BY THE TIME I GET TO PHOENIX

It took longer to sell our house and move the family to Arizona than we had hoped. This story tells how that all worked out for us. 03/10/2016

BY THE TIME I GET TO PHOENIX

Our house in San Mateo remained unsold through April 1967. To improve its appearance, I returned home over the Memorial Day weekend and began painting its exterior during howling winds that made my allergies flare up. Angie had to finish the job. All weekend long my eyes watered and itched. Sneezing and gasping for air, my return to Arizona couldn’t come soon enough.

In August, unable to find a buyer and needing to enroll the children in an Arizona school, we leased our San Mateo home through a realtor to a dignified looking middle-aged man who resembled Cary Grant, according to Angie. I never laid eyes on this gent. He and his hippie wife moved in and damn near wrecked our house. His rental checks bounced and we had a terrible experience trying to evict them.

A year later, the house finally sold. I felt a great sense of relief but Angie thought we should have held out for a better price. In retrospect, we probably should have continued to rent it. Seven years later, we learned it sold for almost ten times the price we had received. Fate did not intend us to be wealthy.

SRP had agreed to pay our moving expense. I solicited three bids and chose the low bidder, Bekins Moving Company to handle the job. When the movers arrived on Friday morning they could not believe the amount of household goods we possessed, including a storage shed encased in corrugated asbestos and an upright piano. Our effects exceeded the capacity of the truck. They had to use a second one to haul the balance of our possessions. They promised to deliver the goods on Monday afternoon.

We planned to spend the weekend visiting both Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm while the trucks headed for Scottsdale. The SRP travel agency made all the necessary travel and hotel accommodations for us. On Friday evening, after the moving vans left, we flew to Los Angeles. To avoid the expense of renting a car, our travel agent had suggested we take a bus to Disneyland. The jaunt became a nightmare. It took us forever to get to our destination. We trudged up the driveway of our hotel, looking like prisoners of war marching off to internment. Angie could have murdered the travel agent who had suggested this mode of travel. We needed a good night’s sleep.

At dawn Saturday, we passed through the admission gates of Disneyland and all our troubles disappeared. We stayed until the park closed, leaving me in a complete state of exhaustion.

On Sunday morning, I rented a car and drove to Knott's Berry Farm where we hooked up with Angie’s brother Chief Petty Officer Al Sammarco, his wife Mary and their two boys, Richard and Gary. They had driven there from his current duty station, Miramar, near San Diego. We rode every ride, saw every attraction, tasted every food, and savored every thrill.

We arrived at the newly opened John Wayne Orange County Airport on Monday, scheduled to take a flight to Phoenix only to discover the car rental agency not yet open. I parked the unlocked car in front of the terminal building, keys in the ignition, hoping somehow or other authorities would return it for me. Inside the terminal, a voice informed us there would be a one-hour delay due to mechanical problems. That’s really bad news.

The kids began acting up. I tried to remain calm. About an hour later, we boarded a twin-engine Hughes Air West plane. Angie feared flying in such a small aircraft. The warm desert air created some turbulence on our flight, a white knuckle experience for her.

George Nielsen met us when we arrived and took us to our rented four-bedroom house in Scottsdale at 86th and East Citrus Way. The moving vans arrived simultaneously.  While unpacking, a six-inch long garden-variety snake crawled along the garage floor. Screams erupted. To us, it seemed more like a six-foot long rattler.

Despite this episode, Angie loved Arizona right from the start, pleased I had accepted SRP’s job offer. We enrolled our oldest four children in a Catholic parochial school, Our Lady of Perpetual Help. The school’s bus stopped at our street corner, making it easy for them to attend.

The mood of depression and anxiety that gripped me earlier in 1967 while slaving away at a terrible job in San Francisco had changed to one of euphoria. Who cared about Vietnam, hippies, or other issues? I was on a roll.

A payroll!

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