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?

Breaking In The Neighbors

Looks like I got another bunch coming to the woods since the house next door has been sold. Who will it be this time?

Almost 40 years ago when I moved in, White Shoes Bob came out to sweep the walkway while staring at the truck backed up into the yard and these big burley guys moving giant boxes into this little house. WS Bob and wife Edna would sit out on lawn chair and watch me when I cut the grass. I introduced myself but he misheard “Cliff” for “Chris”. After a few trials at correcting him, I just went with Chris. He knew my father’s name so he told the neighborhood a son of a celebrity had moved in next door. Then Bob died. By now I had a new roommate and she enjoyed working out in the yard but didn’t like the attention of the ladies on either side. Then Edna got into a property line spat and put up a chain length fence. Edna slipped into Alzheimer’s and her daughter hired a live in caretaker who Heather struck up friendship with.

That was the first time I was invited into the house next door. It is a row house squeezed in between two cape cods. My house is small but I felt claustrophobic in Edna’s place. By then she could speak but was fuming that we had invaded her space. She just sat and stared and frowned while Heather and the nurse chatted about Pow-Wows and birds.

Edna’s daughter sold the house to some girl but I never met her. “Puppywoods” was well under construction by then and a 6’ fence was installed around the entire backyard for privacy from peering eyes. Whoever the girl she was kind enough to not secure her Fios so my Internet connection got much faster.

Then she moved out and another older woman moved in. She would chat every now and then if I was on the porch but it was mostly complaining about the peanut shells scattered in her yard from the squirrels and chipmunks.

She moved out and the house sat vacant for a couple of years.

About four years ago a young couple moved in with their baby. By then “Puppywoods” was in full bloom from lack of trimming and they went about reclaiming their side of the fence. They seemed pleasant enough until I got a notice from the city about cleaning the public walkways from excessive growth. They too complained about the peanut shells and the furry little creatures running all over. Then their car was stolen from in front of their house (I had noticed one of the windows was missing days before) and they could remember if the keys were left in or not. He decided it was because one of my bushes was too thick so he trimmed it back. He was a musician in a band so I thought we could strike a chord but he didn’t want to talk about music or art (he was also an artist and his dad was an artist). They invited me over for dinner one night and the subject turned to religion. These kids were evangelicals and were going to save me. After a couple of bottles or wine and trying to change the subject I finally took down my hair and told them “I am Jesus”

They moved.

Then this girl moved in. I never saw a moving truck but did see some contractors came by and replaced sinks and toilets and countertops. I’d see here at night, park her car and walk up to the door talking on her cell, never acknowledging my waves or presence. She had food (lots of food) delivered. She was never out in the yard or made any noise until her parents came by to do repairs on the gutters and fence. Her dad was a jovial guy and we spoke a few times but she never said a word. Then they all seemed to move into that house. Then there was a dog. It was a cute white curly haired pup and very quiet but kept away from the fence. On some evenings she’d walk him pass the fence still ignoring me. She did do one thing that was right. The air conditioner unit was right on the property line next to my back door and made a bunch of noise. HVAC guys were always there from Edna on, trying to keep the thing going. They finally recommended moving it to the other side of the house away from the fence and bales of mulch restricting the airflow. Now it is much quieter outside and in.

Now she is gone what will the new neighbor(s) be like?

Will they have children? Will they have a barking dog? Will they have a free-range cat? Will they have loud parties? Will they rent it out as an AB&B? Will there be cars parked all over the place? Will there be excessive trash or smells?  Will we get along?

“Welcome to Colonial Place Neighbor”

The Litle House

This is what I call my ‘studio’. I go here everyday, every season, weather, and temperature. It is my ‘Litle House’. It is my home away from home.

When my ‘garden’ adventures turned into more massive undertakings requiring more utensils and tools for cutting, digging, moving, lifting, spraying, etc. and there was no place in my house to store all this stuff.

I’d stored the electric mower in a small space under the house but didn’t have any space to stack the formidable growing handled rakes and shovels and hoes. The hand tools (powered or not) began to fill buckets then trashcans for there was no convenient place to put them.

So, as the story goes, after cutting down a 12’ row of bushes that divided the yard from the alley, a trip to the Hanover Building site in Hanover Country, a selection, a contract and a check signed and a large flatbed truck backed up into the yard and slide this 10 x 20 foot building onto cinder blocks. The plywood floor was painted brown and then everything poured into it. The little porch was a good shady respite to cool down from the fieldwork.

