Long Hollow

Reality (or "Why I need you to sign this contract and show me your ID")

 

 

I worked in a chemical plant for thirteen years, where all kinds of explosive and flammable materials swam through the pipes surrounding us. Propylene, hydrogen, syngas, and methanol, to name a few.

For the first decade it was a DuPont plant, where safety and proper procedures were taken very seriously and drilled into us daily. We still had a few explosions and fires, and unfortunately, two fatalities, although they weren't DuPont people and they didn't die in an explosion, but during a shutdown. They didn't follow the rules about using plant air for breathing air. (It's backed up by nitrogen.) 

I quit that job on my first day back following the birth of my third baby. I had planned to wait a few more months, but I had a nagging fear about being killed in an explosion and leaving my children motherless.

An extreme thought, perhaps, but it wasn't that farfetched.

Fast forward twenty-three years...

I'm happy to report there haven't been any more fatalities at my old plant and I'm now a Realtor.

 

...and this past week a Realtor in Arkansas, Beverly Carter, disappeared while showing property to someone.

It hit me that my job as a real estate agent is quite possibly much more dangerous than my job as a chemical plant technician, despite the nicer clothes and smiles. 

It just doesn't seem possible, does it? But think about it. All the hours I spend on the road probably put me in more danger than walking in that pipe alley years ago.

And then consider the open houses, where you're in a house with strangers milling about (if you survive putting up the signs on busy corners)... listing appointments with complete strangers you often meet for the first time in their homes... showing property to strangers, either meeting them at vacant homes or driving them around in your car.  

Granted, Beverly was probably one of about a million agents around the world doing the exact same thing she was at that very moment, and most likely they finished up and joined their families for dinner.

From what I hear, she was an experienced agent and had taken some safety precautions before showing this home. Not enough, it seems, although I'm not blaming her at all. 

There's been a lot of discussion and sharing of safety tips and ideas in Facebook real estate groups this past week. I already practiced quite a few of them, thanks to my Keller Williams Realty training, but I've gotten a lot of ideas.

One agent snaps photos of the ID's of every visitor to her open houses and texts them to her office. Another has video cameras placed throughout the open house. 

When showing property, I already insisted on having a signed Buyer/Tenant Agreement. I figure if someone refuses to sign, they aren't serious about buying... and are thus a waste of my time.

Recently I also made it standard procedure to copy my client's driver's license and email my itinerary to Tom and the kids. 

But through the discussion, I found many more tips, not the least of which involve basicly arming myself with different products and weapons. 

It's not fun to think about, when your main objective is to help people, either to find a home or sell a home, so they can move on to the next adventure in their lives.

But no matter how much I enjoy meeting new people and helping them, I can't forget my first duty is to my family. I owe it to them to play it safe. As my cousin said, there are too many crazies out there.

I need to remember my DuPont days and be sure I follow the safety rules and procedures. I need to be aware of my surroundings at all times and never assume anything. Sometimes the greatest danger lies in complacency.

Please keep Beverly Carter in your prayers, that despite the odds, she is found safe and well, very soon. 

 

And also, please don't give your agent a hard time if they ask you to sign a contract or send them a copy of your photo ID. Cut them some slack. It's not personal; they're just trying to be safe in a dangerous world. Thank you.

 

(I just heard on GMA that Beverly's body has been found. It's not the result that was hoped for, but I pray it brings some relief to her family.)

The Story of Us

 

Tom asked me to dance for the very first time 33 years ago tonight. 

I was at Kenny Stabler's Diamondback Saloon in Houston on a rare Friday night off, in a bad mood because my boyfriend of five years "had other plans" that night.

That wasn't unusual - he wasn't a very good boyfriend. But to top it off, none of my friends I expected to see were there that night, either.

I felt very alone.

I guess that's how it is with miracles, though. When you least expect it, when you feel like nothing is going right, one pops up out of the blue, or, in this case, a blue-eyed miracle steps up and asks you to dance.

This is what happened that night. At least, this is my version...

 

A Michael Jackson song was playing. I can't remember which one, but it was one I didn't care for and wouldn't normally dance to, even in a good mood.

I saw the guy coming toward me and had the "no" ready on my lips, but to my surprise, I said "yes" when he asked me to dance.  I had no choice then, but to follow him onto the dance floor and wait for the song to end so I could go back to my spot at the railing and brood some more.

But when the song ended, a country-western tune started right up and he asked me to dance again. I hesitated - we had conversed enough for me to know he talked funny, which meant he was probably a Yankee and wouldn't know how to two-step.

And I hated teaching guys how to two-step.

However, he didn't wait for my answer. He just took me in his arms and started dancing. Two-stepping, no less!

