Lovely, isn't it? There's snow on those peaks now, which makes it lovelier---and the grass is somewhat green, although we haven't had much rain in the last month and a half. After sitting with his morning cup of coffee and this view, my husband wants to drag a kayak down from the house to the river for an hour or two of paddling.
No, I'm not going to show you a picture of the house. You might be less enamored with it that we are, which would be a very bad because you're third on my list to hit for a loan. No, it's not overpriced. Not necessarily. Look at that view! Yes, my husband has his life jacket on...
The house is a mid-century ranch. Oh, don't yawn. It's clad in heavy cedar board and batten, with atypical little nods to the Craftsman style. A change of windows could make its front facade timeless.
What do you mean you can't hear me for the echo in here? Space is luxury. It's only two bedrooms and two baths. And a living room---and a family room and a breakfast nook and a laundry room that's big enough for my husband to sew in. Or he might use the dressing room for a sewing room.
You want to rent out the living room?
Oh, yeah---we haven't made it inside yet. It's a little messy, you see. Hoarders. But it's cool because they're gay hoarders. Look at that print out page taped to the sidelight next to the front door:
THIS IS A
NO HATE
ZONE
Way out here in the sticks---amazing! Here's some boxes full of The Advocate out here on the patio. A little damp. I don't think the recyclers care.
"There's probably a bunch of porno inside," says my husband.
If you knew my husband, you'd know what that would sound like. His Way Down East accent does the most amazing things with Rs. He makes it sound like the participants haven't washed for a week or something.
A look through the windows reveal that there's just a lot of dust inside---and dust buffaloes and more magazines. Computer gaming magazines, mostly. Not much furniture. Here's an invitation to a Naughty Santa Party. There's so much to learn about this community! Look at that photo on the shelf. The old mom and pop, taken about thirty years ago. He must have inherited this place.
Bottomless well water! My climbing roses will smother the place in a year or two.
"That roof," my husband begins.
"There's no stains on the ceiling," I counter. "Those asphalt shingles have just melted into themselves, not curled up."
I smile and shrug: "The best things in life are free."
Well, here we are again, and this joint is jumpin'. An offer has been accepted, contingent on a loan approval, which is unlikely because the house is under a reverse mortgage, which is Financialese for Freakin' Impossible Situation. The older woman must be the neighbor, and judging by her jovial attitude she's the kind you want. There's the inspector and the potential buyer's contractor, and that man hovering in the background might well be the potential buyer, so I'll ignore him.
Hello, Mr. Realtor---you look just like my friend's gay older brother, right down to the triple strength eyelashes and delectable little ears. Except you're as tall as me in my boot heels, which means I have to look you in the eye more than I'm comfortable with. Of course you like my husband; everyone likes the little man with the big mustache.
"First," the Realtor grins, "everyone who comes here must take something away!"
I think he's joking, but we'll see.
Walking through the house is like walking on a rocky shore. We're ever in danger of twisting an ankle, but at least we wont be squirted by a sea urchin. Or something else. I hope.
The living room is huge. I was thinking of making it the dining room, but it'll have to be the dining room and an office/library. Four foot tall library cabinets can go on either side of the fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself opens to the family room but is not of the two way type so typical of the era. Library cabinets on the opposite wall, too. Desk. The wing back chair here. Side table. Dining table and chairs.
The kitchen is rather sleek, and except for the clutter, is surprisingly clean.
"Don't open this", the Realtor says, patting a mumbling chest freezer in the breakfast nook. "I made that mistake the first time I came here. Phew!"
I habitually sniff the air. Strangely, the house has no real odor at all. My action causes me to look upward, and my husband's eyes follow mine.
"Look at that ugly acoustical tile someone added," he says.
It isn't so much ugly as just 1959. I've seen worse, anyway.
"No, it's original," I say. "They were all into hushing household noise in the '50s. Luckily they didn't use it all over the house, or spray popcorn everywhere."
"Gee," the Realtor says, "I should take you around with me when I show houses---you could teach my clients so much."
"Hmm," I say slowly. I'm already thinking of ways to make it happen. "That could be fun."
My eyes travel out over the family room ceiling with it's slightly swirled surface. That's beautiful hand finishing---and not a crack or spot to be seen. We won't even have to paint it.
We walk out a side door into the carport. Immediately to our left is a door into an odd room---like an outside pantry, lined with mostly empty shelves. I look up and see an ivory V shaped vase.
"A Victory vase," I say, taking it off the shelf. "From World War II."
"Really?" asks the Realtor.
I shrug. "Most likely."
The vase reads Artistic California USA on the bottom, and while the Realtor is momentarily distracted by that other man, I mutter to my husband: "Do you think he was serious about taking something away?" I push the vase into his hands, which means he's to use his unconscious charms to get our way.
