HUGO

I look north out my window and see the dark blue silhouette of the mountains in the near horizon. The first thin hint of daylight is coming to their slope and as it does it will begin to paint them in greens and scattered earthy browns. The ebb of flow of light coming and going has gone on for eons and it's pace is slow. Too slow.

At 5:09 in the morning I find myself looking out the window and hoping the light would just come quicker. This night has been long.

I've been a parent for about 7 years now and I still haven't grown accustomed to dealing with the worry of my children's illnesses. Every struggling breath or creeping notch higher on the thermometer is agonizing.

The second guessing comes at what I call the "judgement hour." It's that time of the night when it has deeply overtaken the day and its heavy black cloak has thoroughly unfurled. At this hour the majority of human activity has slowed to a crawl and a family finds itself on its own and with very little options.

I try not to wake them as I check their struggling bodies. Under the light of my cell phone I look at the quickness of their heaving chest, gauge the color of their lips, listen for his struggled-wheezing breadths or touch their forehead/arms while I crudely measure temperature.

I pace some more. I second guess and worry further.

"Should we go to Urgent Care now?" "NO, You're overreacting." "Why didn't we go when he started to cough?" "You can't go for every small cough" "Is his breathing normal?" "Did we breastfeed long enough?" "Shit, I shouldn't have told him to play outside so long." "How long until day light?

Then I check on them again and the pattern repeats.

It's 5:31 now. I don't see green on the mountains but the night is now loosing it's control to the daylight and the drape of darkness is being removed.

It's an hour and a half until the local medical facility opens and I can take my child for attention. That's a long time from now.

I should probably go check in on him....

About 20 years ago, the afternoons had also started growing longer as sunlight waited more and more before yielding itself to the evening. It was an exciting time at 312 Record Avenue in East Los Angeles as I and other Belvedere Junior High school boys started talking about new relationships with pretty girls.

The television set flicked on and groggily searched for a signal on that overcast Easter afternoon in the mid-1980s. The day was an emerging tradition in our family and as the box honed in on the signal my sister and I grew restless and sought escape from the hammed up movie due to start.

I don't know where my objections first sprung from. I knew it was a mix of how the main protagonist's (who was a Spaniard) accent pronounced Ss and made every sentence seem oily and thus baked in unwarranted sophistication and insincerity. Or maybe it was that even at that age I felt that the film maker meant to manipulate the audience and it irked me that my parents would share tears on queue.

Perhaps it was my frustration for how in previous years I had watched with watery eyes a gaunt and bloodied actor struggle through the cobble-stoned streets while the angry throng hissed hatred in his direction. How could I (now "wiser") been so easily duped to emotion? Now though, as I watched with my sister I read through the melodrama with all-knowing skepticism and whispered in her ear that is was time escape to our family's back yard.

My father, not seeking an argument that day, relieved us both to our afternoon play and in a flash she and I raced out the door and to our play area so as to enjoy the last few minutes of daylight amidst the grass, darkening skies and overgrown vegetation at the northernmost fence.

--

The tool laid harmlessly by my father's work shed. It was no more than a half foot long with two tan handles that came together by a thick screw like knob. From that off-center spot two gleaming leaf like blades shot out and I remember watching the light race across them as I shifted their angle to the sun during my inspection. They seemed harmless and I imagined how I may have shrunk so tiny that I was holding a regular pair of scissor which I should use to help my sister and I escape the wild jungle our back yard had become.

My sister trounced through the garden in her favorite and over-worn white top and khaki pants that were slowly thinning at the knees. She reached me with a smile and intently heard my description of the journey we would take together as Amazon adventurers who'd have to make their way through the thick of brush, vines and wicked man-eating plants. The journey would be perilous but I assured her that with her assistance we'd make it back to civilization in one piece and branded heroes.

Though she is three years younger than I, her imagination was always more fierce and in a moment she had envisioned the treacherous adventure at our feet and beckoned us to begin. With that tug at my arm I picked up the scissors and we made our way to the bougainvillea draped fence that served as the main wall of an undiscovered ancient temple. As we shimmied our way across, my sister described the endless chasm at our feet and warmed me that one false move could plunge us into the abyss. Care and a slow pace were key she said and I followed behind her, nipping at the strings of the plant above us that acted like cobras and pythons  that would easily devour us.

