My mother claimed to have been “caught off guard” two years ago by my father’s divorce announcement, and she still wasn’t ready to move into another home. My help in mortgaging our home would make my abusive Dad leave, and would help my Mom bide more time to get her life organized.
I had no legal counsel of my own nor anyone to advise me on the ramifications
of my decisions. Only my two parents... and their lawyers. (One month before,
I confided with my pastor that I eerily suspected
my parents were plotting against me. I described the silences that occurred between them whenever I passed by. I mentioned things that I thought I overheard. My pastor, whom I helped so much, said I was being ridiculous: he didn't bother listening to me or helping me. If he had, maybe I might've been saved/spared).
I wanted to leave the lawyer's office, but my mother’s attorney blocked the door, saying, “This is your MOTHER. She brought you into this world, her father’s money paid for your education, and she needs you! So you're gonna do this.” (Where was the Universe to help me?!) Under duress, I signed up... and I got bamboozled. I applied for and got a $200,000 mortgage solely in my name. The "Good Faith Estimate of Settlement Costs" equalled $6,600 (loan origination fee $3,000, appraisal fee $275, service fees, application fee $295, title insurance fee $800, attorney fee $400, recording fee $200, county tax/stamp $1,500, and flood certification fee $15)! It was a ripoff!
Fifteen days later, on January 5, 2005, I signed a co-ownership mortgage with my mother. That cost $11,300! (America is full of blood-sucking fees and exorbitant costs). Finally, the pièce de résistance: she and her attorney sneakily inserted a document—for my signature—that waived all my rights to the home and impaired me from selling or encumbering it without my mother's consent. I didn't notice that document until it was too late. I got deceived, tricked, and swindled by my own parents, and I was the patsy!
My parents split their monies from the mortgage via an Indenture and a Note. All along, their attorneys and accountants chattered about the smart decision I was making: helping my parents, and that when the house was eventually sold, how financially "set" my mother and I would each be… all thanks to me. Full of shit.
My father took us for a champagne dinner. The waiter commented that my parents represented the most happy “divorce dinner” he ever saw. My sister wished us luck from her new “hurricane-resistant” home in Florida.
[Side Note: The word Mortgage comes from "Mortir", a French word for "Death". Think of these words: morgue, mortician, mortuary, mortgage. A mortgage is "an engagement until death". It's no wonder that banks, in the 1990's, were so eager for homeowners to re-mortgage—or get a second mortgage—on their already paid-off homes! It all happened with federal condoning... just in time for my parents to have the idea of their mortgage!]
At the end of that year, Mom brought me to Wells Fargo Bank and had us transfer the mortgage to them. 2005 was the buildup of the housing market collapse of 2007. Perfect timing for me! (That's sarcasm).
A 26-year-old who works in retail earning $45,000 per year, and a 57-year-old receptionist earning $32,000 per year, should never qualify for the type of mortgage that they issued. Wells Fargo was later investigated federally because it pushed many people into expensive mortgages. Its agents falsified income numbers and credit scores of applicants, in order to push people into bad mortgages—all unbeknownst to the applicants. Its agents pushed applicants into sub-prime mortgages, which were more costly and dangerous for applicants. (Watch the movie "The Big Short"). In 2008, Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns collapsed, as part of that housing market "bubble".
From that point on, alone with Mom, a curse seemed to be on me, absorbing most of my energies to maintain a home. In my mid-twenties, I was a homeowner, trying to finish paying my college loans and making car payments on a leased car. Every day, I went to work, to grind away and earn an unfair share of profits, to pay huge homeowner expenses. It was a track to nowhere... guided by my perception of "what is". It was just like the film, "The Truman Show"...
A house is not an asset: it's a liability, just like car payments. Our house expenses, property taxes, school taxes, and REPAIRS were astronomical, against our salaries. Look at these insane numbers and compare them with where you live! Annual School taxes $9,900, Library tax $511, Nassau County tax $1,708 (which is more than Dallas County in Texas!), Town tax $1,828, Fire District tax $312. A $250 monthly electric bill (NOT including summer air conditioning), and $200 per month for car gasoline. Being a rip-off corporation, my monthly Verizon cellphone bill was $208 (in 2007)! (My T-Mobile bill now is only $56). A winter's heating oil bill could be $3,000. That's $23,155 per year. Our annual mortgage payment—at lowest monthly increments—was $25,200 per year. Also calculate monthly car payments, NY's mandatory car insurance costs (which inflate as soon as you use the insurance), and NY's mandatory annual car inspection fees.
(Read this to realize that NY's high taxes were nothing new)
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Obviously, I would never have signed my name, if I hadn't believed that we were going to fix-up and sell that house! Getting a fair share from selling our home was my only incentive to apply for that mortgage. It was supposed to help me!
