A Unexpected Surprise

A few months ago (before the problems with my knee) I submitted a story to a contest for residents of OFHs (Old Folks Homes) here in Oregon. Almost 200 people from around the state entered and, I found our recently, I was one of the 6 winners (an honorable mention)! What a lovely surprise.

Here is my story about an event that happened in 2006. I can remember every second of that landing.

St Barts

I love to fly. I love the escalating speed of takeoff that pushes you back against your seat. I close my eyes and wait. When I think I feel the hint of lift off, that very first instant when the wheels leave the ground, I crack one eye open to check. Yes, I was right, we are on the way up. It is glorious to look down as the earth falls away. But as great as takeoff is, my favorite part of flight is the landing. The long final curve to line the plane up to the airfield below, landing gear clicking in place, the shock of wheels hitting the tarmac, the race down the runway and then the incredible rush as the pilot slams on the brakes to bring the plane to a shuddering stop. Physics in action. You've got to love it, and I do, but I was still unprepared for the reality of my flight from Guadeloupe to St Barts.

My friend, Barb, had called me two weeks before with a last-minute invitation. Did I want to join her and her family for a few days at a friend’s villa on St Barts in the Caribbean? The owner was off-island and the home was available to celebrate a family event. Could I come?

Of course not. My daughter’s wedding was 5 weeks away and I had an unending To Do list sitting in front of me. It was last minute - flights would be exorbitant. It would take most of 2 days to get there and back. All of this for a few days in the sun? Don’t be silly. But a villa? On an island I had never heard of? Sitting by a pool, piña colada in hand? “Count me in,” I said, and pulled my suitcase out of the attic.

So there I was, standing in the airport in Guadeloupe, listening for my flight to be called. I had already flown from San Francisco to Texas, then on to Guadeloupe. I was hot, tired and dusty – just like the airport I was standing in. One more leg to go.

The plane was small, sitting out there on the tarmac. It held maybe 15. When I climbed on board I saw it was old and a bit decrepit. Actually, quite a bit decrepit. The seat belt felt like it would snap if any pressure were applied. The plane hadn’t been cleaned in a while – reminders of earlier passengers were scattered about. There was no dividing wall between the pilot and passengers – we were all one happy family on this plane. The pilot, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a stained t-shirt, was last on board. He reached back, hauled the steps up behind him, and then pulled them through the only door on the plane. As he walked toward his seat he gave us our safety instructions. “If you see me run past and jump out, there’s a problem. Follow me. Hope you can swim.” That was it. “Succinct,” I thought.  “Basic info has been transmitted.” He put the plane in gear and we were off. 

I think rides in small planes are more interesting than those in big ones. You really feel the wind and it was blowing that day in Guadeloupe. Our plane buffeted sideways as we sped down the runway but then, suddenly, as always, we were up and away through rich blue skies. 

The flight was short. After what only seemed minutes our pilot twisted around in his seat and announced we were approaching St Barts. I wondered why he was aiming the plane straight at the mountain ahead. I actually held my breath when we flew through a cleft in a ridge, barely clearing cars traveling on a road along its crest. I suspect we gave them quite a shock. But I – and my stomach - were completely unprepared for the sudden swoop straight down the back of the mountain to the airport at the bottom. 

But that was not the final thrill. As we sped down the runway I saw sunbathers straight ahead, oiled up, oversized sunglasses firmly in place, stretched out on towels on a beautiful beach just beyond the airstrip. The only thing that would keep our plane from running into them was a chain stretched across the end of the runway, strung between two 4-foot poles. That was it- one chain between us and the beach. Our pilot brought the plane to a screeching halt about 10 feet from the sunbathers who didn't even glance up. Welcome to St. Barts.

Although I was wobbly when I climbed down from the plane I forced myself to remain objective when rating this landing. Yes, one result of 34 years of teaching is a compulsion to grade things and landings is one of them. Although this landing was terrifying, it was smooth. No bounces after touching down. No wasted landing strip. That sudden dive down the back of the mountain landed us on the first available foot of airfield and we needed every inch. No one appeared to be hurt in the plane, on the beach, or in the cars we almost strafed as we barely cleared the mountaintop. We were in one piece and so was the plane. The airport’s tricky location wasn’t the pilot’s choice. Incredibly, according to my rubric, the pilot earned not only an A, but an A+. He didn’t just meet my requirements; he exceeded each and every one. It wasn’t his fault that I had failed to include a “scared the pants off me” factor in my rating scale. I shook my head in amazement as I turned to wave my thanks but he was already walking toward the small group of passengers awaiting his return flight to Guadeloupe. Ah yes, my return flight. I have to get back in that plane. I assume foreknowledge of conditions, several days of relaxation and many gallons of piña coladas will prove adequate preparation.