With a start, the adventurer ahead turned around and put her finger to her lips. We had reached the entrance to the temple but it was covered with a hundred-year's worth of growth. To make our way inside would take patience as the gates were booby-trapped and one wrong cut would send a deadly cascade of rocks on top of us, end our adventure and leave our skeletons ready to be discovered by other foolish archaeologist in later expeditions.

With that, she moved me closer and asked me to brandish the tool. She would hold a string of bougainvillea and I would cut it hoping not to unleash the dread above us. We both pretended to sweat and pant like they do in the movies. This was serious business, discovery and treasure were in our grasp, but we had to cut just right.

My sister grabbed the plant and angled it towards me. She showed me where to cut and together we nodded as the countdown began. "Uno" we said and I saw a smile race across her face, "dos" and her sight left mine as she focused on the marked spot, "tres"........

I poured the full power of my tiny muscles to the handles of the scissors. The thickness of my target was no more than a few millimeters thick but I had to be sure the cut was successful. Our life depended on it after all. It was this force that shifted my approach and sent the blades in a difference direction than intended.

My ears registered a slight whistle as the blades cut through the air and began convening on a point. What I remember next is the crimson jet of liquid that came at me and splashed on my brown belt. Then, in confusion I let go of the scissors and watch them slowly make their way to the ground and land awkwardly on the concrete that as they settled still began to show a scattered galaxy of red dots. Next came my sister's surprisingly quiet shriek and my gaze moved to her grimacing face and then to her hands which she had brought together and were slowly being glazed by the gushing blood. My stomach turned and a dizzying moment came over me that resolved itself quickly as (from the corner of my eye) I saw my mother look out the window to check on us.

She new without us saying one word and in a moment both her and my father rushed frantically towards us.....

My father scolded me harshly for playing at eastern corner of our residence on a cloudy Spring afternoon when I was about six. He had planned to create a garden there and had spent the earlier weekends tilling the soil.

My mother had explained to me that it was an escape from his grueling and psychologically draining work as a homicide detective in the Mexico City of the early 1980s.

From the window of my bedroom or from the shifting angles of my swing I watched his sweaty back, sun burnt shoulders and thick legs work in unison to plunge the shovel into the dirt and heave mounds of dirt that crumbled apart when they reached a few inches off the ground. It awed me that he could work 4 or 5 hours at a time with only a few lemonade breaks or an occasional beer that my mother would bring with a hearty refried bean, chile, avocado and ham torta.

Perhaps it was an act of rebellion that I decided to play in the island of loose dirt that he had worked so hard on. It had been one of my favorite spots of the yard to play in and I had been annoyed when he announced and described the planned garden to friends during our family's yearly New Year's Eve party. For a while I thought he had forgotten but then in early March he cordoned off the area with sticks and string and the special place was off limits for my baby sister and I.

When he spotted me that Sunday, I was doing cartwheels in the dirt. It was fun to feel my hands dig into the soil and I loved its coolness and how it dirtied my fingernails. His yell was powerful even from a distance and I grew cold when I heard it. By the time he reached me I was prepared for the worst but surprisingly he shooed me away gently with a warning not to do it again. This was a welcomed break and I resolved right there to comply.

--

The fever began early the next day. At first it meant taking one day off from school but when the stomach pains and severe headache sprung upon me my parents became alarmed. It had been about a week and no aspirin, tea or simple treatment helped. I was taken to a pediatrician who ran a few tests but failed to identify the problem. I was sent home while they studied further and it was then that I lost my appetite and for the next two weeks I began to loose weight rapidly.

Day after day my condition worsened and I felt terrible for causing my parents pain. My mother held her tears back as she placed countless moistened towels on my forehead. I saw a quiver at my father's lip as he scoured my gaunt chest, thinning legs and ashen cheeks for clues or answers. I was slipping away slowly and there was nothing the they or doctors could do to stop it.