Unluckily, bad timing suddenly occurred for other things! The washing machine's pipes burst—spraying water all over the room. The pipes for the upstairs toilet broke—leaking into the downstairs ceiling. The pipes for the kitchen sink broke. I called overpriced plumbers 7 times in 2 years, and wasted a day off from work, each time! The chimney needed a cleaning for fire safety. Weekly "lawn service"—that my Mom hired—needed to be paid. In April, a huge maple tree in our front yard failed to produce leaves. Our gardener said that it was dead and threatened our house if it fell during a storm. The dead tree needed to be cut down. I interviewed several guys and the cheapest offer was $2,000! On a rare night that I left my car parked in the street, instead of in the driveway, it got sideswiped! I paid $400 cash to an autobody shop, so the dealership didn’t find out about the damage.
I wanted to leave the lawyer's office, but my mother’s attorney blocked the door, saying, “This is your MOTHER. She brought you into this world, her father’s money paid for your education, and she needs you! So you're gonna do this.” (Where was the Universe to help me?!) Under duress, I signed up... and I got bamboozled. I applied for and got a $200,000 mortgage solely in my name. The "Good Faith Estimate of Settlement Costs" equalled $6,600 (loan origination fee $3,000, appraisal fee $275, service fees, application fee $295, title insurance fee $800, attorney fee $400, recording fee $200, county tax/stamp $1,500, and flood certification fee $15)! It was a ripoff!
Fifteen days later, on January 5, 2005, I signed a co-ownership mortgage with my mother. That cost $11,300! (America is full of blood-sucking fees and exorbitant costs). Finally, the pièce de résistance: she and her attorney sneakily inserted a document—for my signature—that waived all my rights to the home and impaired me from selling or encumbering it without my mother's consent. I didn't notice that document until it was too late. I got deceived, tricked, and swindled by my own parents, and I was the patsy!
My parents split their monies from the mortgage via an Indenture and a Note. All along, their attorneys and accountants chattered about the smart decision I was making: helping my parents, and that when the house was eventually sold, how financially "set" my mother and I would each be… all thanks to me. Full of shit.
My father took us for a champagne dinner. The waiter commented that my parents represented the most happy “divorce dinner” he ever saw. My sister wished us luck from her new “hurricane-resistant” home in Florida.
[Side Note: The word Mortgage comes from "Mortir", a French word for "Death". Think of these words: morgue, mortician, mortuary, mortgage. A mortgage is "an engagement until death". It's no wonder that banks, in the 1990's, were so eager for homeowners to re-mortgage—or get a second mortgage—on their already paid-off homes! It all happened with federal condoning... just in time for my parents to have the idea of their mortgage!]
At the end of that year, Mom brought me to Wells Fargo Bank and had us transfer the mortgage to them. 2005 was the buildup of the housing market collapse of 2007. Perfect timing for me! (That's sarcasm).
A 26-year-old who works in retail earning $45,000 per year, and a 57-year-old receptionist earning $32,000 per year, should never qualify for the type of mortgage that they issued. Wells Fargo was later investigated federally because it pushed many people into expensive mortgages. Its agents falsified income numbers and credit scores of applicants, in order to push people into bad mortgages—all unbeknownst to the applicants. Its agents pushed applicants into sub-prime mortgages, which were more costly and dangerous for applicants. (Watch the movie "The Big Short"). In 2008, Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns collapsed, as part of that housing market "bubble".
From that point on, alone with Mom, a curse seemed to be on me, absorbing most of my energies to maintain a home. In my mid-twenties, I was a homeowner, trying to finish paying my college loans and making car payments on a leased car. Every day, I went to work, to grind away and earn an unfair share of profits, to pay huge homeowner expenses. It was a track to nowhere... guided by my perception of "what is". It was just like the film, "The Truman Show"...
A house is not an asset: it's a liability, just like car payments. Our house expenses, property taxes, school taxes, and REPAIRS were astronomical, against our salaries. Look at these insane numbers and compare them with where you live! Annual School taxes $9,900, Library tax $511, Nassau County tax $1,708 (which is more than Dallas County in Texas!), Town tax $1,828, Fire District tax $312. A $250 monthly electric bill (NOT including summer air conditioning), and $200 per month for car gasoline. Being a rip-off corporation, my monthly Verizon cellphone bill was $208 (in 2007)! (My T-Mobile bill now is only $56). A winter's heating oil bill could be $3,000. That's $23,155 per year. Our annual mortgage payment—at lowest monthly increments—was $25,200 per year. Also calculate monthly car payments, NY's mandatory car insurance costs (which inflate as soon as you use the insurance), and NY's mandatory annual car inspection fees.
(Read this to realize that NY's high taxes were nothing new)
__________________________________________
Obviously, I would never have signed my name, if I hadn't believed that we were going to fix-up and sell that house! Getting a fair share from selling our home was my only incentive to apply for that mortgage. It was supposed to help me!