An electrical line was run out to the Litle House with an outside outlet for the extension cords, lights and pumps. Eventually a television was brought out and a drawing board and storage bins and the bikes. Window fans cooled the hot days and a space heater kept the windows from frosting over.

As the interior of the house continued to change, refuge was found outside. Slowly books and records were brought out and stored so room could be made for boxes and chairs and sofas and shelves and tables, etc. inside.

The digital age put up the t-squares and triangles and the desktop publishing computer and modem became the new tools of late night work. In the darkness of a single light bulb the second office was used for management reports impossible to prepare during the day while inside the menagerie was entertained by volumes of DVD binge watching and wine. Some night’s work ended at sunrise.

At the same time, email and social media became a daily ritual and ideas lead into memoirs and fantasy stories that lead to an establishment of a blog. Musical instruments were brought out and homemade basic recordings were uploaded to websites.

Since then many things have been thinned out to make space and organized to find. The Litle House has it’s own storage house behind for still more stuff that isn’t used all the time. After a robbery, the ponies are kept inside under lock and key and out of the elements. The boom box is permanently tuned to NPR with cassette and CD options. The same old TV hands on the wall. The clock is one hour behind but will catch up in the fall. The little refrigerator keeps the salads and beer cold until it is unplugged and the space heater plugged in. Since it is also the dining room, the hot sauce and black pepper stand ready along with the stapler for the monthly preparation of the bills.

Every morning after a cup of dirty water and some soap in my mouth, I am propelled into the world. With empty refrigerator and cabinets bare, it is time to pull out one of the ponies, check the atmosphere of the neighborhood before taking off to the Tummy Temple to restock and rotate the old bones. Once back and spreading out the buffet for my neighbors, I go into the Litle House as my base camp. Some days are just writing and reading. Some days are sweating in the yard listening to the sound of children and dogs then taking refuge back inside. Some days I have little feathered visitors. Some days are just lost on hefty men running up and down a green pitch knocking down each other between selling big trucks.

How will this routine change as the bones get older and the movement slower? I have no idea but for now it is relaxing to sit on a hard high chair covered in a blanket and a cushion looking out a small window as the sun’s shadows drape what should normally happen if I was not here.

She has held up pretty well except for some chew marks from the knurly ones. A few patches here and there and another coat of paint is on my ‘to-do’ list but it hasn’t happen yet. Even in the dusty spider webs and the foggy windows and skylights, this is the room. Everyone can only do one thing at a time in one room. If it is the kitchen, that is your room. If it is your in-house office, that is your room. If it is your man’s land room or your sewing room or ironing room or craft room or bedroom; that is your room.

There are plans to get a Plexiglas sign (after the painting of course) to name this building “nimrodstudios”. Until then, it is my refuge until dark when I’ll lock up and go back to the big house to turn off the porch light and rock in the darkness and quiet.

Our Beach House

Back in the day before Nags Head became OBX, there was a scatter of little cabins along the beachfront. They were affordable enough for a couple to spend a week in asbestos or cedar sided two-bedroom cabin with a dinette kitchen combo and a shower stall. Electricity and running beach flavored water were available but no air-conditioning. There were beds and chairs and pots and pans but everything else had to be brought in.

There was a fairly large deck beyond the screen door with a few steps down to the sand. Simple beach living that was perfect. Shoes not required.

So for a honeymoon, I rented this cabin. I believe it was in September (after the summer price boost) off-season and packed the mustang with all the latest purchases and off to the beach. Picked up the key and found it fairly easily even without GPS.

Heather kicked off her shoes and immediately stepped on a sand spur so got carried across the threshold. It was still a bit cloudy because we had just missed a hurricane but my recommendation is ‘this’ is the best time to go to the beach.

The first day was a bit chilly and rainy but a windbreaker and a walk in the sand made us beachcombers immediately. The second day the sun came out and the beach was vacant. It seems everyone else had cancelled reservations for the week so we had an exclusive beach. Some local surfers and a few fishermen, all very friendly were our only neighbors.

I don’t remember cooking anything because it is fairly windy to grill but I do remember walking down the beach and then just stopping into a local dining establish for an ice cold refreshing drink. With most places completely empty we got extraordinary service and bargains like free nachos or 2-for-1 beer prices. Even the Brew Thru was friendly enough to bring us back again and again.

The week was spent on the beach, on the deck, in the water or in the bed. I’d brought a radio for music but the ocean roar was more soothing. The seagulls soon figured a friend in Heather’s constant feeding and even Jiminey Cricket in the shower was treated well.

