Postcards from a New Life in Rivendell

[Author’s Note:  When last we left our hero, he was planning to leave his lifelong home of New York State for a cross-country journey to a new life and a cross-generational journey into a new perspective. Well guess what…he did it. Hooray for Golf Course Trades…Mountain West Bureau!]

BOISE, ID – One of the first things I did upon arriving in Idaho was barf all over a ski patroller’s new Nordicas.

“Someone had spaghetti for dinner last night,” the poor fellow deadpanned. What could I say? He was right. Welcome to my new home state.

I use the term “welcome” there loosely…at that time I was really just visiting, taking a week to look at houses and hunt for jobs. I hadn’t actually moved yet Golf season had ended, winter had arrived, and with it my duties as a skiing writer. But it was actually a golf architect who planted the seed for both a scouting trip for my move and a writing assignment.`

“Since you’re going to Idaho, McCall is only two hours north of Boise. We are renovating the golf course up there, Osprey Meadows,” beamed an ebullient Robert Trent Jones, Jr., the pre-eminent golf course designer. The designer of more than 350 courses across six of the seven continents, Jones was recently honored by the American Society of Golf Course Architects as the recipient of their Donald Ross Award, their version of a lifetime achievement recognition – the highest honor they have. “You can ski both Tamarack and Brundage,” he advised. They’re both right next to each other. And you can check out my golf course.”

He was right; separated by just eight miles, they were both on my Indy Pass. *BONUS!* So in between getting outbid on three different houses in the Treasure Valley, and landing a job by walking on in to a place cold, I decided to write a story about Brundage Mountain in McCall, just over two hours due north of Boise. Instead, I was yakking all over and moaning in agonizing pain.

Yes, yakking. It wasn’t projectile vomiting, but it was messy. I actually puked twice. I missed the patroller the second time, mercifully. And fewer noodles.

But despite such an inauspicious beginning – it was another kidney stone…hooray! –  my new life out west is going swimmingly:  golf, skiing, work, writing, life. Add girl, sushi, and tequila as needed. Thank goodness, because getting here was a level of Hell even Dante didn’t visit in his Inferno.

First, it took three, count ‘em three, week-long trips out here to finally get a bid accepted on a home. Not only did someone outbid me three times on homes, they overbid the asking price! Hottest housing market in America:  average days on market for a house in this county seven…SEVEN!

Average days on market in my town? 54. (Spoiler alert:  I did it in 23!)

Related: Postcards From the Road to Self-discovery

After three failures, I was getting a bit worried. Still, I had a sterling team around me. You’ll recall I had this plan in mind since before the pandemic. Well during that time, I made friends with the Queen Bee of Boise Realty. (Hi Summer! The press left a label!) And she outdid herself. Steve Jobs’s brain in Farrah Fawcett’s body, she was industrious, meticulous, thorough, kindly, supportive, and resourceful. And on the fourth try during my third week-long visit – fin al mente! – bid accepted.

And what a place for a bachelor! Historic neighborhood, broad, landscaped lawn, huge living room, dining room with Ionic pillars! (Or are they Corinthian? I always confuse the two…)

Oh…and of course, a massive hot tub. ***DOUBLE BONUS! EXTRA BALL!***

Then began the race to sell my house. Fix this, clean that, and pay pay pay! Money-money-money! Everyone had their hand out. It was a gorgeous home, but was it a white elephant? Luckily, no. Remember how I pulled it off in 23 days? That was due to my other real estate team:  Cousin Gene and Uncle Phester (real name Marty). They were every bit the equal of Summer. And when you trust the right people, the pieces will fall into place. Everything was set…except, of course for the move itself.

That was the nightmare.

First, it was a slender tightrope to negotiate – lots of moving parts and little wiggle room to negotiate. You see when moving across the country often times you need not one mover, but three:  one team to load your stuff into the truck, a different team to drive the truck cross-country, and still a third team to unload your stuff into your new house. And if anything goes wrong, it’s an expensive mistake to correct, if t can be fixed at all.

It’s easier teaching cats to play soccer.