While we danced, we talked. I learned his name, that he was from Maryland, and he was twenty-four even though he looked about eighteen.

By the time the song was over, I had agreed to sit at his table.

He was with an interesting mix of people...  a friend's Welsh wife (the friend was a Pasadena cop who was working nights), her New York friends, and Chris, a redhead from Maryland who preferred punk rock to country-western music.

When it was time to leave, Tom walked me outside, asked what I was doing the next night (going to Gilley's to see Alabama perform) and could he meet me there?

Sure. (Why not? My boyfriend had already told me he didn't want to go.) Then, with a peck of a kiss, Tom walked away to join his friends, leaving me to wonder what the heck had just happened.

I told my boyfriend I was meeting someone at Gilley's. He didn't care - he wasn't worried. We had a pretty loose relationship by then, you can tell.

I was worried, though... that I wouldn't recognize Tom. I couldn't remember what he looked like!

That night I stood at the bar where I could see customers streaming in the door to pay. Wait... was that him?

"Tom," I called, testing. He glanced in the direction of my voice. I smiled and waved. He smiled and made his way to me. Whew!

Now, I don't know if I believe in "love at first sight," or if there's such a thing as "someone for everyone," soul mates destined to meet and live happily ever after. But I do know that something changed in me that night at Gilley's.

Tom and I talked, laughed, and danced. Later, he walked me to my car, and we really kissed. He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him.

I didn't know at the time if this was something that would last forever, but I knew I wanted to see him again and spend more time with him. I knew I would be telling my boyfriend good-bye, no matter what happened between me and Tom.

But I didn't dwell on it, just started taking things a day at a time. The next two weeks were a blur of emotions and fun and firsts...

• Our first movie -  Continental Divide with John Belushi.
• Our first rock concert - Pat Benatar.
• Our first trip to the Renaissance Festival. 
• Our first dinner out - Mario's Pizza on the seawall in Galveston, followed by stargazing on the beach in a sleeping bag. He brought stemmed glasses and wine in an ice chest. And he gave me his dog-tags, which in my pre-Tom life I would have considered a corny gesture from anyone else. But it put butterflies in my stomach and melted my heart that night.

After working the night shift that week, I would find cute cards resting on my doorstep that said he missed me. Was this guy for real?

I dragged him to meet my friends and family, to get their opinion. Maybe there was something I wasn't seeing. But they all liked him. I liked his friends. They liked me.

Where was the glitch? I couldn't find one.

It was an emotional happy high with an undercurrent of deep sadness. Admittedly, my now ex-boyfriend had been a pretty bad boyfriend most of the time, but I loved him. We just weren't good for each other. I hadn't thought I could fall for anyone else until I met Tom.

As jealous as he'd always been, I guess my ex thought I would never fall for anyone else, either, and it hit him hard. One morning soon after meeting Tom, sound asleep after working the night shift, a banging on my door woke me up.

It was my ex. He went straight into my kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife. Before I had time to be scared, he marched across the living room to a small Norfolk pine he had given me. Jerking it out of its planter, scattering dirt all over the carpet, he lifted the knife and began hacking away at the trunk, telling me the tree was a symbol of our love. 

(To his credit, a few months later he called and apologized for how badly he had treated me and wished me well. I had already forgiven him. We were just kids, after all.)

Two short weeks after that first dance, Tom and I spent a perfect day at the Renaissance Festival outside of Houston with my parents, my brother, his girlfriend, and Tom's best friend. That evening, it happened:

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes."

Wait! What? Was I crazy? 

"But don't tell anyone," I added. "Ask me again in a couple of months, and do it right, with a ring, even if it's a Cracker Jacks ring."

Two weeks was just too soon. I had to find out what was wrong with him. There had to be something - he was just too good to be true. Two months should be plenty of time.

But he called all of his brothers and friends, anyway and told them, "I'm getting married!"

They couldn't believe it. At his older brother's wedding just two months before we met, everyone had teased him he'd be next in line.

"No way! I'm too young. I'm not getting married until I'm thirty-five."

The two months later I had ordered landed on Thanksgiving Day. We celebrated at my parents' house, after I had worked all night and only squeezed in a couple of hours of sleep. 

I was sitting on the couch in the living room when he dumped a dozen boxes of Cracker Jacks on my lap and told me to start looking for a ring. 

"What? You're nuts. They don't put rings in Cracker Jacks boxes anymore."

"Okay, you open these two and I'll open these," he said, somehow still smiling at me, despite my crankiness.

Grumbling, I opened the first box and dug out the prize envelope. I felt it before I opened it... a ring!

My mouth dropped open. "Is it real?" But I knew it was. "How did you do that?"

