I had taken over the small back lawn to grow vegetables.  All that remained now were brick planters, a patio, a huge pool and a kiddie swing set area.  We had obviously outgrown our postage stamp lot.  Considering the climate we live in, in OC, I was disheartened by the teeny, cramped outdoor space allotted to our outdoor living.

My husband and I are both from back east and we grew up in wide-open, green spaces.  I don’t much care for block walls either.  We grew up among soft hedging to divide property lines in the front yard and more private, wooden, earthy fencing around the back lots.

It is an inviting, accessible and liberal view and less divisive, closed and concrete looking than six-foot high stucco.  It just seems friendlier.

With three little ones in tow, we launched the grand search for land.  We drove to Lake Matthews and viewed the smog line from the top of two and a half acre lots, we checked out OPA with its horse friendly clientele and we visited parcels with wide street frontage.  Our budget was fixed but our dream was flexible.  Still, nothing said “home” to us.

And then one spring day, my husband saw an advertisement for a “just reduced” piece of real estate in Villa Park.  As I waited in the front yard for the realtor to arrive, it seemed all the square footage of grass and dirt was frontage.  The backyard was probably not what we were looking for (a place for me to garden, our three kids to run around in and enough lawn to throw a football for my husband).

I walked right through the interior of the house to the backyard.  I called back my husband; he threw our offspring into our van and headed over.

We stood at the furthest back point of the narrow but deep lot.  Overlooking the weedy sloped lawn, we clasped each other’s hands, looked towards the “as is” homestead and squeezed each other.  We knew this is where we must raise our children.

That was sixteen years ago this spring.  Our last chickadee is about to leave our VP nest.  Although our house and lot was in shambles, dilapidated, neglected and mistreated, we saw the potential and the charm of our own nostalgia that drew us and kept us in Villa Park.

I’m Chicken Little.  “The sky is falling” is a common phrase out of my mouth.  I am a bit of an alarmist; quite the worrier and I can’t watch doomsday movies.

Over the past couple of weeks, we have been having issues with our pool equipment.  It’s way too complicated to relay the back and forthing with the pool man and his team.  Needless to say, they thought the best thing would be to put in a state of the art system.

Then, after weeks of a horrible noise coming out of our dishwasher, it finally broke. I have been hand-washing pots, pans, plates, glasses and flatware for the last several days.  I have dishpan hands and need lots of lotion.

While I checked on our pool levels, leaks and status yesterday, I found out our sprinkler system was not working.  The two boxes are situated side by side.

What’s next?  Now what? How much is this going to cost?

I had noticed the dirt looked dry, but I just kept thinking the sprinklers would magically come on, perhaps the next day.  I called and whined to the gardener immediately.

Well, then, in comes Mr. Wonderful with his cheery, can do attitude “don’t worry, it will all get taken care of, don’t stress.”

Lo and behold, He reset some button and the sprinklers are back on!!

Gracious me oh my, He traced the pool panel wire all the way around its trajectory and found three nicks in the wiring, spliced the wires…and voila, the system works again, saving us mucho bucks!!

I figured He was on a roll and asked him to check out the dishwasher.  Unfortunately, that truly was a broken appliance that needed to be replaced but to my amazement (and so proud) as I shopped at Best Buy, Home Depot and Sears for that perfectly priced and fitted for our kitchen look dishwasher he called to let me know as he was removing the old one that he is confident he can install the new one!!  My hero!

This man bowls me over with his capabilities, knowledge of just about everything and the patience of a saint when dealing with me, Chicken Little.