Still, I managed to divine a solution to the alchemy; on a Saturday morning one team would load the truck, the second would drive off for Idaho, and I’d meet then six days later in the Valley with the third team that would unload the truck.

Easy, right? Too bad I had two friggin’ stunnattos driving the truck.

From Flemma’s Italian-American Urban Dictionary (Fourth Edition):  stunnato, (noun, slang) – an idiot, perhaps even a gibbering one. Synonyms include “cafone” (a “blockhead”) and cetriolo (pronounced “chih-THROOL,” meaning “cucumber for brains”).

Let’s call this impromptu comedy duo Fred and George. George spoke English. The other one didn’t; according to his pal George, Fred only spoke a smattering of French. Oh, that’s a big help.

First, they showed up at the wrong house…in the wrong city…over five hours away.

“459 Cross-Bronx Parkway, New York, right?”

“No,” I replied, my heart sinking into my stomach and my stomach plummeting into my feet. “459 Crossbrook Park Drive, Syracuse New York.”

“Oh, so Syracuse is the city? Oh no! Hee hee,” he cackled infuriatingly. “We’re in the Bronx, New York City, five hours away.”

My life flashed before my eyes. My life and my wallet.

The entire house of cards looked ready topple. With zero notice, I suddenly had to tell the movers that maybe they had to come back the next day, a Sunday. Seizing the opportunity, they sought to triple the rate.

Calmly – remarkably calmly, especially for me – I telephoned the supervisor for the truck driver. A polite but pointed convo ensued about not one, but two real estate deals getting scuttled all to Hell, and he quickly crafted a solution that could work…but again, everyone had to have their @#%$ together.

“I’ll get you a team of loaders for free, on us, and they’ll both load the truck and drive it. You can dismiss the other moving team,” he conceded generously. I took the deal. On paper, it made sense; I had plenty of room to still get to my destination at the planned load-in time. So, we agreed:  same time (8:00 a.m.), next day.

That gave them all day to get from the Bronx to Syracuse, right? That makes sense to you, doesn’t it? Especially after the SNAFU? Drive upstate, overnight there, get a good night’s sleep, and be there at 7:55 am?

But no. Short story long, the “team of loaders for free on us” was…drum roll please…FRED AND GEORGE!

And only Fred and George.

I was not amused.

They were four-and-a-half hours late. Remember how conventional wisdom was to drive the ‘Cuse the day before? No. These two chih-THROOLS stayed in New York City, got up at 2:30 in the morning, and then contrived to smash a corner of the truck on a concrete buttress, oblivious to (or disobedient of) signs everywhere that say (essentially) trucks aren’t allowed on Parkways in New York City.

“We had to fix the truck,” George explained when he arrived, pointing at a crumpled corner seemingly held together with duct tape. “We’ll secure it so nothing gets wet if it rains.”

Then they flooded my bathroom. You read that correctly:  They flooded my bathroom.

The one that spoke English asked to use the toilet. Some innate sixth sense of catastrophe led me to do the old “pool or the pond, pond or the pool…the pond would be good for you” from Caddyshack and directed him to the toilet downstairs, in the old mother-in-law apartment.

About 20 minutes later, I went into the house, and I heard a strange rumbling noise – a cross between rushing water and grinding gears. What the dadgum tarnation is that and where is it coming from? I check the kitchen…nothing. I check both upstairs bathrooms…nothing. The garage, maybe? No. Finally, out of places to look, I go downstairs to the bathroom where I sent the trucker…and I find crappy water spraying all over the room.

The other loader, that one that claimed to only speak French and maybe an obscure dialect of Esperanto, slammed the toilet handle so hard, he ripped the seal off the inside of the commode, under the lid…so the bowl just kept filling…and filling…and FILLING!

Instantly I corral the other guy (the one who speaks English) and show him the debacle. He chuckles nervously.

“Oh…hee hee hee hee hee!”

