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Many years ago, 1989 to be exact, I bought a house in an older neighborhood in Sacramento. Most of the homes were small Victorians with elderly owners who had been there for years. Some previous owner had put an addition onto the house, planning to have an in home business, but the county put a stop to that. So, I had two front doors one at each end of the house facing the street. Lack of openness by the seller, I soon discovered there were drug dealers next door. Took me near a year to get rid of them, and I open carried every time I worked in my yard.
There was a young Hispanic couple in the house on the other side of the druggies, with a small little girl. They called her Chiquita, a cute two- or three-year-old. I made it a point to get acquainted with them, and they helped me organize a “Neighborhood Watch” group so we could help the older folks if they needed, and we were able to stop the druggies from terrorizing the neighborhood. I became extremely fond of this young family, from Guatemala, who were in the country legally. The wife had already obtained her citizenship, but hubby was having difficultly with his English. All my grandchildren called me Kay Grandma, to keep me separated from all their other grandmas and great grandmas. So, Chiquita started calling me Kay grandma, and soon both her mom and dad were calling me Kay Grandma. They had another little one, a boy, they gave him an English name.
Fast forward, life happens. My mother became ill and needed care, my house was foreclosed as I could not keep up the payments, my mother’s care, keeping up her house payments, and for several years paying for someone to daycare her while I worked. It really got too much so I took early retirement to stay with her myself. After she passed away, I had funeral expenses and my siblings paid for none of it. Not the care, house upkeep, nor funeral. Then my siblings had me evicted so they could sell her house. I lost track of my little family. I tried to find them before I came to MT but they had sold their house and moved.
Meantime, as I aged I forgot their last name. I am now living with Kaylett, and she wants me to seriously downsize. I have boxes and boxes of paper stuff, like old checks and bank statements, tax returns from 1960, etc. because I never, ever, throw out anything. You never know when something might come in handy. Having been raised in the Great Depression, I am very frugal. I have now shredded all of my 1989 bank records, 1990, ’91, and in ’92 came upon a check I had paid the young couple for cleaning out my Comfort Coach, that my older daughter had trashed. Both of their names were on the check in full. So I did a web search and think I found them, because one of their “related to” came up with the little boy’s English name. Though not a little boy any more. It’s been 26 years since I last had contact with them. So I wrote a “To Whom It May Concern” letter, giving my particulars, and hope I had the right people.
Last night the phone rang, and a familiar voice rang out, “Kay Grandma” is that you?