I pretend to be interested elsewhere as the Realtor's attention returns to us.
"Um, sure," I hear him laugh, but the vase is still in his hands, and he puts it aside.
My husband's attention turns to the sunny workroom-wellhouse across the carport. The pump is running and we can hear the sweet sound of copious water rushing---off to somewhere.
"Girard tells me you designed his house," the Realtor chats.
"Yes," I reply---realizing he had changed the ownership from we to he, perhaps because he thought he misheard my husband, or because he wanted to hear we from me as well. "There was a well-built garage and workspace already on the property---20x30---so I just designed a flat in the Monterey style to go on top of it. It's like living in a tree house."
"That sounds very nice." His tone is a bit opaque. Out of habit, I really didn't give him the clarification he was seeking. "My father is a contractor," he offers.
I smile and nod, and then turn to reenter the house and go down the hall. The bedrooms are rather small considering the scale of the house. The inspector is in the master bedroom, and this is where I encounter the porn my husband had intuited the day before. It's in the form of DVDs scattered over the floor, peeking out among the detritus. Twinkies. Most uninteresting. We both pointedly ignore their existence.
Crack!
The inspector and I both look down to our feet. His left foot is a scant six inches away from Davey Does Dallas. He pushes a bed sheet aside over Davey, revealing a broken commemorative plate still in its open faced packaging.
"We'll just take that out of your paycheck," I smile.
He chuckles, but his proximity to porn embarrasses him. "We're looking for the hatch into the attic," he says. Good change of subject. "We can't find it anywhere."
So I join in on the search. We look everywhere except in the rat's nest under the hall bathroom vanity. No hatch. The inspector and contractor go outside and take a circular saw to the gable.
"Cedar siding!" yells the inspector.
"Doesn't matter," replies the contractor. "The wife wants stucco."
"Jesus."
"I know."
It's the latest of the indignities I've overheard. The house will be essentially gutted if they get it. I can't stand it anymore and go off looking for my husband---and in doing so I suddenly find myself uncomfortably close to that other man. I drop my eyes and note his cowboy boots.
"Hello," he says pleasantly enough.
"Hello," I reply, bowing slightly. I slip away.
My husband and I decide we're just loitering now, a wishin' and a hopin' and wasting the Realtor's time, although he doesn't seem to mind at all. He shakes our hands.
"It was nice meeting you both---and don't forget your vase." He slips it from behind his back into my husband's hands. "You'll be the first I call when I find out if their loan went through or not."
We thank him and start turning way. He makes the move shake my husband's hand again, but it's too late for him to be noticed. He drops his right hand and raises his left, letting it slide across my husband's back. My husband looks over his shoulder and smiles at him.
Hello, Mr. Realtor---you look just like my friend's gay older brother, right down to the triple strength eyelashes and delectable little ears. Except you're as tall as me in my boot heels, which means I have to look you in the eye more than I'm comfortable with. Of course you like my husband; everyone likes the little man with the big mustache.
"First," the Realtor grins, "everyone who comes here must take something away!"
I think he's joking, but we'll see.
Walking through the house is like walking on a rocky shore. We're ever in danger of twisting an ankle, but at least we wont be squirted by a sea urchin. Or something else. I hope.
The living room is huge. I was thinking of making it the dining room, but it'll have to be the dining room and an office/library. Four foot tall library cabinets can go on either side of the fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself opens to the family room but is not of the two way type so typical of the era. Library cabinets on the opposite wall, too. Desk. The wing back chair here. Side table. Dining table and chairs.
The kitchen is rather sleek, and except for the clutter, is surprisingly clean.
"Don't open this", the Realtor says, patting a mumbling chest freezer in the breakfast nook. "I made that mistake the first time I came here. Phew!"
I habitually sniff the air. Strangely, the house has no real odor at all. My action causes me to look upward, and my husband's eyes follow mine.
"Look at that ugly acoustical tile someone added," he says.
It isn't so much ugly as just 1959. I've seen worse, anyway.
"No, it's original," I say. "They were all into hushing household noise in the '50s. Luckily they didn't use it all over the house, or spray popcorn everywhere."
"Gee," the Realtor says, "I should take you around with me when I show houses---you could teach my clients so much."
"Hmm," I say slowly. I'm already thinking of ways to make it happen. "That could be fun."
My eyes travel out over the family room ceiling with it's slightly swirled surface. That's beautiful hand finishing---and not a crack or spot to be seen. We won't even have to paint it.
We walk out a side door into the carport. Immediately to our left is a door into an odd room---like an outside pantry, lined with mostly empty shelves. I look up and see an ivory V shaped vase.
"A Victory vase," I say, taking it off the shelf. "From World War II."
"Really?" asks the Realtor.
I shrug. "Most likely."