I refrained from bellowing like an angry rhinoceros (though it would have been quite liberating) and ordered him to help me. He was good at holding things, but not much else. Still, after a few minutes of us looking like Abbott and Costello Meet the Plumber, we managed to fix Inspector Clouseau’s impromptu shower fixture, and get the seal back in working order. I glared darkly at him as I went by. He mumbled something in French at me with a nervous smile. Tempered though I was, I still couldn’t resist one reasonable chide for his bone-headed befuddledness. It was time to laconically bring the subtext to the forefront.

“You understand English just fine, don’t you? You just act like you don’t…”

Busted. I could see it on his face He was checkmated and he knew it. He gave me no further trouble. Pas un mot, as they say in Calais.

So, after enough nervous moments to trigger apoplexy in a Tibetan monk, the truck was finally loaded, and – 36 hours late – both it and we, Torrey the cat and I, ended our time in upstate New York.

It was a poignant moment when I passed the sign “Now leaving New York.” I can’t quite call it bittersweet, because there is nothing remotely redeeming about the lawless state New York has become. Make no mistake:  crime bosses rule the political machine, (Cough! Cough! Carl Heastie! Carl Heastie! Cough! Cough!) and metaphoric junkies of every stripe grow legion. (Isn’t that ironic? A lawyer riffing on Harvey Dent.) All criminals except murderers are routinely released in New York. And coupled with new procedurals rules that handcuff police and prosecutors, most crimes in New York go unpunished. As such, even the families of judges and lawyers are not protected.

Don’t believe me? My mother became a crime victim shortly before we left. And all the police could do was arrest and release, after providing the criminals with the names addresses of all potential witnesses against them. That’s a nice touch to the “bail reform law” passed by the crime boss I was telling you about earlier.

But here is the final insult:  in New York City, if criminals actually bother to show up in court for their hearing, they’re given free New York Mets baseball tickets. See this for more:  https://www.cbsnews.com/newyork/news/nyc-to-offer-mets-tickets-doughnut-gift-cards-to-get-freed-inmates-back-in-court-after-state-ends-cash-bail/

It was over 2,400 miles. Six days on the road with a petrified tuxedo cat and a car filled to the brim with gear. There were several days driving 13 hours with no one to spell me at the wheel. It was 100 degrees outside every day in the height of summer. But my cat is a trooper, and so am I.

“Take your time,” my generous new boss said. “Drive across the country and enjoy it,” and his advice was dead solid perfect. After barnstorming across Interstates 90 and 80 the magical sandhills of Nebraska appeared and engulfed me in their rugged grandeur.

I was in my country now…golf terrain!

My thoughts turned to my grandfather, he and his four brothers, one sister, and their mother crossed the Atlantic on the S.S. Antonio Lopez, ex Naples, fleeing poverty, blight, political persecution, and an oligarchic ruling class that never learned the critical difference that freedom means governing, not ruling.

I was doing exactly the same thing.

For its part, Idaho is the light. Immediately upon crossing from Wyoming into Idaho, instantly the dusty plain blossomed into crystalline lakes, craggy mountains, verdant forests, and high desert serenity. I passed through eight states to get to Idaho, and if you combined the beauty of all those eight, it still doesn’t equal one Idaho. Not even close.

Better still, there’s freedom here. And the tax man doesn’t have both his hands in both your pockets.

What’s the wisdom of this story? The road to happiness, though long and toilsome, is not without its due rewards. Just have the courage to persevere.

This Hobbit has arrived in Rivendell. And it’s everything I ever could have wished it to be and then some. Great job, even better co-workers! Nice courses to play around town, and only four hours from – arguably – the best course in the PacNW except for Chambers Bay. Of course I  joined…so now I write to you from my new home course – Wine Valley! (Well Home Course West. Forsgate will always be my Real Home…my Golf True North. But for now, Dan Hixon and Dave Axland’s “Sand Hills in the Washington Vineyards” will do nicely. You’ll get that story next.)

Pick up and move my whole darn life across the country? No problem! I’m having the time of my life, everybody! And I haven’t even gotten around to projectile vomiting on anyone or having my guests send geysers of crappy water cascading skyward in my house. But hey, give me time.

Pics – Farrah Fawcett Uncle Phester sold separately.