the morning.

Phone soliciting should be illegal.

Yeah, I know: freedom of speech and all that. Sure… But you can be free of speech at a decent hour of the morning.

Yeah, I know: they’re trying to catch you before you leave for work.

But freedom to hustle people is no excuse for driving the marks nuts. I am so sick of the phone soliciting harassment, I’ve seriously thought of disconnecting the phone service. Who the Hell needs a phone if all it’s going to be used for is to pester you?

Yeah, I know: turn off the phone during periods when you don’t want to be hassled.

But…my son uses that phone to get in touch with me. What if something happens that he needs to get ahold of me RIGHT NOW…and I’ve disconnected all the phones?

The bastards have got you coming and got you going!

***

Gorgeous morning! Sunny and balmy at once. 

Ruby and I circumambulated a route that SDXB and I used to take every day, back when he lived here. Goes through a neighborhood of tidy middle-class homes, probably dating back to the 1960s. All green and grassy and tree-shaded now: a very pretty route to walk in the mornings.

One of our favorite neighbors, The Ole Guy, lived on this route. He would be out puttering in the yard every morning — we would pause and chat with him.

No sign of him today. Probably moved into the Beatitudes when he had to consign his wife to the place, a prison for the decrepit. She refused to go, when he realized she had reached a point where he could no longer take care of her. Finally, it became clear that the only way he could shove her into that place would be to go there with her.

The Beatitudes is a terrifying old-folkerie, one that’s been in Phoenix for years. Sooner or later, most of us who survive into old age will be forced to move into such a place. But oh, my!  The horror!!

Institutional living is not my Thing, that’s for sure. I hated living in the dorms at the university, and you can be sure a prison for old folks isn’t anywhere near as tame as a college dormitory. Sincerely do I hope I will die before I can be carted off to one of those places…but there’s not much hope for that, given the longevity in my family and my own vigorous health.

My father had himself locked up in a similar place, one called Orangewood — now called the Terraces. My mother had refused to go. Upshot: he had to take care of her at home as she lay dying of the cancer brought on by her rabid smoking habit. But the minute she died — frankly, I think that’s no exaggeration — he put the house on the market and signed himself into the old-folks’ prison.

He didn’t mind that lifestyle. Having gone to sea all of his adult life, he was used to crowded, institutional living and bad food.

I, however, would far, FAR rather be dead than locked up in one of those horrid places. And you may be sure that if I have to do so, I will engineer exactly that. No way in Hell am I gonna spend my “golden years” (har har!) in Decrepitude Hell.

For what those places cost, though, I do believe you can hire people to come into your home and babysit you into the Next World. They’re horribly expensive institutions. And really: if you’re not a stroke-induced vegetable — if you can still hobble around your house and bathe yourself and lift a fork to your mouth — you can make exactly that kind of hire.

Well…there are better fates. One could instantly drop dead of a stroke, for example.

Let us hope for that!