I might have been a little foggy from lack of sleep, but I swear the box and envelope had both been sealed.

He took the ring from me, then offered it back. "Will you marry me?"

Of course I said yes - again.  The rest is history.

 

Aren't we cute? I first posted this in 2008, but the story remains the same, and will always be one of my favorites.

 

"I knew the second I met you that there was something about you I needed. Turns out it wasn't something about you at all. It was just you."

~ Jamie McGuire

 

Can you hear it?

 

 

Our grandfather clock is chiming midnight. Rain pours - no, roars - outside my window, just the kind of rain we need. A blessed sound, for sure. Every once in awhile I catch a flash of lightning in the distance.

I've just finished a few things for work ... or at least all I can do at the moment. Before I can climb into bed, I still need to pay a few bills. And then I need to pack for my annual girls' weekend in Port Aransas. If it takes me all night, that's okay. I'm not driving tomorrow.

I'm looking forward to it more than usual, if that's possible. It's been a long day. 

I drove miles and miles and miles through communities surrounding Austin today with a young man, trying to find just the right house for his family who is moving here from Illinois. After the initial wariness ("Is he a murderer?") it's one of the things I most love about real estate - meeting people. Getting a chance to hear their stories.

The good news is we found a house for him, his wife, and two young sons. That's always such a great feeling. As a bonus,  I learned a lot about some neighborhoods I was merely acquainted with before today. 

It's been a good week, starting with a closing on Monday followed by a phone call telling me I had won a $500 Academy gift card! 

But it's also been a week of late nights and early mornings. I'm tired. Really, really tired. 

I can't wait to lie on the beach for a couple of days, listening to its music...the waves and the wind and the gulls... and soaking up some sunshine.

But if the forecasted rain falls, I'll be happy to lie in bed, instead, catching up on my sleep, and then sit on the balcony, watching the rain.

Either way, it will be great to have a change of scenery and a change of pace. 

I hope all of you have a great weekend, filled with whatever it is you need!

 

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
It’s always our self we find in the sea.
~e.e. cummings

 

 

Moving forward, but not forgetting...

 

Lord, take me where you want me to go;
Let me meet who you want me to meet;
Tell me what you want me to say; and
Keep me out of your way.

- Fr. Mychal Judge, FDNY (died 9/11/01)

 

 

Every year in late September, early October, I head to the coast with a group of friends for some beach therapy. Our annual adventure is coming up soon, in fact. We've gone every year since 1999 - except one. 

That September of 2001 we were counting down the days until we could wave goodbye to our families, ready for some alone time.... a few days not having to do anything for anyone but ourselves.

But on the afternoon of the 11th, we changed our minds. We no longer wanted to wave goodbye to our families - we wanted to wrap them around us, so close and tight we could feel their breath and smell their familiar sweetness.  

It wasn't a decision driven by fear. We knew the odds of some terrorist targeting our little Texas Hill Country town, or the little fishing town on the Gulf where we sought some peace and quiet, were slim to none.

But as that day progressed, we were reminded not to take our loved ones or the time we have with them for granted. Not to let a day go by without making sure they knew they were our whole world. Not to forget that every morning we may be opening our eyes to our very last day on this earth.

So that autumn we soaked up our families instead of the sunshine. We stayed close to home, pondered the changes in our country and our world. We prayed for peace.

But the next year we packed our swimsuits, sunscreen, magazines, Bloody Mary mix, and vodka, and headed for the beach. We've done so ever since. We continued our lives, relished our freedom, refusing to let fear mold our lives, for that would allow the terrorists to win. 

But we haven't forgotten the lessons we learned on September 11, 2001 and the days that followed, about the things that truly matter and the steel-strength of this nation. We haven't forgotten how we overcame our differences, although some days (especially around election time) it's hard to believe. We haven't forgotten those ordinary citizens who were called to be heroes - and accepted the call.

We haven't forgotten that by going about our lives, speaking our minds and sticking up for one another, we are fighting a war - and winning.

 

 

"This day and every day. Tear us down and we WILL rebuild. Knock us down and we WILL arise. We are people of diverse faith, ideologies, and color. We may be distracted or divided by internal matters, such as politics, but we are America and we will remain." 

~Johnny "Happy" Valentine, veteran and teacher

 

(A repost from 2012)

Surprises...

 

 

“God put us here, on this carnival ride.

We close our eyes never knowing where it'll take us next.” 

~Carrie Underwood

 

There are good surprises, and there are bad surprises.

Years ago I met a woman who impressed me with her beauty and bubbly personality. I didn't know her well, and haven't seen her in years, but back then we shared a lot of laughs at monthly PTA bunco games (not as innocent as they sound!)

Today I attended her memorial service. She was barely in her 40's. Learning of her death earlier this week was a bad surprise.

