Convergence: Houses

I'm telling you, you can't make this stuff up.

That house that began the whole meditation on convergence? My friend will close on that later this month. I never really had much doubt about that one.

I'm not sure what to do with this though.

I'll need to move soon, I hope. The sign went up in my front yard yesterday, holidays and all. So, I've done a little looking around lately. Made a few calls today--five to be exact. Spoke to one person, left messages for four others.

Tonight, I'm at a squadron Christmas party at a golf course clubhouse. Met the Executive Chef, whom good friends think the world of. After dinner, I did too. At one point during the evening, while the emcee was giving out door prizes, my phone rings. As I was sitting up front, I didn't answer it right away, but I did pull it out to see who was calling. The number was from an exchange that could only be a land line from somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the golf course where we were. Odd. I could think of no one who should be calling me from that area. I walked out of the room and returned the call, running over different scenarios in my mind for how someone in the rowdy crowd I was with could be playing a practical joke on me. I got the answering machine for the golf course . . . the golf course where I was at that moment. I became even more certain that someone was having me on. I looked back into the dining room and one of the wives smiled and waved. What the hell were they up to? Then the voice mail indicator beeped. Someone had been leaving a message while I was returning the call. I listened to the message. The message was no joke at all; it was from one of the four people I had left voice mails for earlier in the day about houses. But here comes the good part: the name matched the name embroidered on the white chef's jacket of the man I'd met only a couple of hours earlier. I was already standing outside the dining room where the festivities were, so I walked on back to the kitchen. As I was asking one of the staff where the nearest phone was, the chef walked out. "I think you just called me," I said.

We spent the next ten minutes talking about the house. I'll see it tomorrow morning at nine. Who knows if it's the house I'm supposed to live in for the next month to a year. I can tell you this though--you don't have to hit me over the head with a two by four for me to know I at least owe it a look.

You can't make this stuff up.