Unluckily, bad timing suddenly occurred for other things! The washing machine's pipes burst—spraying water all over the room. The pipes for the upstairs toilet broke—leaking into the downstairs ceiling. The pipes for the kitchen sink broke. I called overpriced plumbers 7 times in 2 years, and wasted a day off from work, each time! The chimney needed a cleaning for fire safety. Weekly "lawn service"—that my Mom hired—needed to be paid. In April, a huge maple tree in our front yard failed to produce leaves. Our gardener said that it was dead and threatened our house if it fell during a storm. The dead tree needed to be cut down. I interviewed several guys and the cheapest offer was $2,000! On a rare night that I left my car parked in the street, instead of in the driveway, it got sideswiped! I paid $400 cash to an autobody shop, so the dealership didn’t find out about the damage.
Meanwhile, a reliable waiter I knew at the catering hall reached out to me to "borrow" money. Paul was truly ashamed to ask, but he considered me the only decent man he knew. He struggled to take care of his sickening mother, straining to provide enough income through his two menial jobs. Knowing that I'd probably never see the money again, I lent him the desired $200—also knowing that "good comes back to you". I believe in the proverb that you never know "when an angel in disguise will test your generosity and your sense of charity".
Maybe my good deed helped me later… but seemingly much, much later. I was in the wrong culture to expect assistance.
Maybe my good deed helped me later… but seemingly much, much later. I was in the wrong culture to expect assistance.
*[Long Island is notorious for bloodsucking your money and giving very bad services. Anyone dealing with its legal system will attest to its delays, circumlocution, and fees. America's Vice President, Joe Biden, commented that LI's airport, La Guardia, resembled a third-world country. NY State Senator, Alfonse D'Amato said, "Long Island folks pay the most taxes in the state, but the state doesn't give aid back. Long Island counties pay enormous salaries and pension costs that are totally out of control—allowing $100,000 in annual overtime to be included in a person's pension! If you work 5 years in county government and retire, you get healthcare for the rest of your life at $22,000 a year! The school districts run berserk with budgets; some superintendents get $500,000 per year and a car! A patrolman retires and gets $250,000—not to mention a Lieutenant or Captain!" Flush with cash, police splurged funds to add "unfolding light bars" and "matrix information signs" to their overpriced cars. Considering Long Island's stand-still traffic, those were wastes of money... especially when school programs and park maintenance were denied due to a "lack of money".
Such extravagance is why LI taxes are some of the highest in the nation! In return, you get crap… yet you should be living in paradise like Beverly Hills. Ex-Nassau County Executive, Tom Suazzi complained that NYC has 9 million people with 1 government, but Long Island has 9 million people with 10,000 governments." Bureaucratic waste. Who pays? The taxpayers! Even if you pay for private education, you still have to pay public school taxes. LI taxpayers are enslaved to gasoline prices, commuter tolls, $700 extra "delivery fees" from car dealerships, a power supplier monopoly, commuter railroad monopoly (one of the most pricey/corrupt in America), Cable TV monopoly, all kinds of surcharges, and extremely high "home contractor" costs. Nassau County's construction contractors and police (who got the highest salaries in the country) are infamous.
A news exposé highlighted how poorly-maintained roads cost every local driver $1,500 in auto repairs, annually. 17 million drivers use LI roads that are in "a state of disrepair" (despite the ongoing "road repairs" by overpaid workers). Cheap inferior "road salt", used in wintertime, causes pavement decay. Toll prices for LI commuters on NYC bridges and tunnels continues to rise. When the Verrazano Bridge opened in 1964, the toll was 50 cents. It's now $15.00! Commercial trucks pay $30-$116 per trip! A trucking company owner said he pays $20,000 in tolls, per month! Jonathan Peters (a Professor of Finance at Staten Island College) published a report on the tolls, based on the Metropolitan Transit Authority's own data. The agency gets a staggering 75% profit on Verrazano Bridge alone (the MTA operates 7 toll bridges and 2 toll tunnels that are used by millions of people, per day). It's all money that's "not given back to our crumbling transit system". He said, "These prices are out-of-line with inflation and reasonable costs. They're not related to the cost of the facility." Most New Yorkers know the multitude of media coverage on the exorbitant salaries and overtime paid to MTA/LIRR employees & management. Thanks to the MTA (who's board members famously don't use public transportation), bus/subway fares received 4 price increases in 7 years (without providing dramatic improvements in service, reliability or speed).
My Lincoln dealership provided terrible service on my expensive NEW "luxury" car. Their TV commercials showed the sporty LS sedan speeding and zigzagging perfectly. Yet, thanks to its parent company, FORD "Fix Or Repair Daily", the car had almost everything break on it—during its first year! False advertising! Both of the front seat heaters broke. The seats were also "cooled" but their compressors broke, the first time I turned them on! I paid thousands extra for that feature (because they "bundle" desirable amenities with lots of unnecessary crap). Why buy something made in America?
My reward? Wasting numerous days off from work at the dealership's repair center. Even when I arrived before their opening hours, a long line of cars was already waiting. Every time. It was an indication of badly-made machinery.