The week ended too soon and the car had to be refilled with damp clothing and luckily started after sitting for a week and we had to say ‘Good-Bye’ to our little cabin on the sand.

The last time I went back an entire row of 3-story behemoths walled the ocean away from view. I thought about another trip back but I couldn’t see renting a place that held two dozen for the prices they were asking but couldn’t find any little jewels like this cabin.

It was the perfect honeymoon at the perfect place with lots of memories, all good. 

 

The Way Things Were

Another journey into the past found this photo of the ways things were.

Back in the day before electronic dryers, wet clothes had to be hung out on a rope for the sun to bake. They could (and would) be hung inside when it was freezing or raining, but it was a wet mess.

My mother didn’t have a dryer so all our clothing was hung on a line from the house to the alley. We did have an electric washer so she didn’t have to walk down to the river and pound on the rocks, but the glop of soaking undies had to be totted out to the yard and hung out with wooden clothespins for all the neighbors to see what we wore when we were not wearing them. Everyone knew when ‘wash day’ was.

In college I couldn’t just ball up all my filthy stinky clothing and bag it up to ride for mom to pour in the detergent. The Laundromat became a meeting place to spend an hour or so with some duffle bags of t-shirts that were getting holey and moldy and the other pair of jeans for a few coins. The best thing it had was a dryer.

My first house I bought a washer that hooked to the sink in the basement, but the soppy wet mess coming out had to be strung across a line dripping on the cement floor going down the drain or evaporating depending on the season.

When I got this house, there was a clothes washer (plus a gas stove and a refrigerator) so I was in fat city. Throw in some soap, toss in the dirt and turn on for a wash and spin cycle. Then what?

Being a clever guy I went to the local home center and found a umbrella clothes hanger that would spin around and hold all my soaking laundry. Even got a spiffy cart to roll it out to the end of the yard.

When it is just a pair of socks, two shirts and some shorts don’t take long to wash and dry and the sun soaked results smell nice, but then she joined me.

The washer didn’t have enough settings so another had to be purchased. The stacked dryer couldn’t handle all the blankets and covers and burnt out. The next heavy-duty units had to be moved so the pipes and the drains had to be moved. Still the dryer couldn’t handle all the blankets and pet covers and pillow so line were tied amongst the trees to drape the human curtains.

Now the load is lighter and dryer sheets attempt to bring back that spring fresh air smell, but never does.

Manuel Labor

Back in the day before hiring contractors and landscapers, there was Manuel Labor. He was the one-man mover, digger, cutter and lifter to another’s ideal layout. Manuel Labor lived on the worksite.

Manuel Labor became a popular regular to the Lowe’s, Home Depot, Hechinger’s, Harper’s and Pleasants hardware establishments with frequent purchases of utensils for moving and digging and cutting and lifting. Anything that was too large to carry on a bicycle, Manuel Labor arranged for items to be delivered with flatbed trucks and forklifts.

Trees were cut down and bagged and trashed and others planted. Holes were dug and then deeper and deeper until pits were made from moved dirt. Logs were moved into walkways and stacked upon each other for raised beds of flowers and vines. All the while Manuel Labor follows the crew boss directions without clue of the results under the hot sun and the neighbors stare.

Refreshed by light beer, Manuel Labor could expect a break while the birds and squirrels were being fed, then it is back to work until exhausting takes over. Manuel Labor, cut and bleeding and sweating and sore can only work on weekends but has his assignment listed when Friday arrives until Sunday’s sun goes down.

Today Manuel Labor works the same plot with less energy and no direction trying to thin out what was constructed so the age will have an easier time. With the latest instruments of moving, digging, cutting and lifting there maybe be time to hire another Manual Labor to finish the job; as if it will ever be finished.

Hey Buffy

I looked at the calendar and figured you probably had joined the crew by now, so I’ll write to her through you.

Your coach is out on the front porch now. I’ve screened it in and got some soft cushions but they are covered in pollen but you would love the view.

Remember when we took that long walk to the Easter Parade watching Betsy’s brother taking down the porch? You were excellent with the crowd and that nice man from the Patterson Express that gave you water but there is some talk in this town about those big statues. It has been a year of hubbub and a skirmish up in the mountains about what was history and now unacceptable offensive monuments to history.

Remember your late night/early morning walks around the elementary school and being shot at? Good thing you were wearing that custom puffy vest. Seems schools are now targets for crazed shooters. Defenseless gatherings are becoming popular as shooting practice and maybe this is the new normal? Your mom would not be happy with the response from our government. There is even a Dick’s Sporting Goods store moving into Willow Law and they might sell weapons. Some nut-job even drove an armored personnel vehicle down Broad Street. Wild times in the ole town tonight.