I spotted many friends at the service who I haven't seen or spoken to in years...not since our kids grew up. We all agreed we need to get together, under better circumstances.

I hope we do.

 

 

 

Yesterday I drove to a small town near San Antonio to help surprise my dear friend Nancy for her 50th birthday. I liked being part of a good surprise.

 

  

Nancy was my first friend in Lago Vista, then later agreed to be my Confirmation sponsor when I finally decided to convert to Catholicism after years of attending Mass with Tom and the kids, and months of discussing it with our priest.

Within a few years she had to move away from Lago, but we've somehow held onto our friendship, despite the distance (and age difference!)

 

 

Happy birthday tomorrow, Nancy!

 

"May your September be spacious like a long, slow bloom..." 

I've been reading Jennifer Richardson's beautiful, evocative, inspirational prose and photographs on her blog Ripplespeak for a few years now, so when she announced she was giving away a copy of her monthly zine, I crossed my fingers and tossed my comment into the bag. 

What a great surprise to hear I'd won! She sent two copies - one for me and one for my mom.

 Her words are like sunshine and fresh air, and I know I'll keep her zine close by to read often. You can get your own at her Etsy shop, Ripplesongs.

 

 

Another one of my favorite writers is Wolf Pascoe, author of the blog, Just Add Father.  We met in person when he came to Austin for a blog conference a few years ago.

Wolf is actually a pseudonym. Besides being a gifted writer, he's an anesthesiologist. He wrote about it in an e-book "Breathing for Two" last year. I immediately bought it, of course, but months turned into a year while it sat unread on my computer. (Who has time to read for pleasure when they're starting a business?)

So I finally broke down and bought the audio book last week. Wolf himself read it to me while I worked out and drove around Austin. (Why didn't I do this before?)

Here's my review on Amazon...

"In "Breathing for Two", Wolf Pascoe does a wonderful job weaving his story through the dry medical stuff, making even the history of anesthesiology come alive for the reader. He compels us to care about his patients and root for him when things go wrong. And he's very honest and upfront about his mistakes. I felt I was standing right beside him in anatomy class, and then later, as he watched over his patients. He relates the lessons he has learned in his decades as an anesthesiologist in such a way that they can be applied to everyone and to all areas of life. This is a book I could read over and over again, because I feel each time I'll get something new from it. I recommend the audio version - Wolf is a wonderful reader."

In short, go buy this book!

I wasn't surprised I loved the book, but I never thought I would like audio books, so that was a great surprise. I have two other e-books written by friends getting dusty on my computer. I'm going to see if there are audio versions for those, as well!

 

A week ago, Tom and I were discussing making that decision about Max. This morning, he made it to the top of the walkway before I did, and while we didn't go on a long walk, he did prance around and play with Belle. 

I believe in miracles. They are the best surprises, aren't they?

 

"I wish you hopeful eyes, fresh wings, and a second wind in the living."

~ Jennifer Richardson

 

A Rollercoaster Ride with Max

 

 

 

Two days ago I knelt beside Max and whispered in his ear that it was okay if he just let go. I told him he had trained Belle well, and she would take awesome care of us, and if Charly was close by, asking him to come play, that it was okay. Go play with Charly.

That's how weak he was, lying there on my laundry room floor. He hadn't eaten in a couple of days again.

We thought we'd discovered the secret: vienna sausages and potted meat. In his last weak spell, we'd tried everything, trying to get him to eat, and he had gobbled these right up.

But I guess even dogs can get too many vienna sausages. He was turning his nose up at them, and everything else we offered, including real beef Ballpark weiners. 

However, the next morning, instead of huddling in the dark of his huge doghouse, he was up on the hill in the woods in front of our house, taking care of business (which is always a good sign) and he's subsequently spent the last two days lounging on the front porch, seemingly loving the warm breeze and the sound of birds gossiping at the nearby feeder. 

It was Tom who suggested giving him some of Belle's dry food. Max has been eating expensive Science Diet food targeted at joint issues all of his life, while we give Belle a cheap-in-comparison Purina dry food targeting weight issues. 

We tried it... and Max loves it. (At least, for now. I'm worried he'll get sick of it, too, and then what will we do?)

For now, we're taking it a day at a time, watching him for signs of distress. So far, there have been none. If we see them, we'll know what to do.

But I'm earnestly praying it's taken out of our hands, that when the time comes... before there's any pain or distress... this sweet old boy of ours closes his eyes and drifts off to some woods very similar to ours to go exploring with his Charly dog.

Maybe Frankie, the guinea hen, will tag along, too, like he used to. I like to think so.

 

 

Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.

~Agnes Sligh Turnbull