A news exposé highlighted how poorly-maintained roads cost every local driver $1,500 in auto repairs, annually. 17 million drivers use LI roads that are in "a state of disrepair" (despite the ongoing "road repairs" by overpaid workers). Cheap inferior "road salt", used in wintertime, causes pavement decay. Toll prices for LI commuters on NYC bridges and tunnels continues to rise. When the Verrazano Bridge opened in 1964, the toll was 50 cents. It's now $15.00! Commercial trucks pay $30-$116 per trip! A trucking company owner said he pays $20,000 in tolls, per month! Jonathan Peters (a Professor of Finance at Staten Island College) published a report on the tolls, based on the Metropolitan Transit Authority's own data. The agency gets a staggering 75% profit on Verrazano Bridge alone (the MTA operates 7 toll bridges and 2 toll tunnels that are used by millions of people, per day). It's all money that's "not given back to our crumbling transit system". He said, "These prices are out-of-line with inflation and reasonable costs. They're not related to the cost of the facility." Most New Yorkers know the multitude of media coverage on the exorbitant salaries and overtime paid to MTA/LIRR employees & management. Thanks to the MTA (who's board members famously don't use public transportation), bus/subway fares received 4 price increases in 7 years (without providing dramatic improvements in service, reliability or speed).
My Lincoln dealership provided terrible service on my expensive NEW "luxury" car. Their TV commercials showed the sporty LS sedan speeding and zigzagging perfectly. Yet, thanks to its parent company, FORD "Fix Or Repair Daily", the car had almost everything break on it—during its first year! False advertising! Both of the front seat heaters broke. The seats were also "cooled" but their compressors broke, the first time I turned them on! I paid thousands extra for that feature (because they "bundle" desirable amenities with lots of unnecessary crap). Why buy something made in America?
My reward? Wasting numerous days off from work at the dealership's repair center. Even when I arrived before their opening hours, a long line of cars was already waiting. Every time. It was an indication of badly-made machinery.
The waiting room, where many people spent idle hours of their mornings, was uncaringly boring and unattractive.
The car's electronic mirrors, defogger, and door latch broke. The "engine light" lit up frequently for no reason. Most embarrassing, a loud whining erupted from the engine's fan-belt whenever I started the car on a cool morning or evening. It was so loud that my neighbors heard it, and coworkers teased me about my "new luxury car". It cost me hours of my days off, each time, to wait while they "repaired" it, but they never did. Once, I took their "loaner car" (a Ford minivan) to work, and they called to say my car was ready. I replied that I probably couldn't get there before they closed. However, I managed to leave work early. But when I got there, my car wasn't ready! When I complained to the Service Manager, he said, "Well of course it's not ready. You said you couldn't pick it up today." What the f*ck???!!! The next day, I went to my car salesman to complain. As compensation, they gave me a "remote starter" package, which didn't even work from the distance of my front door to the driveway! I will never buy or recommended a Ford vehicle! (further fueled by their needed Federal Bailout money, years later… for their second time in history.)]
I did everything necessary on home improvement because I kept my eye on the eventual “resale” value of our house—never intending to live at home forever and believing that my mother would keep her word of selling the house and we’d get our own apartments and separate lives. I redesigned the outdated 1970s kitchen: a major selling point. I created a good design: choosing pendant lamps from a small purveyor in San Francisco, sleek drawer pulls, nice paint-color palette, tiled backwash, and wood cabinets. Our kitchen designers were amazed with my talent and wanted to use pictures of it for their showroom! (I felt like adding a caption, "They didn't design this"). I was frustrated with them, since their illegal alien day-workers did a half-assed job (I'm sure they tried their best, with the level of training they were given). I questioned why we paid so much for unskilled laborers? Yet, once they began, it was hard to tell them to quit. (NY contractors notoriously begin jobs and then make you pay extra to finish). Once, I arrived home early and they were all sitting idle on my front lawn; they finished one task and were waiting for the "foreman" to come back—from another job—to tell them what to do next!!! Didn't they have a plan to follow? No. That explained why things were behind schedule. It also explained why the kitchen towel rack was attached vertically as a cabinet door handle. And why the new cabinet doors didn't align or close properly! They deeply scratched my new "laminate wood" flooring! They hadn't taped down the plastic sheets between the kitchen and other parts of the house… so construction dust covered almost EVERYTHING downstairs in my home! It was a terrible task for my next day off.
I did everything necessary on home improvement because I kept my eye on the eventual “resale” value of our house—never intending to live at home forever and believing that my mother would keep her word of selling the house and we’d get our own apartments and separate lives. I redesigned the outdated 1970s kitchen: a major selling point. I created a good design: choosing pendant lamps from a small purveyor in San Francisco, sleek drawer pulls, nice paint-color palette, tiled backwash, and wood cabinets. Our kitchen designers were amazed with my talent and wanted to use pictures of it for their showroom! (I felt like adding a caption, "They didn't design this"). I was frustrated with them, since their illegal alien day-workers did a half-assed job (I'm sure they tried their best, with the level of training they were given). I questioned why we paid so much for unskilled laborers? Yet, once they began, it was hard to tell them to quit. (NY contractors notoriously begin jobs and then make you pay extra to finish). Once, I arrived home early and they were all sitting idle on my front lawn; they finished one task and were waiting for the "foreman" to come back—from another job—to tell them what to do next!!! Didn't they have a plan to follow? No. That explained why things were behind schedule. It also explained why the kitchen towel rack was attached vertically as a cabinet door handle. And why the new cabinet doors didn't align or close properly! They deeply scratched my new "laminate wood" flooring! They hadn't taped down the plastic sheets between the kitchen and other parts of the house… so construction dust covered almost EVERYTHING downstairs in my home! It was a terrible task for my next day off.