Selling Bentley

Gary and I moved back to California with children in tow in the summer of 1987. After looking at communities throughout the Monterey Peninsula we honed in on Pacific Grove. It had a small town feel, was right on Monterey Bay, had affordable modest homes and was not in the community where I taught (Carmel). We probably toured 25 houses looking for that perfect home. I wanted charm, Gary wanted easy maintenance, Stephanie wanted sidewalks (our home in Connecticut was on an acre bordering a lake on a curvy narrow road with no sidewalks in sight),  Lee could have cared less.

When out driving one afternoon we spotted a For Sale sign at 222 Bentley Street - and instantly fell in love. There were  problems, however (aren't there always?). Yes it had LOADS of charm but no sidewalks and needed work. How did we know? Well, no one was home and we didn't hesitate to walk the lot and peek in the windows. Phew - work to be done.

Front of house

Side view

Over the years of ownership we had totally redone our house on that lake in Connecticut but Gary's worsening MS meant that this was no longer realistic. Could we truly afford the time, energy and money to fix the most challenging features of the house? I remember the two of us sitting on the porch steps, discussing possibilities. Yes, we decided, we could - so called our realtor who called the agent and, unfortunately, found out that the owners had just accepted an offer from someone else. DRAT!

Front Door

Eventually we found another house and, in reality, thank goodness we didn't get the house on Bentley - we could not have done the work needed. It would also have been really difficult for Gary to navigate with the wheelchair that was soon to land in his future. The home we eventually bought, although it had zero charm, was easy to maintain, perfect for a wheelchair and had sidewalks.

Stepping inside the front door into the enclosed porch

We settled into our house on Gibson Avenue and lived there quite happily. This didn't mean, however, that I forgot the house on Bentley. Every few years I would drive by and report back to Gary. We called it "The House That Got Away."

The far end of the enclosed proch

Fast forward 15 years to October of 2002. Gary had died 6 weeks before and college friends of his were visiting. On the way back from a trip to the local beach, on a whim, I turned into the neighborhood of the "House That Got Away" and there, incredibly, was another For Sale sign posted out in front. I copied down the realtor's phone number and, to make a long story short, 5 days later put in an offer that was accepted. On December 23rd I moved in.

Stepping into the living room (you can see the open front door at the top of the photo)

The rest of the living room

I have never had so much fun - the perfect distraction for mourning the death of my beloved husband. My sisters and sister-in-law jumped in to help. The whole process was like playing house. We brought home stacks of wallpaper books, paint chips and fabrics and then spent countless, utterly delightful, hours making plans. They helped me arrange furniture, figure out curtains and rugs, and the best placement of art on the walls. In those intervening 15 years all the challenges of the house had been fixed, I just got to play.

The kitchen nook

The rest of the kitchen

Exchange students

I look back at the 9 years I lived on Bentley as a time of great joy. I lived in a house that was 100% mine, that I filled with friends and family, exchange students, cats and dogs, friends of friends who needed a place to stay - my guest book is filled with wonderful memories of several hundred visitors who spent anywhere from overnight to months, and in Francia's case, several years. It was a blessing, every single day.

My office

My room

Thank you, Lowell, for figuring out how to add a dog door
to the small fenced back yard. It is so cute!

What memories, what joys, what fabulous neighbors, what a wonderful location. When you own dogs you walk your neighborhood - and between the 3 dogs of my life I covered the town. I now know that it is a 15-minute walk in one direction to Monterey Bay, a 15-minute walk in another to the ocean, and a 10-minute walk in still another to get to the heart of downtown. The adult school where I took evening classes was one block south, the woods where I let the dogs roam off leash began 4 houses east, favorite cottages were in surrounding blocks.

One upstairs bedroom

The second upstairs bedroom - I love the slanted ceilings.

But then came the call of the grandchildren. I still remain surprised at how easy it has been to make the decision to stay in Oregon rather than return to Bentley Street as had been my original plan. My friends all knew I wouldn't come back - they understood the lure of family - but I was SURE my move to Portland was temporary. Not the case, however, not the case at all. I am here for good and so it is time to let Bentley go.

The side deck - gardening that was safe from the brazen deer that strolled Bentley.

It never crossed my mind that I would not be able to return to Bentley before selling it but it looks like that might be the case. I can never thank my across-the-street neighbor and realtor, Robin, for all the work that she is doing in my place. Her taste is exquisite (I adore her house), she has the knowledge of what sells, and has the wonderful capacity of being both practical and artistic at the same time.  I could not ask for a better person to handle the house preparations.

Wonderful memories

And so I sit here, in my wheelchair, waiting for PT to start on Monday - I WILL walk soon -  reminiscing with such fondness about my time on Bentley Street. I look forward to hearing from my neighbors about the new owners - how they, hopefully, will also fall in love with the house and enjoy its wondrous location. I was so very very happy and wish the same for them.