Fresh start

 

When we are alone on a starlit night, when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children, when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho, we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash – at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the “newness,” the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.  ~Thomas Merton

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Do due diligence

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Good decisions come from experience, and experience comes from bad decisions.  ~Author Unknown

So I fired my real estate agent for all the reasons you can imagine and some you cannot but you would have fired him too and I’ll just leave it at that.  I really want to blame him for his incompetence but the main person I’m blaming is myself for not doing my usual due diligence before engaging him.  

I decided to make a more informed decision this go-around and like George and Winifred Banks interviewing nannies before they hired Mary Poppins, I opted to be more methodical in choosing my next agent.  So I lined them up and ran my interviews like my life depended upon it which in a weird way was true.

My first interview was with Karen, the pre-closer.  Before she was even past the entry hall carpet, she was attempting to close the sale.

“Hi, I’m Karen.  If this meeting goes well today will you be listing with me?” 

Minutes later, she went for it again.

“I brought a contract with me which is at a much higher commission percentage than you’ve paid in the past, or that you’re comfortable paying, but my writing is pretty, so will you be listing with me?”

Next was Gary.   Gary works for a company whose real estate sweet spot is in selling 2 -20 million dollar homes.  Gary tried to convince me that my very modest home would work well with his client base.  What he didn’t tell me is that my home would work well for their client’s household staffs, their parents, grandparents, 14 of their children and a couple cousins.  I sent Gary on his way to flash his fancy Rolex and long teeth to the Rolls Royce crowd.

Third in line was Janice, a charming southern belle who proceeded to redecorate my home as I gave her a tour.  Soon I didn’t know if she was adding flair to the rooms or was simply a kleptomaniac.  Janice’s sales pitch was to insist she really wanted to buy the house for herself, because the house is so darlin’ but if for some reason she changed her mind, she was sure she would be the one to sell it. Ya’ll.  When I didn’t choose Janice, her demeanor became somewhat curt.  Well, let’s be more specific, it became downright hostile.  I guess southern belles aren’t used to being told no.

I finally chose an agent who I hoped would be practically perfect in every way.  Making sure I clearly conveyed my very realistic expectations, I informed her that after enduring what felt like an eternity of incompetence while working with my former realtor, that it would sure be swell if she could sell my house within the week.  

And so she did. 

Having gone through this process, I’ve learned another very valuable lesson.  If the situation stinks, change it.  That’s why it is called do due diligence.

The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn.  ~David Russell

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Home, home on the brain

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A house can have integrity, just like a person. ~ Ayn Rand

I’m on the hunt for a new home in a new town and since I’m thousands of miles away, I’m burning up the laptop conducting this search in what can only be called an extremely obsessive compulsive version of let your fingers do the walking.   Meanwhile, back at my final destination my folks are burning up the tires on their cars driving by home after home, picking up brochures and marking the deserving with hearts and stars.

Occasionally I get a Eureka this is the one call, but ultimately I won’t make this purchase without walking through the home.  Until then, it’s such a delight to get these calls and to view the homes, rooms, and neighborhood maps even using the yellow Google man to zoom up close and personal into the yards of the homes practically peering through the windows.  Once the internet offers scent technology, I could almost buy a home sight unseen.   Almost.

I want to buy a house based upon price, location and how the house feels.  Because nothing can replace actually walking in a home and letting it speak to you.  Like the P. D. Eastman book, “Are you my Mommy?”  I enter a house and ask “Are you my home?” and then listen for the answer.

Homes are where memories are stored.  Whether in plain sight or hidden, the lives of the dwelling’s inhabitants are forever engraved in the soul of the home.  There are the little gnaw marks on the windowsill leftover from the first puppy and the pencil lines on the doorjam leading to the garage marking the heights of the children at various ages.  Deeper stories emerge as layers of wall-paper provide a history into changing decorating choices and styles, usually followed by a what were they thinking?  You’ll see the concrete path leading to the backyard embedded with tiny foot and hand prints.  A walk through the yard at dawn illuminates trees and shrubs which were carefully selected, planted, watered and pruned.   The gourmet kitchens left by a family of chefs is indicative of large happy family meals and holiday gatherings.   The repairs, both done and undone tell a story of the family’s priorities.  But perhaps I’m only projecting.

