rather than observe a set date that's always too late anyway, Texas could simply mark the arrival of spring with sirens.

Big screaming yellow neighborhood horns have gone off twice in the last three weeks, warning of tornadoes on the horizon, or maybe it was the 13,000-point Dow.

This time around, I had just left the house to pick up Squeeky, Squinx, and Little Roo at the airport, a 15-minute trip, and although the skies looked purple there was no precipitation. It took five minutes for that to change, and another two minutes for the rain to begin roaring down too fast for the wipers to clear it.

I passed two cars whose drivers had badly underestimated the depth of the waters they were fording. *Shrug.* I had a pretty good idea where the low spots were on this, my commuter route, and what I could not guess I augmented with the power of observation: When you see a wave in the road, slow down.

what i did not know was that the pilots in charge of my family's safety had already ricocheted to Oklahoma City. So I sat in the cell-phone zone at Love Field a good 45 minutes before Squeeky could tell me her whereabouts. They'd left Houston optimistic for a landing in Dallas, but 500 mph wasn't enough to beat the storm front. They would remain north of the Red River until the clouds parted again.

until all this happened, I'd had a relaxed evening. Right after work, I took Wolf Dog for his walk to the beat of Latin musica. The house they're raising up the block is in the foundation stage, and one of the crew thought to bring a boom box to pass the workday. Conjunto is the official music of construction, I have noticed. Back when our house was getting new underpinnings, I could always tell whether the crew was still in the crawlspace by the music coming up through the vents. For several months, I could have rented the living room out for salsa lessons.

Wolf Dog and I stopped for a moment to watch the progress. Hard to believe just a month ago, a house stood here, full of memories. Then I clambered up onto it and took the gutters off, and a week later it was rubble. The gutters have a second life on the back of my house now. All that's left of this place is the address.

But I won't get sad about it. I'd seen the inside, and it needed about $30K to make it salable. This is the downside of letting old people live their last years in the same house they reared their children in. Eventually, they can't keep the place up. It's too big and the little tasks grow too numerous and expensive, and then they go exponential. When you stop trimming the trees, eventually the eaves and roof suffer. Let the paint crack, and the wood beneath starts to rot. By the time the old folks are out, the heirs are looking at too much, too late. It will appraise below market, and because the mortgage is paid off, that sum will look pretty good anyway. The time and effort needed to fetch a higher price just isn't available. Not even a "cute young couple" wants to take it on. It will go for wholesale.

Now a McCastle is underway. Someone will pay for it three times what other houses around here sell for, which has us neighbors-to-be scratching our heads. Why would anyone pay that much to live among us?

When the last one went up, Wolf Dog and I found ourselves passing it just as a potential buyer was giving it a lookover. A thirtyish blond female in a Mercedes with California plates. I asked if she planned to move in. She said she was thinking about it, then started quizzing me about the place. How long has it been on the market? Eight months. Why so long?

Uh, probably because he's asking 300 percent of what the houses on either side are selling for.

She still claimed it was the best price for a house this size in all of Dallas County, and I believed her. One thing I've observed about Californians, they arrive here feeling like we would if we walked on the moon. At one-sixth the gravity, we'd feel like Superman, able to leap tall buildings, or craters at least. Californians can make down payments bigger than what we leave to mortgage. All they have to give up is the climate. And the attitude, which most of them do.

one hour after her last call, Squeeky is touching down in Dallas. For all the craziness around here when we're all together, this house seems so empty without them.

It's been a productive break for me. Now it's time to be Daddy again.

Thank you for stopping in. I'll be back tomorrow.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:59 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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