The Little Blue House

The first house I bought was not a house at all. It was a townhouse in Sepulveda, now Mission Hills, that I bought with my VA loan.

I was a lovely two story place, whose only flaw was that the security alarm kept going off in the middle of the night, forcing the police to come out and roust me into the street in my underwear to make sure I wasn’t doing some criminal thing to my woman and child.

I ended up doing a “short sale” on that place because the homeowner’s fees were skyrocketing. Had I held on to it, it would be worth six times what I paid for it.

twenty Years later I found myself with a lot of money after bringing a slander case to a $400,000 verdict. I used some of the money to pay for a tract home in Cypress, California so that my son and I could have room to move.

This place was haunted. The ghost, who we called Georgina (the previous occupant died when she went to the hospital for a minor surgery and died on the operating table; we always suspected Georgina came home to find two loud stinky males living there and expressed her displeasure by slamming and locking doors and pushing things off the shelves), was not evil, just ill-tempered.

We never saw Georgina. But the day I left the keys in the empty house, which was dark and spooky, I could feel her presence.

The third house was in Humboldt, which I bought from the ill-gotten gains from selling the Cypress house. It was a sweet place with bay windows and a cozy feel. We called it “The Little Yellow House.” It was not haunted, and it was in good repair. We lived there long enough for my son to go off to college, for my second wife to come live with me when she was fleeing her own home ownership diaspora, and then when I finally sold the place to move to San Bernardino.

The magic of the Little Yellow HOuse was the first Halloween. I rigged up a large paper mache spider to lower onto the trick or treaters. We had a steady stream of them. It was great fun and I will always treasure that night.

But by the time I left the house, nine years later, Halloween was being deserted for safer ventures. I sold the place and, due to an incompetent realtor, was paid $200 for the sale.

So I swore off home ownership. Or so I thought.

In August I got a spam from a VA loan place suggesting I see what I qualified for. I told them of the short sale and they said, that was 30 years ago. All is forgiven.

So I went into the house hunting market. And I found a lovely, cozy little Blue House in Barstow built in 1941. My ex-wife, who is sensitive to these things, says that it is not haunted.

It’s perfectly square, like the base of a pyramid. It’s light blue paint job is recent. It has a large backyard of sand. The house itself has nooks and crannies, which makes it very sweet. I am even getting a small piano to place in the alcove of the living room.

So I am once again a homeowner. At my age, I am hoping this is the last place I will move into, and that I will have 30 years of bliss living here alone.

Unless there’s a ghost. In which case–hey! a new friend!