Speaking of school, tell her I went to the ‘Fiftieth’ High School Reunion. She might remember the London Cab and the anticipation before meeting Big John. We met at Padow’s (which has moved from Willow Lawn) and then again at a Chinese Restaurant. It was mostly a bunch of old strangers but I had fun. I always have fun. The best part was being allowed to walk through the halls and see the tiles and wood and heavy doors and the smells more than the camaraderie. The cheerleaders didn’t cheer. The band didn’t play. The cadets didn’t march, but they did ask for money.

Ole Emanuel Labor worked more in the yard than in the house. Cut out a forest of bamboo and filled the trashcans again and again. Then I hired some guys to cut down some trees on the east side that only leaned over the fence. Then I hire a guy with a grinder to cut up roots of the bamboo. Of course he clipped the electric line out to the Little House so I had to get another crew to hook me back up since there is where I go everyday.

Since I’ve become a slug, I’m hiring contractors to do little projects then moving onto another. Maybe it will inspire? Then it gets too hot or too cold. Trying to get the last 3 windows replaced and have some patches to the wood, then have some guys to come in and paint what I started and never got further. I probably ought to get those merry-maids come in and disinfect what I walk over?

Got an interesting letter from MedLife about a life insurance policy. I don’t remember getting a life insurance policy for your mom but they will send me some packet. Where do I send the money?

The grocery that I call “The Tummy Temple” now is my daily adventure into the world. Without your mom giving me a list of necessities everyday, I lock up at the stop sign and wander through the aisles with my dirty old canvas bag looking for something of interest to prepare as a meal while filling the consistent restocking of blueberries, p-nuts, and seed. In the summer it is my only venture into cool air and in the winter I watch the radar for rain and snow. My goal for this year is calling the employees by their nametags. Now and then I run across an old friend but don’t tell you mom. Her husband and son are gigantic so I’m no threat. Some days are routine and some have additions to the day, like meeting some unruly little kids in the check out line in December. While the father was trying to apologize for their bad behavior I asked them if they knew who I was? Once they realized ‘I was Saint Nick’ their eyes widened. Another time some elderly longhaired hippie shouted out “Hey Jerry Garcia” and gave me a hug. Always an adventure. 

The grub is the same and I’ve tried most of my wishes with mixed results. Your mom was much a better chef than I, but my pallet has lost interest. A bowl of soup or a salad or sandwich will hold me for a day as long as I stay hydrated.

The critter crewe are enjoying 4-daily feedings of blueberries, p-nuts (shelled and lightly salted) and sunflower seed. There is this wonderful seed I found called “No Waste” and it is true. It is not that millet filler in most birdseed but some fine ground that everyone loves. The best thing is the next morning there is no clean up.

Your cousins Beau-Beau’s sleep and then pop up in the spring with holes everywhere. Without an announcement they come from every direction to suck up berries, seed, nuts and whatever else they can carry home. A half dozen Peties have a regular routine of the elders coming down at the first feed, then the kids in the afternoon. Some are scoundrels and some just want to roll in the dirt and play with sticks but they are all entertaining. You still wouldn’t be able to catch any of them, for they are very clever and fast. There have been more Robins hanging around this year. It must be the blueberries. Even the Cardinals have become BlueBerry Birds. The Grackles and the Doves are getting along with only one casualty and now and then one of the Crows will come down to have a drink. 

Remember the VCU hat you chewed up? I know it is just a dog thing, just like the Peties chewing on the corners of my building, and you only ate a couple of hats and a headphone; less than your brothers and sisters scratching and peeing on everything. I found one online and ordered it. I don’t shop much online and am glad your mom was not introduced to the Internet for she was an irresistible shopper.

The neighborhood had become fairly quiet after several years until a house down the block was sold and a team brought in a couple of Bobcats and raised a racket. They start early but end at sunset. The rest of the neighbors have been pretty civil. Most leave before 9AM and come home and climb into their abode and turn out the lights. On one side was ‘Motorcycle Boy’ with his hog and big black truck but he found some little redhead and has calmed down. On the other side the strange girl who never talks has put up her house for sale after two years. It is always an adventure.

Since you never had a boyfriend (other than Murray) there is this movement called “Me Too” that your mom might be interested in. It is about women standing up against the sexual harassment behavior that has lasted for decades. Her history is my guide. I can only hope that culture will change but maybe not in my lifetime.

So on another hot steamy Fourth of July I will remember.

“Want to go and see Murray?”