But I used those misfortunes to get money back, or I threatened to submit my photos and videos to the Better Business Bureau. My mother wanted granite countertops, but I objected, saying that when we sold the house, a new buyer would probably expand the kitchen, and granite countertops would impede that.
I tried to pacify my mother, who was in the throes of despair about how things were going. She promised to get higher-paying jobs and announced each of her new self-help classes. (She adored the initial sympathy and commiserating from each new group.
I tried to pacify my mother, who was in the throes of despair about how things were going. She promised to get higher-paying jobs and announced each of her new self-help classes. (She adored the initial sympathy and commiserating from each new group.
But as soon as the group assessed her and began recommending ways for her to change/improve, she abandoned them). She used the same behavior with friends and colleagues. Just like my father with his relatives and my sister with her boyfriends, she didn't want input that she was wrong). Instead, she told me repeatedly how hard
she as trying. Sure, I didn’t see
any changes or effort… because “it was all inside” (she sounded like my ex-bosses). Perhaps Mom just dumped it
all on me rather than exert herself in what she didn’t think she could do. But then she couldn’t release me.
To brighten
the mood in the only way I knew how, when I had extra cash (every 6 months)—and since I didn't have a boyfriend yet—I orchestrated “Nights in the City” for my mother and I. Pastor Eberhardt and his wife—the only people I knew who enjoyed theatre—happily joined us. Everyone paid their own portion. My catering connections got me discounts for limousines (because the train system was a dirty/inconvenient fiasco). We got tickets to Broadway musicals or performances at Lincoln Center: the Philharmonic, opera, or ballet.
Usually, we dined at Cafe Luxembourg or Le Rivage (where the French owner socialized with us and gave us free wine and port). Those places (affordably) served delicacies that I enjoyed: sweetbreads, calf's liver, homemade pâté, duck, venison, and soufflé. Since then—and like many things in NYC—their menus were cheapened and Americanized.
Usually, we dined at Cafe Luxembourg or Le Rivage (where the French owner socialized with us and gave us free wine and port). Those places (affordably) served delicacies that I enjoyed: sweetbreads, calf's liver, homemade pâté, duck, venison, and soufflé. Since then—and like many things in NYC—their menus were cheapened and Americanized.
I hosted pot-luck Halloween parties for coworkers. Everyone loved my event-planning. They all thanked
me. Friends thought it was a hoot. In return, they
invited me to their homes for hamburgers.
To boost the exhausted morale at work—and keep our Christmastime
spirits high (which is natural for me), I invited 20 coworkers to my home for Christmas Soirées. (I ignored relatives who only popped in my life for my parties. Since they didn't stay connected, I let it stay that
way). Not interested in "kissing ass", I
spent holidays with a home filled with people I liked (I initially invited the GM for political reasons). Everyone brought a dish/bottle and trimmed the tree. The inherited finery from my grandparents made it elegant!
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They were fabulous parties! I did all the decorating, table laying, cooking, serving, and washing (so Mom
didn’t feel compelled to complain about helping). I was happy and full of energy to do it. Everyone loved my Spirit Punch recipe, châteaubriand (with my own sauce), and the unique cheeses and
pâté from Fairway, Dean & Deluca, and Balducci’s.
After cocktails, punch, and hors d’œuvre, I lit the candelabra along the dining room table and dimmed the sconces and chandeliers. Main courses were accompanied by hand-mashed parsnips and hand-peeled creamed baby onions with béarnaise sauce. Coffee automatically percolated. Wafts of it competed with my fragrant Christmas tree (always a Noble Fir from elite Martin Viette Nursery on the North Shore), and a crackling log fire.
Next to arrive at guests' fingertips were crystal pedestals and silver platters of peach-liqueur cakes, artisanal chocolates, and a bakery-made gingerbread house (my desserts came from the locally-famous Dortoni Bakery, which supplied my former catering hall), as well as my homemade cookies. It was an array worthy of the "Be Our Guest" scene.
People of all ages and "walks of life" told me that those were the best and most cheerful Christmas soirées they ever attended! I liked doing it for no other reason than to have folks enjoy life. Mistletoe hung in every strategic place. Had I been dating anyone, he would've experienced the most heartfelt, fond moments. Sadly, no boyfriends existed for me during those years in that house.
After cocktails, punch, and hors d’œuvre, I lit the candelabra along the dining room table and dimmed the sconces and chandeliers. Main courses were accompanied by hand-mashed parsnips and hand-peeled creamed baby onions with béarnaise sauce. Coffee automatically percolated. Wafts of it competed with my fragrant Christmas tree (always a Noble Fir from elite Martin Viette Nursery on the North Shore), and a crackling log fire.