The weight of the situation drove my father to take a break and return to his work on the island of soil. A small tree he had planted early into the project was dying and he would take it out and replace it. As the shovel broke away the dirt and moved into the ground his foot felt the resistance of an object. It must have struck him odd as he had tilled this part and he was certain that no large rock or pipe layed beneath his feet. With curiosity he dug some more, pulled out the dying tree and in the whole he found a brown sack.

His fingers shook as he unfurled the burlap's thick and stubborn knot. When it came undone a waft of stinking hot air moved up his nose. His surprise came in that he wasn't surprised by the smell for he had encountered it before in his everyday work. It was the smell of decomposition and it belonged to the head of a large black cat.

--

My grandmother showed up later that evening and performed the ritual. She had been estranged from my parents for a few months and I had been surprised to see her. At my bed post she laid down a pack of cigarettes, a bowl, what seemed to a weed and a couple of eggs.

It hurt to cough as she blew cigarette smoke onto my face and I felt a chill tickle when she pressed the cool eggs about my naked body. The weed I saw smelled sweet and it soothed me as it brushed against my legs, feet and arms. I fell asleep some time during the event.

That night my parents burned the head, the blackened egg yolk and then prayed.

The next morning I awoke. The headache was gone, the fever had subsided and I asked my parents for a hearty breakfast.

A slab of concrete sits a top my father's garden.

It came to know itself one Thursday afternoon on the banks of an aged canal off Xochimilco in the mid 1900s. It did not know life just at it did know death. But intrinsically the watcher understood that movement around it demanded that it make a not so simple decision.

As it sloughed and faltered off the murky waters it caught the voice off a high pitch wail that in later years it would come to learn as laughter, an emotion that it came to understand but could never truly emulate. The pull towards it was too strong to over come and after a few minutes of struggle it came upon a cheerful boy skipping rocks off a shallow strip of flowing water.

The watcher had no shape but it's voice was angelic and the boy showed no fear as it approached him and spoke with him in silence and reassured him that it meant no harm. They spoke for hours with no words exchanged. The watcher asked countless questions which the boy easily answered in lengthy monologues that satiated the thirst for knowledge for the new found thing.

The boy in himself was beautiful.. Approximately 16 years of age, he was a lean, a remarkably tall study whose earthy athleticism bore healthy veins, thick brown hair, a strong spine, piercing eyes and vivid wild reflexes. In town he was described by the elders as a coffee flavored version of Billy Budd with a flawed innocence that didn't serve the new vileness of the then modern world.

The boy's gaze was notable from the start. One day after his birth his mother who died two weeks later remarked that he could understand him more than every man she had ever known. Others noted in years to come how first encounters left them feeling as if his two eyes read their life histories shockingly. They even asked their children to avoid the child so as not to encounter his knowledgeable gaze. Fortunes were being made every day and men were afraid that their precious and murderous secrets could be read by knowing eyes.

Yet, the boy could not be touched by illicit hands. He was protected, some said, by an aura of spirit Angels who turned poisoned rice water pure.  Or who lost hunting parties the boy camped by the water's edge.

The Watcher learned these truths as it spent moments next to the youth. At the time it didn't know that it had chosen a simple base on which three others would be added on and lead it to modern times. Knowing the future was not it's gift. Not like it was hers.

After the boy skipped a jade like rock onto the water, the watcher touched the base of his neck and a simple strike of electricity moved down the boy"s spine. The spark arose a stir that the watcher understood a thousand times faster than any other person before or since. But the brain is faster than the soul and upon the touch an elemental reflex caused the boy to raise his face and lips open.

It was then that The Watcher would sense what it thought would be it's only need and took the boy"s essence.

Slowly, the silence it was took on the attributes of the being being consumed. It enjoyed thoroughly the  growth and engorging encounter that manifested it as a man on the human world. As he devoured the body and essence in earnest he looked over the murky waters of these canals and did not understand why it had come into being.

But as he looked at the waters in what later claimed to be his own eyes, his birthday, he thought was the next step to those who had taken on the world and squandered it's gifts.

Toned legs strode down the green carpet to the awaiting elevator car. As he caught up with her he looked back to check the closed door of their room and to maybe catch a glimpse of the Civil War soldier who allegedly haunted the hall ways of hotel Dauphine.

