…No Place Like Home(s)

Betcha haven’t bought twelve houses.  Betcha don’t know anyone else who has.

Just out of the army, having served in Texas, Korea, New York City and other hostile places,  I headed for Denver: the Mile High City, Queen City of the Plains, Gateway to the Rockies, where I  met the love of my life and started a family and career.  The first house, in southeast Denver, is on  East Arkansas (1/12), a fine little three bedroom with basement, but no garage.  When the violent hailstorm came that summer afternoon, it ripped off sections of the roof, shredded the lawn furniture, and punched holes in the siding a quarter inch deep, leaving the paint with the appearance of chicken pox.  Insurance covered the cost to repair the damage, but, we thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have a brick house. I mean  $95/ month house payments are certainly within our budget. Let’s move on up. After all, I’m making $350 a month!

All brick, two-car attached garage, chain-link fence, wool carpet, upstairs utility room on  East Jefferson (2\12).  All right. Livin’ high now. Like George Jefferson on East Jefferson. Until…

“Dear, do you smell smoke?”

“Why yes, I believe I do.”

“Why look, dear, the garage is on fire!”

“Shall we call the fire department?”

“Oh, yes, we probably should.”

( I’m not sure that those were the actual words we spoke, after all it happened almost 50 years ago, and now that I think back, there may have been panic, running amok and screaming.)

The whole back wall of the garage was on fire. The phone line had already burned through, so while Ginny ran to the neighbor’s, I backed the Rambler wagon out of the garage. Now our other car was a three-tone “57 Hudson Hornet, resplendent with chrome, fins and a continental kit, a “gift” from my in-laws; and for just a moment I hesitated before deciding to save it, too.

By the time the fire trucks showed up, I had put the fire out with the garden hose, but the thick, black smoke was flowing nicely  through the door we had left open from the garage into the interior of the house.  After that claim, our insurance agent stopped sending us calendars.

Next time: New Mexico, Land of Enchantment (3/12)