Next to arrive at guests' fingertips were crystal pedestals and silver platters of peach-liqueur cakes, artisanal chocolates, and a bakery-made gingerbread house (my desserts came from the locally-famous Dortoni Bakery, which supplied my former catering hall), as well as my homemade cookies. It was an array worthy of the "Be Our Guest" scene.
People of all ages and "walks of life" told me that those were the best and most cheerful Christmas soirées they ever attended! I liked doing it for no other reason than to have folks enjoy life. Mistletoe hung in every strategic place. Had I been dating anyone, he would've experienced the most heartfelt, fond moments. Sadly, no boyfriends existed for me during those years in that house.
Sadly, the majority of my life at home was not fun.
I learned the "labor of love" for gardening. After my father moved out, I was often
too fatigued to care about flowerbeds. Previously, he planned them with strategic
charts of overlaying pages that indicated rotating perennial blooms for each month. He spent countless days creating a convoluted garden hose system—routing hoses in all different directions, burying them, and setting up spigots. Initially, I left all the garden work in God’s hands. Yet, my mother gave me a birthday gift:
a book by P. Allen Smith on gardening: formal and cottage-style. My maternal grandfather and great uncle were excellent gardeners, and I recalled their advice.
I discovered that it was great exercise
and stress-relief to pull out weeds, trim shrubbery with loppers and clippers (I had both), plant border flowers, and aerate the lawn!
When spare cash arrived, I had in-ground sprinklers installed (the man said that he never saw anything as crazy as my father's hose system). An arched rose trellis (that you walked through) was bought from a catalog. I installed affordable garden lights.
When spare cash arrived, I had in-ground sprinklers installed (the man said that he never saw anything as crazy as my father's hose system). An arched rose trellis (that you walked through) was bought from a catalog. I installed affordable garden lights.
Most of the flowers were already there, so I worked at tending them. Gardens began by the front carport and followed the (new) stone path around the house, joined my Dad's flowerbeds against the back of the house, encircled the backyard's (new) patio, and spread against the rear fence. Flowers sprouted on either side of my home's rear sliding doors, and they hugged the illuminated path to the garden shed and gravel BBQ pit.
Every month featured something new. Snowdrops bloomed in winter. Daffodils and tulips arose in springtime.
Astilbe made an appearance after them.
They were followed by different types of variegated irises.
Tiger lilies announced summertime.
Camellia bushes (that I bought) flowered in late-autumn.
When all of my work was done, it was admittedly heavenly to admire/smell! There were 4-foot-high blueberry and raspberry bushes, spearmint, a full herb garden, rows of rhubarb, lettuce, carrots, eggplant, tomatoes, and a sage bush. I nurtured those. (Tip: to avoid bruising your tomato plants when you tie them to sticks/trellises, use strips of nylon stockings).
I tended the moss along the stepping stones at the garage's back entrance. I yanked out Morning Glory vines from among the ferns. I pulled out deep-rooted weeds from among the daisies and thorny raspberry bushes.
I divided and replanted the hostas. I cut dead stalks from the flowering yucca.
I was wowed by the towering sunflowers (that I planted from seeds).
I sprayed the rose bushes with lemon/garlic water (and plucked infected leaves) to avoid "rose blot". I changed the Japanese Beetle traps, and I sprayed the carport to keep out moths and vermin. I poured beer into disposable pie tins to create overnight traps for slugs. I poured Clorox on emerging anthills that developed through the new patio's paver stones (in their cheaply-done foundations). I sprayed weed killer on patches of growth that blotched the cracks in the driveway and throughout the new pathways (which cheaply shifted apart after the first year).
I pushed my Dad's abandoned "lawn dispenser" to fertilize the grass.
I shook "Preen" onto all the garden beds.
I reseeded patches of lawn. To be organic, I bought cocoons and eggs of ladybugs and praying mantises, to release into the gardens as "pest control" of unwanted insects.
I pushed my Dad's abandoned "lawn dispenser" to fertilize the grass.
I shook "Preen" onto all the garden beds.
I reseeded patches of lawn. To be organic, I bought cocoons and eggs of ladybugs and praying mantises, to release into the gardens as "pest control" of unwanted insects.
I put night-blooming jasmine by the windows of the TV room. Several huge butterfly bushes were delivered from Martin Viette with purple plumes that brought many assorted butterflies! It was always a treat when clusters of Monarch butterflies paused in my garden, during their miraculous thousand-mile migrations to/from Mexico!
Bird feeders, a bird bath, and my own handmade birdhouses (made when I was a Boy Scout) brought more "winged color": robins, cardinals, and Blue Jays. Gray squirrels scurried to catch any fallen birdseed.