With no apparition in sight and a well lit path ahead, her cheeky scoff awaited him at the impatient steel doors who hurriedly tried to close.

She wore a green dress. A coquette number that slung off her left shoulder and framed a gentle triangle off her torso that brought her to the attention every other passerby. In a sea of flesh, her confident and unassuming demeanor served as mistletoe to men ans some women accustomed to blatant shows off careless sex.

As she walked through the uneven streets surrounding Bourbon Street, he watched her body sway. With every step her body bounced and the dress' fabric struggled to catch up. Her curves bounced glently, swaying on synched rhythm with the waves crashing off the Mississipi river shores.

The full moon's light bathed the red brick lined streets. On several occasions the roots of aged trees broke though the tries of earlier designers and cast odd shadows that seem to evade her as her commanding strides steamed on through. He watched and followed. He was only an observant, a note taker, a stenographer, a scribe trying to describe a muses' path in modern New Orleans.

They toured and studied the posted menus on the doors of restaurants. He pondered at her face as she calculated taste from aged menus, gauged the crinkle at her soft German rugged nose when she studied smell, tried to catch the spark in her eye if a prospect taste struck her fancy.

She understood her food. Could imagine its taste and internalized its meaning as art. Certainly her recommendation would yield an experience. Yet, she demanded him to pick. To assert himself in this universe of flavor and create a scene for them to enjoy.

It was in this in this play of admiration that the watcher found them. The figure had recognized their fragrance and had taken a liking. Their smell tasted of deep love and the interplay intrigued the watcher to the point of magnetism.

Following them was necessary.

Slowly it took firm steps behind them. Savoring the wind that flirted with her dress and lifted its hem so as to show her taut thighs. In him, it saw the desire that drove a similar lusty motivation.

As the watcher followed, plans were made and the choice clear. Unfortunately another had already claimed the two and her plans were very different.

Trouble had been brewing for a few weeks before the war erupted by the large wooden table of our home in Mexico. Though the details of the outrage are foggy, I recall that the conflict lasted several hours and I ended up falling asleep watching a National Geographic TV special of the gilded prince Tutankhamen and the curse that surrounded his resting place.

It was in the late hours of the night that my father's hand broke my slumber and asked me to find my jacket. Though a little confused by the scene I knew from experiencing that questioning my father never yielded any pleasant results and after a few minutes of stumbling in the dark I found my Dallas Cowboys jacket and took his guiding hand that headed to the front door.

 It wasn't long after my back got used to the awkward angle of our Renault's front seat that I drifted back to sleep. Hours later, I awoke to the chill of the morning and the hub of the Benito Juarez International Airport. This being my first experience with terminals, moving cars and the loud whirring sound of plane air planes, I was fast awash with a feel of curious dread.

Unfortunately, my father's quick steps, muttering of obscenities, fumbling of paperwork, looks at his watch and wrangling of my hand while carrying an old blue duffle bag let very little chance that any of my thousand questions would ever be answered. Instead, I followed his prompts, scooted faster when he nudged at my back and wondered what my mother would make of this early morning adventure.

My first flight out of Mexico was exciting. The sense of wheels parting with the concrete was imprinted in my memory and it still ranks high on my favorite things about air travel.

During our hours in flight I asked my father about our trip. He was relaxed as he shared that he hoped to show me Disneyland for the first time and that we were on our way to the United States together. Excitement turned to overwhelming thrill upon hearing the news and I would have hugged him except for the knowledge that men in our family didn't do that.

My thoughts then turned to my mother and I wondered why she had chosen to not join us. When I asked him about it, I noticed that his smile turned, the vein at his neck quivered and his shoulders dropped for a half second before they rebounded and his face turned towards me. All he said is that my mother would not join us on this trip and that we shouldn't speak of her while we were away. I slumped into my seat as I understood his words as the newest law to respect.

We arrived at Tijuana's International Airport and after a night at a hotel, we rented a car, crossed the border and made our way north on the 5 freeway. My father and I played a game of counting all the "Cinco al Norte" signs along the highway. A game I eventually lost as it turned out to be as effective as counting sheep.

When I awoke, we had arrived to a city named after a man not favored in Mexico and parked the red Mustang at a motel that boasted a pristine pool where I observed a pretty blonde girl play that afternoon from the window of our room.

