House Warming

 House Warming

Noel Laflin

10-15-21

Thirty-eight years ago today, on a warm Santa Ana wind-blown October morning, I spied a billboard just outside of Mimi’s Café over on 17th Street. It said, ‘New Homes’, with an arrow pointing northeast.

Curiosity got the better of me as I followed signs that led to a new development just at the base of Panorama Hill, way out in East Orange. It was so far out of town that roosters could be heard crowing throughout the old El Modena neighborhood.

Now, maybe there were roosters also cock-a-doodle-dooing around the St. Joes Hospital neighborhood where I was born, but as that was so long ago, and I was rather new to the world, I don't recall.

Unshaven, dressed in a ratty t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops, I toured the models and discovered one that I might just be able to afford - maybe.

Within two hours I was writing a hot check, all the while explaining to the banking rep that this retainer would be good by Wednesday, payday. He just smiled and said to postdate it.

By Tuesday, I had begged, borrowed and cajoled my way to come up with the down payment, and then persuaded my boss to write a preposterous letter saying that I would be due a bonus at the end of the year. The bank informed me that I needed said bonus to swing the deal. The boss agreed to write the letter on the condition that he be invited to the housewarming. He also reminded me that there really was NO bonus coming my way at the end of the year.

I gladly agreed to his conditions.

Escrow closed in twenty-six days and I suddenly found myself with a new home, and a thirty-year mortgage.

This was a fine starter home, I reassured myself; one might actually stay here for the next three-to-five years.

Although that turned out not to be the case, as I continue to gladly extend my stay, the boss did come to the housewarming.

Also, as promised, there was no bonus – other than the crowing of roosters, and the discovery of lots and lots of birds that also call this urban neck of the woods home.

Consequently, we all happily share it together.

I mean, they were here first.

As poet E.E. Cummings once wrote,
"May my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old."