The Chicken Lady of Fullerton

This is a picture of my parents second and last home. They moved to Fullerton three years after I married and moved away. The day my parents told me they had sold our South Gate house, I cried like a baby. I begged my father to sell it to us so it would still belong in the family. He wouldn't even discuss the idea. In his mind, South Gate was not where he wanted to live any longer and he definitely didn't want his daughter living there. I was really angry and told him I felt like he had sold a family member and it wasn't fair or right. After that emotional call, my sisters called me to tell me I was crazy and I better be nice to our dad because our mother had already given him enough grief over moving. I actually grieved over seeing my childhood home sold. It was awful. And then, I was awful.

Moonbeam Place, Fullerton, California. My parents had lived here ten years in this picture. My father built the porch over the front doors and my mother planted all the roses. As they always did, they made this house our home.

About a month after my parents moved into the new house, Bob and I and our baby drove down for a visit. This would be the first time seeing the new house and going home to a place that wasn't home to me. As we drove up, I couldn't believe my eyes. What kind of mini-mansion hell was this? Where was the tile roof and the covered front porch? There was nothing familiar or similar. As we walked up to the front door, I stopped, feeling unsure of what to do. Did I just walk in like normal? Should I ring the doorbell or knock? Would Lurch be answering anytime soon? 

Finally, I tried the door only to find it locked. I was outraged! When did we ever lock our door in South Gate? Who did these people think they were, locking me out of what was never my home? I rang the bell and then waited, fuming. How could they sell our grandma house for this hussy? 

I could hear music playing as the door opened to my mother's smiling face. She welcomed us into the large foyer where I could see a sunken living room ahead, stairs to the bedrooms, my father's office and bathroom to the right and kitchen to the left. I hugged my mom, and handed her grandson to her. She was excited we were there and couldn't wait to show us their new home. I followed her, with a blank stare, through the entire house including the four bedrooms and three bathrooms upstairs and the formal dining room and den downstairs. I fought crying the entire time as I walked by the mostly new furniture throughout the fancy new digs. Little felt familiar other than the dining room set I had loved my entire life.

Once we settled in the backyard to enjoy the view of their gardens, my mother asked what I thought of the place. I am ashamed to say I told her I thought it was weird when we all lived at home we had two bedrooms and one bathroom and now, they buy a mini-mansion? I started to cry and told her I couldn't believe she preferred this to our South Gate house. To say I behaved badly would be an understatement. Eventually, the subject was changed and we went about the rest of the evening as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. I had ruined my mother's happiness in sharing something with me because of my own twenty year old selfish view of life. 

That night in bed, I started to cry and told Bob how much I disliked the house and didn't want to ever come back. My husband, who has always been a much better person than I am, wrapped his arms around me and asked one simple question. 

"Do you think you could try to be happy for your parents? They worked so hard their whole lives and your dad's really proud of what he's been able to provide for his family. This is for all of us. Could you try, please?"

As usual, Bob's calm way of looking at life and making sense of my nonsense brought me back to reality. I didn't hate their new house and I wasn't angry with my parents for moving into a nicer home and neighborhood. I was grieving over what was lost. The memories with my grandfather and my sisters and parents on Virginia Ave. All the parties and people that came through our heavy wooden front door into our Spanish stucco, tile roofed home. And our neighbors that were extended family. We might never see them again. I felt heartbroken and ashamed at the same time but I was determined to be the person my husband thought I could be. 

The next morning, I came downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen cooking. I apologized through tears and asked her to forgive me. My mother, who always seemed embarrassed by intimacy, kept chopping and stirring through the entire apology finalizing it with, "Stop being so dramatic all the time. Now, wash your hands and set the table." That was pretty much a Bernice Casas "I forgive you" so I washed my hands and set the table.

As the years went by, Moonbeam Place was filled with family and new neighbors and the same old neighbors from Virginia Ave. The parties still happened and people still moved in and out. Boxing and boxers were still a big part of the Casas household just as before in South Gate. Very little had changed other than there was more room for more people. And even though I never actually lived on Moonbeam Place, I did a lot of living there and it was wonderful. Years later, my mother would die in that house as I held her in my arms. In the days that followed her death, the reality would hit me like a boulder. My mother was my home. She would always be my home.

Bernice Corina Walters Casas aka the Chicken Lady of Fullerton. She might have moved into a fancy Fullerton house, but the backyard was still filled with fruit trees for canning, birds, bunnies, chickens, a dog and cats. My mother was always true to who she was. Legal or not, there would always be chickens in her backyard.