As the day turned to night my father asked me to go to sleep as our trip to the magic kingdom awaited in the morning. It was then as I drifted into dreams in this latest new place that I cried as quiet as I could missing my mother and wishing she was there to be part of our fun.

Disneylandia was more fun and exciting as anything I had ever experienced. Sadly, the overwhelming sights left no real memories but the impression of being in a special place have stuck with me. Even now as I see Mickey's face below the train station as you enter the park I get that same sense of excitement.

It was later that day...as another day's light began to wane my father called me to the phone booth where he had been speaking heatedly with someone.

As I picked up the receiver I heard my mothers hurried voice come through the black speaker. Despite the occasional crackle her voice came through and I was overcome with happiness. I told her all about the day and she took in every single word as if it was worth a million pesos. Towards the end, as my father prompted me to hand him the phone she asked me when I'd be coming home. He over heard and told me to reply..."soon."

As he grabbed the phone and I said my final good-bye I wished her a "Feliz Dia de San Valentin."

I heard my son's voice bounce like a ping pong ball about the ancient rocks. Reverberating free and carelessly.

Unaware of it's significance he played gleefully on the cool pink sands of the alien desert escape. Racing up steep dunes with winged feet. His grin bared in delight.

My daughter joined him. Wild and fiery her tiny voice filled the ancient valley. Her laughter roared up its walls and coated them with her spirit.

They joined a thousand hearts who have passed through these natural passages.

The week had not started off right but then again the 40 days before that Friday hadn't been our best. I had arrived to the apartment on the second floor of the complex in Montebello and I knew as I slid the crooked key into the lock that I had inadvertently set off a chain of inevitable actions that had been waiting  to collapse like a  row of propped up dominoes.

As usual, upon entering our shared 800 square feet I made my way to the kitchen that sat immediately off the front door and to the right. Like instinct my hand grabbed the wooden handle to the yellowish colored refrigerator that had come with the space. With a jerk I opened the door and heard the soothing clanking of glass bottles that awaited within.

I reached in a pulled the beer from the lower shelf, opened it and took the first of many swallows. She would not arrive home for a couple hours and for now the empty and quiet space was mine. In less than twenty minutes, as I sat on the white chair we had recycled from her German grandparents home, the liquor had begun to warm the veins at my arms and was beginning to creep its way to my chest, throat, eyes and brain. The familiar daze kicked in and I forgot that time existed.

Eventually though, the jarring front door reminded me.

She came in with a half-smile on her face and that eroded when she noticed the four bottles sitting at the counter of our tiny kitchen. I chose not to acknowledge it. At the time it seemed prudent to let the usual take its course. Today though, I reminded myself, was not usual.

Who fired the first shot is unclear. She was tired. So was I.

The last few month had become a constant unwillingness from both of us to  meet in the middle. My constant drive to push limits without concern for her needs and her growing campaign towards a more adult life had become near irreconcilable forces. The arguments were constant. Feelings were hurt on a daily basis and as of late conversations had become mere efforts to pass on the most elementary bits of information.Who's paying this bill? Do you have the late shift this week or next? Are you going out with them again?

The argument was long, exhausting and draining. Neither party had clear answers and ultimately it seemed that the lack of common ground led to only one conclusion.

We were not working as a pair. We had tried and enjoyed a great experiment together but we were different people and now it was time to seek opposite paths. My eyes ached by 11:38 that evening. I could continue to cry on but my body had no more tears. Worst of all, as I grabbed the keys from the counter I looked through the kitchen and viewed her flaccid body on the white chair.

I could see disappointment and a broken heart.

When we met, the young man she experienced had promising talents and virtues that over the years had leached to the world of frenzied mediocrity at the sands and bars of Venice Beach.. She had invested time and love. For her efforts she had received very little.

The cold of the evening hit my cheeks as I closed the door behind me. Perfectly sober I found the red Nissan Z sports car we had bought together in the parking lot. As I pushed the silver key into the ignition I felt the weight of the last few months land on my thighs.

I was leaving the best person I had ever met. We had drawn lines and we'd possibly never be together again.