Right now there are a gazillion houses on the market, many of which are foreclosures and short sales and these represent one third of the homes sold in the past year.  The families leaving these homes are being forced out, either through folly, or through no fault of their own.  Day after day I spend time talking to unemployed people who are either on the verge of, or who have just lost their homes.  Today I learned of a very successful corporate Vice President who gave away her two dogs who were not only her pets but her best friends and companions, as well as her four prized horses as she walked away from the home of her dreams since she’s now been without a job for over a year.  Like so many, she’s living with a friend, sleeping on the couch and longs for the day that can put her life back together once she finds a job.  Tomorrow I will hear another tale of woe.

I would not buy the VP’s home knowing the story that preceded her departure.  At any price.  But I know her and her story.  What about houses whose story is not known to me?

Not only do I want to buy a happy house that was loved and cared for by its former occupants, I want to buy a home that was willingly sold as part of the ebb and flow of a family’s life.   Maybe the family was transferred with the company, or they needed a larger home to accommodate the birth of a child.  Maybe they needed a home without stairs or one with a different yard.  Maybe they were now empty nesters and looking to downsize their life and move into a townhome.  You know, reasonable reasons for selling a home.

With the incredible values foreclosed and short sale houses offer, is this the right financial decision?  Maybe not.  Do I really want to know the family saga of the sellers and all who have lived in the house since it was built?  Probably not.   I know that a house becomes a home because of the love brought to the dwelling and yet I will rely heavily on my intuition when touring a new home and will quietly listen to the messages the house sends.  And again I will ask “Are you my home?”

If it says yes I will buy it.

A comfortable house is a great source of happiness.  It ranks immediately after health and a good conscience.  ~Sydney Smith.

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Home is where the hearth is

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to get back to ~ John Ed Pearce

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There are only two possible conclusions which can be drawn from these writings.  I am either certifiably insane or it’s time to move back to the Midwest.   I’ve chosen the latter since living in a pink padded cell would deprive me of decorating choices and you know how I feel about that.

So the move is on.  I call my two sisters who are the remaining family members living away from the Ohio family and after a brief (ha) conversation they agree to move from California and Arizona back to Ohio too.  Well as you can imagine, I have taken some major editorial liberty with that statement because the truth of the story is another long story and involves tall ladders, hospitals, jobs, cash, peace signs and the number 3.

Turning my home from a well lived-in cave suitable for a hobbit into a model home takes me about six weeks.  All of us avid HGTV junkies know that we need to depersonalize and declutter the house so a prospective buyer can see herself living here.  I remove all traces of myself, all family photos, knick-knacks, evidence of hobbies and even my favorite chair which was so crammed into the family room that it got smacked by the door every time it opened.  The door.  And the chair.  Someday I was going to fix that door.  It had just not risen to the top of the list.

But depersonalize?  Really?  My home is the real estate personification of me.  Every plant, appliance, color and light fixture have been painstakingly chosen.  But oblige I do, until there is nothing of me, my family or my life left in the home.  My garage however, has been filled to the gills.  Neatly.

During the final walkthrough before the open house, my realtor asks me to do the unthinkable.  He requests that I remove my two easy chairs, fireplace and hearth from the living room.  My refusal within a nano second surprises even me.   This time, his request has gone too far.  Although it’s for sale, it’s still my home, and home is where the hearth is.

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Small passages

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After the dining room table took center stage, I redecorated the living room, the family room, the kitchen and the master bedroom.  Out with the old and in with the new.  Which is funny since as you know the new dining room table is old and beat up.  But no matter.  Making decisions and purchasing furniture and appliances was the easy part which surprised me because I usually over-analyze design decisions to death.  Upholstering, designing and sewing were much more difficult and time consuming but I enjoyed the satisfaction I got by seeing my handiwork adorn various parts of my home.

Out of money and time, I decided to take a break from my decorating frenzy and spend a few months letting things settle.  There are a couple big projects left to do, but they will have to wait until, oh I don’t know, I win the lottery or something.

It was nice to finally have the house put back together and the sewing machine stowed until my next moment of brilliance.  Plus I was glad to not have to encounter straight pins in my bed which I also used as my cutting and measuring board.

