Home, Sweet Homes - Flamingo Apartments, Sacramento, CA

The stone facade was not in place when we lived here.

In 1974, after spending a few weeks—maybe even a month—living in his parents' motorhome, Greg and I found a two-bedroom apartment in Sacramento. It was on Marconi Avenue, at a place called the Flamingo Apartments. Using Google Maps I found the complex is now called Azalea Court.

We lived in that apartment until 1979, when we eventually moved to Woodland, California.

Our first apartment was about 700 square feet. Small, but it had a swimming pool—which, for me, was a complete luxury. I’d never lived anywhere with a pool before. When I wasn’t working, in class, or studying, I was at the pool—swimming, sunbathing, or both.

The second bedroom became Greg’s sailplane workshop. He laid down wall-to-wall plastic sheeting over the green carpet so the sawdust wouldn’t ruin it. It mostly worked. One funny memory from that time: I used to leave my shoes in the hallway that led to the bedroom. One day, Greg tossed them toward the room, but his aim sent them sailing right out the open window into the weedy lot behind the building. He did go down and retrieve them, but I never left my shoes in the hallway again.

The complex had a mix of people, but a lot of them were single. Next door lived two young women who shared an apartment. One of them started dating a dental student, who thought he was a real prankster. His “jokes” were annoying at first, but once he went so far as to loosen the lug nuts on our car, we stopped talking to them entirely.

Eventually, Greg and I decided to wind down the janitorial business. I switched to night classes at American River College and started stringing together a series of part-time jobs. Greg got a drafting job in Woodland, and since we only had one car, I relied on the bus system. I probably spent close to two hours a day getting to and from work—everything within about five miles, but still a long haul on buses.

At one point, I worked mornings as a receptionist at a real estate office, then took the bus to an after-school babysitting job for a teacher’s eight-year-old son. On weekends, I picked up apartment move-out cleanings around our own complex. I also worked Saturday nights and Sunday mornings at a fine-dining place called Smuggler’s Inn, in front of Sunrise Mall.

Saturday nights, I bussed tables (I was too young to serve alcohol). Sunday mornings, the bussers were responsible for cleaning the bar.

Let me tell you—the smell of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and crushed butts ground into the carpet was awful. And I was still a smoker back then! Even so, the job was disgusting. If I hadn’t been smoking, I probably would’ve tossed my cookies. I didn’t complain, though, which meant I got assigned to the job permanently. The other bussers were all young guys, and they couldn’t handle it.

After about a year of juggling all that, I finally landed a full-time receptionist job at Anthony Pools in Fair Oaks. It was right across the street from the real estate office where I’d been working part-time. Suddenly, I only had to ride the bus to one location and home again. It felt like a huge step up.

Somewhere in that mix, I also took on an Avon route that covered two neighborhoods near us. One was a residential area where people welcomed me into their homes and shared their life stories—which, honestly, I loved. It fed both my curiosity and my need for people connection.

The second neighborhood was about four blocks away and made up of two large apartment complexes. One of my customers there was a retired gentleman. At the time, I thought he was ancient—but now that I’m older, I realize he was probably in his late seventies. He was always gracious… until he wasn’t.

On my twentieth birthday, I mentioned it casually, and he said he’d love to give me a birthday gift. All I had to do, he said, was remove my clothes—and he’d take care of the rest.

I grabbed my Avon bag and left. I was so shaken I called the regional manager right away. They were understanding and offered to move me to a different route, but I told them I was done. They gave me a certificate that said I could come back to Avon anytime, no fees. I never did, but I appreciated the gesture.

I’ve wandered a bit here—but really, I liked living at the Flamingo Apartments. When we first moved in, the buildings were painted salmon pink. Later on, they changed them to a light brown. We were on the second floor, so I got my daily stair workouts in. There was a grocery store about two blocks away, and I’d often walk to shop for the week. Our food budget was $20, and we ate a lot—and I mean A LOT—of hamburger dishes. Greg was happy with Hamburger Helper, and we made it work.

Another thing I loved about living there was the Carmichael public library, just about six blocks away. That place was heaven for me. I’ve always loved reading, and any spare time I had—between work, school, and everything else—I tried to spend with my nose in a book. Being able to walk to the library, check out an armful of books, and escape into someone else’s story for a while was one of the real joys of that time in my life.

I still remember one Sunday morning when my Aunt Kathryn called to say she and Uncle Owen were heading up to Sacramento—and planning to stop by for lunch. I panicked. We had already spent our grocery money, and even then I knew you couldn’t serve Hamburger Helper to guests. Especially not family.

It never occurred to me to say no.

I called my mother-in-law, Barbara, in a flurry. She said she had some frozen chickens and offered to come over and help cook a proper meal. I don’t remember what we made—I just remember the visit and that everything turned out fine. I’ve never forgotten Barbara’s kindness that day.

In June of 1977, a former coworker of Greg’s told him her company was looking for a receptionist and asked if I’d be interested. I interviewed and got the job! Since we were both now working in Woodland, it made sense to move.

We had a two-week gap between leaving the Flamingo Apartments and being able to move into our new place in Woodland. Luckily, my cousin Eleanor lived there and was going on a cruise, so we stayed at her place while she was away.

Next up: a new apartment, and a new town.