My father wore Guayaveras,

Despite their casual nature, the men that would frequent our home in Mexico and smoked the strong cigars wore them like tuxedos.

I often marveled at the intricacy of the weave. Imagined a day when I could sit around our court yard with my own and join the men who told the stories, blasted out obscenities and told the dirty jokes with my father.

At the end of the evening the men would leave. My father had enjoyed too much cognac and his nose would be red.

Then I knew I would pay penance for the day's trespasses. For the broken dish at the party, or falling down off the tree and scuffing my newer shoes.

The belt would sail through the air and strike. Often until he lost his breath and tired out.

Then my mother would relieve him of his shirt and put him to bed.

On the morrow...the shirt would be crisply hung. Ready to be worn again.

My stories are not epic.

The imagery of my 30 years is mild compared to the exciment of those before me. There are so many who have faced truly cold winds, sharpened winds, cutting criticisms.

But my story is mine. Peril is real and so is fright.

The skies were cloudy when the last bell of the year rang at Malabar Elementary and we were released to our parents for the holiday break. I had lost my jacket a few weeks earlier and my thin gray sweater was too thin to keep the Southern California winter breeze from jarring me when I stepped out of the school's main building.

We have a pair of friends that don't have little ones.

Their carpets are pristine white and lack the splotches from previously dropped peanut butter & jelly sandwiches.

Their furniture is  wrapped in expensive leather and lacks the impressions of little feet that make believe it's a trampoline.

Their walls showcase the latest hues from Edward Dunn and lack the array of fingerprints at  about 3 feet off the ground.

Their lamp is a wonder of design and it stands quietly in their gorgeous home.

My father believed in the virtue of penmanship.

As a wee one he'd make me practice my writing for hours and would crumple sheets of letters if he didn't think they were up to par.

Over the years though, as a man, I've been praised for my handwriting. I will even go out of my way to buy the best pens so as to enhance my impressions on crisp white paper or yellow Post-It notes.

To my son, I'll encourage the same fondness for lettering. Perhaps not with the same fervor.

I eugolized my father.

At the moment of truth I had the chance to speak my mind. To say it like it was(is).

But my father wasn't a monster. He was a flawed man.

Not very different from me.

So I stood at the podium. Wrapped my hands around its wooden sides, looked at my mother and my sisters and channeled what he would have practiced to say.

It wasn't poetic but the words resonated.

I was asked to write my son a letter that would comfort him in the event of an emergency.

Not a simple assigment. I write all day but I struggled to find the right combination of words that would give him comfort should we not be there for a reason.

What do you tell your son from afar in dire times? How well do I know him and how do I express comfort when another person reads it?

In the end I wrote from the heart. Told him that we'd do the best we could to reach him as quickly as we could. To continue to sing his silly songs and listen to his teacher.

And also.....to remember his Jedi training.

Our team is thrilled to have been part (for the second year) of the Monrovia Cinco De Mayo Multicultural Arts & Music Festival. The day's weather was perfect for the event and it was a treat to see the community come out to our Downtown and celebrate the art, food, music, dance and traditions of Latinos in the San Gabriel Valley.

Also, the afternoon gave us the opportunity to meet hundreds of folks and help them enter a raffle to win a new Kenmore Liquid Propane Gas Grill which we'll give to one lucky winner later this week.

Our team, who consisted of Maria Abellanosa, Joanne Cothern, Jacen Crehan, Maricela Dolores, Charmaine Foster, Deanna Jones, Karen Taylor, Isabel Lugo, Jose Martinez, Henry Suarez, Marisela Torres, Patti Tris, Sherry Tweini & Troy Willson.

We are also proud to share some photos of our team at the event and we look forward to being part of this growing festival next year.

• Are you a member in good standing of a professional inspectors organization, such as the American Society of Home Inspectors (ASHI) or the National Institute of Building Inspectors (NIBI)? (Some states require a license)
• What is your specialty? If the inspector only has training in one area and has no other expertise, the inspection may not be comprehensive.
• What exactly does the inspection cover? (i.e.-plumbing, heat, electric, structure, alarms, sewer, foundation).
• Do you have references? How long have you been in business and how many inspections have you performed?
• What advanced technology do you use? (i.e.-infrared camera, ultrasound machine)
• Do you carry all necessary insurance, including professional liability, general liability, and errors and omissions insurance?
• Does the report include estimates of repair costs?
• Do you offer a written guarantee on the inspection?
• What type of report will I receive, and when will I receive it?