I had a whole ecosystem! During summer evenings, I admired fireflies (a.k.a. lightning bugs) in my backyard. Mornings began with chirpy sparrows and chickadees pulling worms from the soil. I saw caterpillars, cocoons, and butterflies. I spotted frogs in the undergrowth, and dragonflies hovered overhead.
Alas, as uneducated/uncaring neighbors started using harsh pesticides, most creatures disappeared.
I trimmed branches on the flowering dogwood trees, Japanese maples, rhododendrons, azaleas, and prickly holly trees.
On hot days, I spent a half hour before AND after work, dragging the garden hoses to all the hanging baskets (which weren't touched by the in-ground sprinklers or soak-hoses).
"Elbow grease" builds character, and I amazed myself. Raking leaves, cleaning the drainage gutters, and sweeping the carport... not to mention cleaning the perpetual pollen/dust off the patio furniture and my car.
For what it was worth, I got compliments from my neighbors. One said, "I'm so happy that you uprooted those bushes because I love admiring your garden. I sit in my own backyard and gaze at it." I was proud that I properly maintained the property so it was nice to look at; it seemed like a civic duty.
On hot days, I spent a half hour before AND after work, dragging the garden hoses to all the hanging baskets (which weren't touched by the in-ground sprinklers or soak-hoses).
"Elbow grease" builds character, and I amazed myself. Raking leaves, cleaning the drainage gutters, and sweeping the carport... not to mention cleaning the perpetual pollen/dust off the patio furniture and my car.
For what it was worth, I got compliments from my neighbors. One said, "I'm so happy that you uprooted those bushes because I love admiring your garden. I sit in my own backyard and gaze at it." I was proud that I properly maintained the property so it was nice to look at; it seemed like a civic duty.
As nice as it was to look at, it cost a lot of energy to do it... especially when only one person did it all. I recall the last time that I endeavored at gardening. A stranger walked down the sidewalk and suddenly stopped near me, as I carried several heavy trash bags to the curb (lawn debris "pick-up" was once per week). He said, "Hard work, isn't' it?" in a way that implied, "Wouldn't you rather be enjoying something else right now?" Without awaiting a reply, he smiled and walked away.
By comparison, other young people in the neighborhood went on trips to "sow wild oats".
Despite my dreams of entertaining a young man in my splendid garden, I was too pooped from work, home/garden maintenance, and planning my friends’ social events to go out. That taught me a lesson. While I enjoyed my lonely patio and hammock, the youngest generation of neighborhood kids had raucous house parties and smoked around someone’s car stereo. Boys wearing "wife-beaters" flexed for sex. Empty beer bottles and condom wrappers remained on the pavement, in the mornings.
When a new mother/son moved in across the street, I casually introduced myself to him. He was slightly younger than me, liked mowing his lawn without a shirt, and lounged in his carport. We chatted a few times (me in my running shorts), and I hoped that he would invite me inside for a cold drink or some TV or "fun". But, like a sack of potatoes, he didn't talk much and seemed disinterested. Rotten luck, but at least I tried.
By comparison, other young people in the neighborhood went on trips to "sow wild oats".
Despite my dreams of entertaining a young man in my splendid garden, I was too pooped from work, home/garden maintenance, and planning my friends’ social events to go out. That taught me a lesson. While I enjoyed my lonely patio and hammock, the youngest generation of neighborhood kids had raucous house parties and smoked around someone’s car stereo. Boys wearing "wife-beaters" flexed for sex. Empty beer bottles and condom wrappers remained on the pavement, in the mornings.
When a new mother/son moved in across the street, I casually introduced myself to him. He was slightly younger than me, liked mowing his lawn without a shirt, and lounged in his carport. We chatted a few times (me in my running shorts), and I hoped that he would invite me inside for a cold drink or some TV or "fun". But, like a sack of potatoes, he didn't talk much and seemed disinterested. Rotten luck, but at least I tried.
I didn't meet other "people of my age" in my neighborhood, church, or volunteerism. I didn't have friends in my area. Aside from coworkers, I didn't have many friends at all. Gay "meet-up places" were just beginning to have websites.
The gay men visiting Fire Island weren't looking for dating or relationships. Most only spent the daytime there. Then, they returned to the city. Thus, it was only good for weekend romps, but nothing more (unless you lived in NYC, too).
With the local police crunching down on Driving While Under the Influence (which they got premium bonuses for, while each arrested person paid the county $3,000 in fees, had to retrieve their impounded car, and had to regain their suspended license via months of weekly classes and community service), and no clue where to find a gay bar, I spent lonely evenings wishing for love. The police also waited at train stations, to nab tipsy people who went from trains to cars. Such deterrents, along with costs, made the city's nightlife seem far away. It didn't help that I worked on weekends.
The gay men visiting Fire Island weren't looking for dating or relationships. Most only spent the daytime there. Then, they returned to the city. Thus, it was only good for weekend romps, but nothing more (unless you lived in NYC, too).