The vase reads Artistic California USA on the bottom, and while the Realtor is momentarily distracted by that other man, I mutter to my husband: "Do you think he was serious about taking something away?" I push the vase into his hands, which means he's to use his unconscious charms to get our way.
I pretend to be interested elsewhere as the Realtor's attention returns to us.
"Um, sure," I hear him laugh, but the vase is still in his hands, and he puts it aside.
My husband's attention turns to the sunny workroom-wellhouse across the carport. The pump is running and we can hear the sweet sound of copious water rushing---off to somewhere.
"Girard tells me you designed his house," the Realtor chats.
"Yes," I reply---realizing he had changed the ownership from we to he, perhaps because he thought he misheard my husband, or because he wanted to hear we from me as well. "There was a well-built garage and workspace already on the property---20x30---so I just designed a flat in the Monterey style to go on top of it. It's like living in a tree house."
"That sounds very nice." His tone is a bit opaque. Out of habit, I really didn't give him the clarification he was seeking. "My father is a contractor," he offers.
I smile and nod, and then turn to reenter the house and go down the hall. The bedrooms are rather small considering the scale of the house. The inspector is in the master bedroom, and this is where I encounter the porn my husband had intuited the day before. It's in the form of DVDs scattered over the floor, peeking out among the detritus. Twinkies. Most uninteresting. We both pointedly ignore their existence.
Crack!
The inspector and I both look down to our feet. His left foot is a scant six inches away from Davey Does Dallas. He pushes a bed sheet aside over Davey, revealing a broken commemorative plate still in its open faced packaging.
"We'll just take that out of your paycheck," I smile.
He chuckles, but his proximity to porn embarrasses him. "We're looking for the hatch into the attic," he says. Good change of subject. "We can't find it anywhere."
So I join in on the search. We look everywhere except in the rat's nest under the hall bathroom vanity. No hatch. The inspector and contractor go outside and take a circular saw to the gable.
"Cedar siding!" yells the inspector.
"Doesn't matter," replies the contractor. "The wife wants stucco."
"Jesus."
"I know."
It's the latest of the indignities I've overheard. The house will be essentially gutted if they get it. I can't stand it anymore and go off looking for my husband---and in doing so I suddenly find myself uncomfortably close to that other man. I drop my eyes and note his cowboy boots.
"Hello," he says pleasantly enough.
"Hello," I reply, bowing slightly. I slip away.
My husband and I decide we're just loitering now, a wishin' and a hopin' and wasting the Realtor's time, although he doesn't seem to mind at all. He shakes our hands.
"It was nice meeting you both---and don't forget your vase." He slips it from behind his back into my husband's hands. "You'll be the first I call when I find out if their loan went through or not."
We thank him and start turning way. He makes the move shake my husband's hand again, but it's too late for him to be noticed. He drops his right hand and raises his left, letting it slide across my husband's back. My husband looks over his shoulder and smiles at him.
As we drive away, I tell my husband about my encounter with the potential buyer.
"That's not the buyer. The Realtor introduced him to me as his business partner."
"Is that nine to five or twenty-four hour business?"
My husband rolls his eyes and then says: "Turn here. Let's go talk to the neighbor lady."
I find myself unusually vivacious. "Pardon the intrusion!" I call out when I see her from afar. Of course she doesn't care. In a minute we're like old friends.
"Oh, they were really nice guys. They would check on Mother every day before we moved in with her. But they told us don't give Mildred the idea that she can come over to our place---she'd hate to see the mess it's in now.
"After Glenn died, Jack moved into a trailer down on the bend. His daughters came to help him move some of his stuff, but they gave up pretty quickly. We're not taking anymore---it'll just make the situation bad again sooner than later. They left a trail of junk down the driveway. The bank paid for a service to pick it up, but they never finished with the house because the bank wouldn't pay them after the bill exceeded $2,500."
$2,500 worth of dumping was done---already? We figure there's a month worth of weekends to finish the job. Of course we'll be going at a slightly slower pace, pausing to note any interesting items. We can have a Former Owners wall.
I tell her that the wife of the potential buyer doesn't like the house much---wants to gut it---take out the big fireplace and make that one ginormous room.
"She thinks the place looks old." I lean in closer. "But you know what? In ten years so will she!"
The neighbor bursts out laughing. "Well, then." She presents us with her crossed fingers. "Here's hoping you two get it!"
Really??? Looking at a new house??? Sounds Verrrry In ter ess tinggg.
ReplyDeleteSorta really? Not purposely?
DeleteCertain people seem to enjoy the process of moving; others are driven to it by the noise of barking dogs or pesky roosters--or the lack of available water. And since looking at available homes is one of the great free American Pleasures, your take on this spacious property with possibilities is good fun, informative and, like the current Vatican, rift with mystery and surprises. Good luck with this crafty endeavor.
ReplyDelete