• Under pressure - Pressure washing is budget-friendly way to dramatically improve a home's exterior. Dingy siding, mildewed decks, faded walkways and oil-stained driveways can be returned to pristine condition.
• Contain yourself - Consider investing in container plants. Arranging them around the yard and entryway is a quick way to brighten up a space and create a splash of color.
• Get rid of gutter clutter - Clean your gutters. Often leaves, branches and debris may be visible from the street.
• Open up - Homes with open your curtains often look brighter and more inviting.
• Enjoy the view - Clean windows speak for themselves.
• Lighten up - Outdoor lighting is aesthetically pleasing and provides visual aid in the dark.
• Quick fixes - Updated hardware, such as doorknobs, lighting and even the mailbox, can greatly enhance an entryway.
• Store more - Put away any tools, toys, bikes etc. out of sight so they do not detract from the home.
• Repair and renew - Improve the obvious by filling in sidewalk cracks, fixing screen doors, and touching up any paint that is chipped.
• Tidy up - Remember to rake the leaves and trim the hedges to give the yard a boost.

Every week we tour the newly available listings and Open Houses of fellow Brokers & REALTORS. When we find what we consider to be a fantastic opportunity we'd like to share it with you. For this week, our two Hot Buys are:

1. Have your fireplace and chimney cleaned and inspected annually by a professional. Glass doors or a metal screen should be placed in front of your fireplace to prevent sparks or hot ash from exiting the hearth.
2. All fireplace ashes should be disposed of in a fire-resistant container and covered it with a lid. Keep the container outdoors and away from the home’s exterior or other possible combustibles.
3. Make sure any portable heaters you employ are equipped with a tip switch. These switches are designed to automatically shut off the heating unit in the event the heater tips over.
4. Follow the recommended safety instructions on all heaters. Heaters that run on fuel should be vented and space heaters usually need a minimum of three feet from any object or person. Never use space heaters to dry clothes or leave on overnight.
5. Ovens and stoves are not to be used to heat your home. They produce fumes and may become fire hazards if they are used as a heat source instead of their intended use of food preparation.
6. If you are using supplemental portable electric heaters, never use an extension cord. Plug them directly into the electrical outlet.
7. Install smoke and carbon monoxide detectors on every level of your home and test the batteries monthly. Detectors should be installed generously throughout the home and secured outside every bedroom.

1. If it’s broke, fix it - This is crucial in the selling process. Repair the broken cabinet or loose railing before buyers view your home. Damage detracts from your home and may make buyers question what else you have not maintained.
2. Shades of grey - Interior paint is inexpensive and revitalizes a space. Covering scratches or wear and tear with fresh neutral paint is aesthetically pleasing and even creates that ‘new home’ look and smell!
3. Floored! - Transform your space by refinishing wood floors, updating tile or professionally cleaning any carpeting.
4. First impressions - Consider replacing your front door, as this is an investment that often pays for itself in the final price of your home.
5. Subtle accents - Fixtures and hardware, such as cabinet knobs, faucets, light fixtures and door handles can be relatively inexpensive and done without a professional.
6. Clear view - Upgrading old windows throughout a home makes a big difference both inside and out.
7. Keep up the facade - Garage doors often account for a large percentage of a home’s front facade. Similar to the front door, homeowners who upgrade or update their garage doors, may see a good return on their investment.

From Our Poet Laureate Jim Gupton Welcoming our Joining CENTURY 21 Colonial REALTORS:

Here at Adams & Barnes,
we are a really happy crew.
If you're here from Colonial,
it is our pleasure to welcome you.

We hope you find us friendly
and a good place to be.
Everyone wants to make you comfortable,
as soon as you will see.

So come on in the coffee is hot,
soon Judy will assign you a spot.