And I was doing so good.  That is until last weekend when I decided the carpet in the downstairs hall just had to go.  Right then.  Right now.  There was to be no time to waste.  First you should know that this is a very small hall.  I should also point out that nothing had happened recently with this carpet, it had actually looked pretty bad for quite awhile but on this particular morning I could take it no more.  I ripped out the carpet and padding and after my weekly trip to Home Depot for the right tool, pulled up the tack strips.  Wow.  What remained was a crappy looking concrete floor with glue stains.  Such an improvement.

Now what?  I agonized over what to do because what I really want are wood floors which I can’t get because in addition to the problem of no money, my very old dog would have a heck of a time getting around without carpet to steady him.  The myriad of choices in flooring was overwhelming.  Maybe I should just paint the concrete, or re-carpet, or get vinyl or stone or tile or a rubber backing.  Back at Home Depot I stared blankly at the choices in the flooring aisle and because I was lacking all inspiration, picked up a cheap carpet runner and returned home dejected.

Reminding myself that it’s just a tiny little hall and I’ve been known to do an entire house in a couple weeks, I returned to Home Depot intent on coming home with a solution to my dilemma when I found a beautiful tile medallion.  Yes!  This will become the centerpiece of the hall I decide.  I then imagine that I shall get a new light fixture to go above the medallion to mimic it’s shape, and maybe some new artwork or a mirror on the wall, or should I do some wall sconces, and what about new paint or wallpaper?

Describing these decorating dilemmas to my sister later on the phone that night, I find myself slightly embarrassed to be obsessing over such a small project in an insignificant hall leading to the laundry room and I make fun of myself by telling her I don’t know why I’m going to so much effort, since it’s not the Taj Mahal!

And then I realize yes it is.  It’s my Tajma Hall.

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College as an undecided major, life as a wandering soul

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“When you have to make a choice and you don’t make it, that is in itself a choice “~William James

Today I practiced singing like Susan Boyle.  I don’t mean somewhat like her, I mean exactly like her.  I replayed her CD over and over trying to duplicate every oh and ah and wild horses.  At the end of my personal recording session between my house and the grocery store, the closest I came to sounding like Susan was when she was pausing between notes.  In that silence, we were twins.  Bonded.   It was awesome.

I haven’t always wanted to be a professional recording artist.  My original career choice was to be an ice skater, but I was limited by my lack of skill, inability to lift myself off the ground into a jump and the fact that I got dizzy when I was spinning.  Other than that I was golden.

I then moved on to my new dream of being a beautician or stewardess.  This was way before hair stylists or flight attendants even existed, and while we’re on the subject, why did we need to change the name of every job anyway?  I mean fireman sounds so much hotter than fire fighter.  Unfortunately, both these jobs got a giant thumbs down from the tall people in my life and I was made to feel that I was destined for something greater.  I actually think I would have been pretty happy doing either one.   What could be greater than hair and air?

Continuing on my journey to figure out what to be when I grew up, I found myself very fascinated by home décor and my interest, verging on passion continues to this day.  Over the years I’ve been repeatedly asked why I didn’t seriously pursue this as a career and my answer is always the same.   I like one style — mine, which is a cross between French county, thrift shop, and quiet clutter.  I only call the clutter quiet because it can’t talk, thank goodness.  Because I can’t really see the beauty in other styles, I have no desire to decorate for someone who doesn’t want exactly the same thing as me, and if I actually ever met a person who did, she would probably drive me crazy as a foil to myself.  So my career as a decorator got thrown out of the window with last season’s throw pillows.

It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t have figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up by the time I entered college.  Checking undecided as my major felt so wrong.  But fast forward 30 years, it’s pretty stunning that I’d still be mulling this over now.  However, after working full time for three decades, I finally have an answer, I am happy to report that I now know exactly what I want to be when I grow up.

Retired.

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How big is big?

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“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Robert Brault

Some things are big. Like the feeling you get when your brother calls and your Dad is in a life threatening situation. Big. When you have to make a split second decision to indefinitely cancel all plans and hop on the next flight to be with your parents. Again, big. Wishing the plane could fly faster to its destination 3,000 miles away, and hoping to arrive on time. You know this is big. But nothing could possibly be bigger than the sense of relief felt when we found out our Dad was out of the woods and would be able to resume a normal life.

You know, life, that thing that I take so for granted and gripe about regularly. Sometimes I feel like such a schmoe. Sigh.

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