In a few weeks we will load up the car and head up north to see my dad and his new home, post Camp Fire.
He found a little old house (built in 1946, so it is one year younger than himself) that is situated on a corner in Burney, California. He has been nesting and sending us updates via text for the last couple of months as he slowly settled in: The recliners arrived! The washer and dryer arrived! I mowed the yard for the first time! I traded in my car for an all-wheel drive!
Paradise and Magalia were small towns, but Burney is positively tiny. The pace of life is much slower, as my dad has been finding out. When he was still in the process of buying it, he had an appointment to meet the real estate agent to view the house, along with my sister and her husband.
When they arrived, the agent wasn’t there, but the lady across the street (who has lived in that house her whole life) ran across the street with the key she’s had for decades and let them in. Once the house became his officially, Dad stayed in Chico at my sister’s and made two- or three-day trips up to the new house to take care of things, little by little; the lady texted him one morning that they’d had some snow, so he could rearrange his plans if need be. That’s neighborly with a capital “N.”
The house has some small problems, which my dad has been addressing. One problem is the address. The title company has the house on Grogan Street, but the post office has it on Birch Street. When he went to get a library card, he explained that he was still unsure which street he officially lived on, but the librarian waved his concerns away: She knew the house.
Another small problem was connecting with an internet provider (the locals all warned him that there were no good ones). After trying unsuccessfully for three days to call for an appointment my dad end-routed the automated system by calling in fifteen minutes before the stated time, on the assumption that someone would pick up in case a fellow employee was calling in sick. (It worked.)
The next problem—also internet-provider related—was the technician didn’t show up at the stated time. My dad waited for the following morning, and again called fifteen minutes early, and found out the company had his street address correct but had the city and state wrong. (We’re not sure how Burney, California and Colorado Springs, Colorado could have gotten mixed up, but there you are.) My dad wasn’t too concerned; he has time. His texts might take a couple of hours to send, but they eventually get through.
Dad is getting out and meeting people, too. His latest adventure was visiting a local museum’s garage sale, where he scored twenty wooden hangers for $2.00, and a unicorn blanket for one of the great grandkids. On his walks with his dog he’s stopped to talk to neighbors, most of whom have warned him not to plant tomatoes until after Memorial Day, as there will probably be another freeze.
Before long he’ll be a familiar face at the few restaurants in town. Not just because he’s distinctive-looking, resembling a rosy-cheeked, wire-spectacled, white-bearded, skinnier Santa Claus, but for his ready smile and laid-back attitude. But, I wonder how long it will take before he’s not the Newcomer Who Bought the House on the Corner of Grogan and Birch.
He’s excited for us to come up and see him, and he told me I will love the drive from Redding to Burney; it might be an hour, but it’s a beautiful hour. He wants to take us to a lookout where we can see Mount Shasta and Mount Lassen, and he wants to show us the clouds as they form against the Sierras. We’ll make a trek to see the famous Burney Falls, and probably dine out so he can introduce us to a waitress (who will probably already know we’re visiting via the Small Town Telegraph).
I can hardly wait!
Juliana LeRoy wears many hats, including wife, mother, paraeducator and writer. She can be spotted around Windsor gathering material, or reached at
ml****@so***.net
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