Welcome to CENTURY 21 Adams & Barnes

1. Fix the problem. Don’t hit a snag in the final walk through, repair any defects or damage that you agreed to fix during the inspection process. Also, remember to maintain the condition of your home from the time of inspection to the final closing date. Otherwise there may be delays or financial concessions.
2. Be aware of any closing costs you are responsible for and bring a certified check.It is your responsibility to be aware of deadlines! There are often timelines to accept or reject requests and specified dates within the contract.
3. Present the title and be open about any liens, or unpaid HOA fees, they will be apparent in the title search anyway and there may be a solution your lender and agent can devise. 
4. Bring a photo id to the closing. You will be signing official documents at the closing, so it is imperative to bring your license and it’s always a good idea to have backup. 
5. Bring house keys, garage door openers, alarm codes and any appliance instructions or warranties you have for the new owners. As a kind gesture, it is nice to provide the new owners with maintenance contacts, such as phone numbers for landscapers, handyman, babysitters, pool services etc.

We are nearing that time of year when we start looking back at the accomplishments of the last twelve months and begin to gear up to tackle the plans laid for the year ahead.

Before the hustle-and-bustle of the upcoming holly days begin, our team at CENTURY 21 Adams & Barnes would like to thank each one of our past and present clients for your trust and confidence in our skills. Together, we have make dozens of dreams come true for our clients. From a young family's first home to the new location for a burgeoning local small business. Despite the roadblocks of this market, our teams of client and REALTORS have achieved so much.

In 2012, we begin a new chapter. As our company continues to grow we look forward to the real estate adventures that lay ahead.

But for the time being we are grateful for you, our clients and give you many-a-thanks.

We join in celebrating with you this special time and wish you a prosperous New Year.

Your Friends at
CENTURY 21 Adams & Barnes

1. Gradually lower the mowing height of your mower. Any young growth makes your lawn more vulnerable to winter diseases which can leave you with a dried out brown winter lawn. However, trim the lawn gradually in several steps to avoid suddenly removing all the green leaf tissue and damaging the turf.
2. Clear your lawn of any debris that can smother your grass. Toys, kid pools, and other items should not be left of the grass and turf, especially if you live in a climate that may cause snow.
3. In late fall, be sure to give your lawn a final fertilization. Inactive during winter, your lawn won't use the fertilizers immediately but will store these nutrients in its root system and process them at the first signs of spring.
4. Aerate your lawn before the season’s first frost. A thorough aeration coupled with fertilization, will set the stage for healthy spring vegetation and growth.
5. Research what plants thrive in your region. Apply this knowledge when planning your spring planting.

1. Financing - The financing contingency refers to the buyer’s ability to procure financing for the property. This could include the terms of the loan, including the interest rate, length and type of loan.
2. Appraisal - The appraisal clause is necessary so the proposed property value can be substantiated for the lender.
3. Inspection - A home inspection could reveal any issues or defects and the buyer can ask for repairs, or renegotiate the sale price. You also have the opportunity to review paperwork affecting the title such as a Preliminary Title Report which may outline liens or other title issues that must be addressed before escrow closes.
4. Buying or Selling of Property - Often, the sale may be contingent on the seller’s purchase of a new property or the buyer’s ability to sell his existing home.

1. Talk the talk - Communicate with your children and encourage them to discuss any apprehension they may have about moving. Brainstorm and find solutions to alleviate any fears. Remember, technology makes it easy to keep in touch with old friends with video chats, emails and social networking sites.
2. Explore your surroundings - Go for a family bike ride and learn what your community has to offer. Check out the local ice cream parlors, bike paths, dog parks, hiking trails or specialty restaurants. Familiarize your children with the neighborhood so they are at ease.
3. Take out and stay in - Plan a family sleepover at the new house, even before the furniture is shipped. This will be an adventure for the whole family and together time in the new home often makes children feel more secure and less overwhelmed in their new surroundings.
4. Designer room - Give your children paint color options so they can decide on the color scheme of their bedroom. It may be helpful to set aside a special box with their favorite things from their old room to incorporate into the new space.
5. Integrate - Involve your children in local teams and activities. Most moves take place at the end of the school year, so by enrolling your children in clinics, camps and sports you are providing them with an opportunity to make friends with future classmates.