Buying & Selling A House

Moving from an apartment for shelter to a house and a yard in a neighborhood in the suburbs was one of the signs of success to the middle class. Before the Internet newspaper pages were full of new, exciting expansion construction with all the latest gizmos and gadgets tempting people to run to their bank and ask for a loan.

While the ads and the American Dream enticed families invest in the future and take on their most burdensome debt, a realtor was more than happy to drive you to the latest plot of land that had been bulldozed and seeded with lawns and every house looked just like the others. “Sign here.”

My dad got a house on the corner. Corner plots were supposedly better but I have no idea why. It was big enough for his family and he continuously added appliances and interior paint while abandoning the landscape except to have his boys cut the grass and trim the hedge.

How he talked me into purchasing a house is beyond me. I realized a house is a good investment in the right neighborhood but I didn’t have any money. I’m sure he filled my pockets with shackles and off I went on the housing adventure.

I didn’t circle the ads in the pages or ask friends for recommendations; I just signed a contract with the realtor. I had done some apartment hunting after my roommate left but couldn’t find anything affordable enough or another roommate so I moved back home.

Maybe that was why dad pointed me into becoming a responsible member of the community and maybe gets a haircut?

I remember a little brick bungalow a block away from my old high school with a pull down step attic but it was bought out from under us.

Then we were shown a mansion squeezed between two apartment buildings in the Fan (or what is now called the Museum District). Ten foot ceilings, grand stairway, gigantic rooms, immaculate condition, fireplaces in every room, all the amenities and a full basement. Way bigger than what two people and a cat needed. The realtor said I could afford it. “Sign here.” 

It was a great place to have parties because it would hold a ton of folks but the rest of the time the vacant space had to be heated with an old boiler hot water system and there was no air conditioning. Family tried to help fill the space with chairs and a bed but the space was built for a different time. Plus we followed the American Dream of credit car purchases. Even friends built huge bookcases and cabinets to fill the space. If that house had been anywhere else I may have hung onto it like a jeweled treasure.

For reasons not explained here, I came home one night and said, “I’m selling the house.” I found a realtor and started the search for another shelter before the deadline. While I looked at crack houses and gutted shells, my house was also on the market to sell. While my realtor and banker were juggling the figures, a woman from Texas walked in and said, “I’ll buy it” then pulled out a checkbook.

With all the stress, goings on and confusion, I was shown this little cape code a couple of blocks from where I’d grown up. I walked in and while the family who lived there sat on the front porch and took a quick look around and said, “I’ll take it.” There was no inspection sheet or checking electricity outlets or even water pressure. I needed a place to put my stuff.

I went to a lawyer’s office and signed a bunch of paper and wrote a pile of checks and signed some more papers. What I didn’t think about was when I placed that signature “My” home was now “Her” home.

Since the family had already moved out of where I was going I was very cavalier about moving my stuff out until I saw her moving truck parked out front. Yikes! My stuff was sitting in her house.

Luckily she was amenable and waited for me to shuffle my stuff out the back door (thank you and you know who you are). She also allowed me to take my wife’s stuff and poke it down to the basement until she could get it moved a week later (too many stories here). Still required me going to another lawyer’s office and signing some more papers making me responsible for the possible lose of the world if slammed by a comet. Whatever. “Sign here”

Now everyone knows putting your name on the line for a gigantic sum of money owed understands the stress and the joy of the moment. Starting a new life and saying goodbye to an old friend. Like our love affairs with an old jalopy but with many more 0’s, our houses are our shelter from snow and hurricanes, the place to raise a family and buy a pet, an example of our intellectual taste of design and color and an example of our wealth and standing.

Then I started thinking about the utilities.

A house (before it comes a home) is nothing more that a block with windows and doors. A house is nothing more than empty rooms with no electricity or running water or gas.

Did I remember to turn off the gas?

As I recall I never contacted the utilities but maybe they are smart enough to change accounts with ownership? If not, I’m paying for someone else’s water bill.

 I understand if you vacate a building you make sure all the power and utilities are shut down, but I never contacting the city utilities. The same was true for when I moved into the new house.

Did the toilet flush? Did the sink tap flow? Did a light turn on?

Whether it did or didn’t is part of a foggy history but is something to think about. I believe the next-door neighbor has moved out but the lights are still on.

Now as one who has lived without utilities you can survive. Read a book outside, put on an extra sweater, and have pre-cooked food delivered. It doesn’t help washing clothes or bodies but it is possible.

Just another weird thought about all the houses in the neighborhood becoming someone else homes while I sit here and watch.

They’re maybe some similarities?