With the local police crunching down on Driving While Under the Influence (which they got premium bonuses for, while each arrested person paid the county $3,000 in fees, had to retrieve their impounded car, and had to regain their suspended license via months of weekly classes and community service), and no clue where to find a gay bar, I spent lonely evenings wishing for love. The police also waited at train stations, to nab tipsy people who went from trains to cars. Such deterrents, along with costs, made the city's nightlife seem far away. It didn't help that I worked on weekends.
I made some inroads with neighbors. A successful man across the street seemed like a good role model. Happy to meet me, he and his wife enjoyed coming to my home for barbecues, or just for cocktails after work. In exchange, he invited me to his home to learn his Italian recipes and sip Scotch on his patio. However, his wife got ill, and she became an reclusive invalid, so he avoided socializing to stay with her and keep people away. Eventually, he and I only conversed briefly, as we went to our cars for our morning commutes, or took our garbage pails to the curb at night.
A young married couple from Kentucky moved into the house beside mine; both of them were flight attendants. They were rarely home, but the husband seemed like an openminded guy who had gay friends at work. I dreamily hoped for them to invite a gay flight attendant as a houseguest, and I fantasized about "meeting" him...
...but it never happened. Instead, I was shocked to learn from him that the Commonwealth of Kentucky was one of 15 states that kept its anti-gay sodomy laws, even though they were unconstitutional! That is stupidly hypocritical (typical of the USA), since it's logo says "United we stand; divided we fall".
Perhaps sensing that I was gay, he said, "Ken, feel free to talk to me about anything. I'm a great listener." No sooner did I begin socializing with them, then they sold the house and moved elsewhere because "Long Island is too expensive, full of cut-throat people, and its infrastructure is run-down". I agreed; I didn't want to live on the island either.
Like being kept in a bubble, my "home responsibilities" and jobs kept me tied down... instead of me choosing to travel/explore. I accept accountability for my choices. Yet, all my aforementioned attempts to get dates were thwarted. Maybe if they hadn't, my learning would've been more efficient and less painful. The things that came to me effortlessly were the mortgage, invitations to alumni events, chores, charities, and church causes—just like credit card applications.
It seemed that Life was being a "strict governess", thwarting my romantic attempts, cutting short my sexual escapades, slowing my career, and only ushering me to community events.
Before I finally left home, I only met ONE fellow to really talk to and to get advice about same-sex relationships. One Saturday afternoon (I requested off from work, otherwise I wouldn't've seen the light of a Saturday), my pastor and his wife invited me (and my mother—out of usual obligation) to join another mutual friend for a trip to Long Island wineries. The mutual friend was an older gentleman, known to my family. Perhaps he saw me admire the young men at the wineries. As our trip ended, he nonchalantly invited me to his home for dinner (thankfully without Mom) on the next Friday.
During that dinner, he said that he suspected I was gay. To console my shock, he revealed that—now that his wife died and his children moved out—he was living as a homosexual, too. (No, we never had sex). But we did ask each other many questions: him describing the horrific anti-gay details of the 1950s & 60s, and me describing the challenges of meeting a gay guy in the (pre-Grindr / pre-Facebook) suburbs. We became friends. He lent me gay-themed films like "Latter Days" and "Boy Culture" and gay romance novels. I gave him confidence and strategies to begin a new (long overdue) chapter in his life. He was an Anglophile who talked about the United Kingdom. He was impressed that I knew the biography of Queen Elizabeth. We watched a mini-series called The Tudors, which stylized the English dynasty of King Henry VIII and the creation of the Church of England.
He took me to see a play titled The Tempermentals...
...about pre-Stonewall men who pushed for Gay Rights. He felt that it was important that I understood my gay heritage and the LGBT Movement. I valued that. He asked me to decorate his home for Christmas and do the work of erecting the tree and standing on ladders to hang strands of lights.
Unfortunately, he didn't want to help me with my domestic problems or my mother. He was only a "fair-weather friend". When my problems became legal, he avoided helping me. He never lent me money or referred me to lawyers/people who could've helped. Sadly, some people are "friends" for certain aspects and not others. It was just like the person in this short video...
...about pre-Stonewall men who pushed for Gay Rights. He felt that it was important that I understood my gay heritage and the LGBT Movement. I valued that. He asked me to decorate his home for Christmas and do the work of erecting the tree and standing on ladders to hang strands of lights.
Unfortunately, he didn't want to help me with my domestic problems or my mother. He was only a "fair-weather friend". When my problems became legal, he avoided helping me. He never lent me money or referred me to lawyers/people who could've helped. Sadly, some people are "friends" for certain aspects and not others. It was just like the person in this short video...
Managing a LI suburban home was a drain. Quotes from the 2008 film "Revolutionary Road" spring to mind: "Look at us. We're just like everyone else. We've bought into the same ridiculous delusion."
In the picture below, I cut the flowers for the vase, strung the lights in the garden outside (as a visual effect), laid the table, cooked dinner, chilled a newly-discovered wine, bought an inscribed cake from Dortoni's, and invited my mother's friends. It was all done to make Mom's birthday a bit more special.
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Considering that she totally took advantage of me, I should've prepared parties for myself like this, ha ha!
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