Merry-Merry, Quite Contrary, Where Have You Been?

Gosh, is it spring yet!?! It doesn't exactly feel like it around here. (I think I'm obsessing on this topic - Spring.) It's been colder than average during the months of April and May. One good thing, it has stopped snowing. Everything's green out there. I still haven't planted any annuals, but have been working on the flower beds. Have even been doing some painting.

I guess I've been preoccupied with the house as it's on the market right now, and thing's aren't going so well in that department. Could be crazy that we decided to try and sell, with all the real estate problems happening across the country, but we are. And it's not that we don't "love" our house, it's just that we're finally ready for a change. I've been ready for a change for the past five years or so. (That's code for I'm sick and tired of trying to clean and maintain this rat trap.) If you detect a sneer in my writing, you guessed right. I've been so busy "doing" that I haven't had time for much else, including blogging.

I was thinking about my blog yesterday, saying, "Man, I really have to get back on top of it. Write some quirky, funny posts." The truth is that I haven't been feeling very quirky or funny lately. I blame my house for my lack of animo.

We put it on the market in March, and I've been cleaning, decluttering and painting ever since. Like, I wonder, does it ever end? Seems like the more I clean, declutter and paint that the worse it gets. How much junk and disorder can one family have? (That's a cry for help disguised as a question.) And we haven't even touched the garage. We've replaced two windows, too. And have been hacking, chopping and weeding in the yard. Thrown away loads... Given away tons... And it never ends!

Over the past two months, we've had two official showings. Just two! What's up with that? I ask. The Realtors are convinced that our price is too high. Perhaps it is, I'm not sure. One thing for sure is that all the fliers in the box out front have been flying away (pun intended). That must count for something. Last Sunday we had an open house, so the week prior was the week from hell. We worked our butts off. I can say that I worked double time, as I'm here at home all day and would fill my day with a mental check list and then work on gettin' er done. Consequently, every night I was passing out on the sofa between eight and nine from exhaustion. Last weekend was no different, I was truly drained.

When Sunday came, we were ready though. Of course, there were last minute things, like all my painting tools and drop cloths getting shoved in the dishwasher. That was a classic move if I do say. The thought of someone checking out the dishwasher and the look on their face when they did so had us in stitches. "What kind of people are they, washing tools?" Oh well, let them look. Much to our chagrin only three families came through during the open house, with the second family being the Previous Homeowners.

For whatever unknown, sick-twisted (perhaps pre-planned, perhaps not) reason they decided to take a tour down memory lane of their old home. Basically it sounds like they monopolized the time of my realtor, leading the realtor to miss conversing with the potential "real" buyer who slipped in and out as this transpired, as they shared all their happy-happy joy-joy stories of the happy-happy joy-joy days when they lived in their happy-happy joy-joy home. But the creme de la creme of their rapturous reunion was when they spied the old painting in the basement.

Let me give you some back story. When we bought the house The Painting was hanging on a wall in the basement. It is a simple painting, a borderline primitive/realistic (albeit two-dimensional) still life. It has its grace, though, and being a former fine artist I liked it from the first. Anyway, it's been hanging on the same nail on the same wall in the basement for the past twelve years. The important part of this equation is that because The Painting was left in the house and because twelve years have elapsed, The Painting now belongs to me. (Possession, my dears, is nine-tenths of the law, as my Dear Old Dad always used to tell me.)

Well, to make this long story longer, PHO comes upstairs, painting in hand, surprising the realtor, to exclaim, "I finally found the long-lost painting that my dear dead relative painted for me years and years ago that I thought I had lost during the move!" What's my realtor to do? I bet they felt between a rock and a hard place to say the least. PHO plunks the painting down on the counter and leaves a note, explaining all this and requesting to have The Painting back again.

WHAT?!? When I heard this from the realtor at the end of the open house - It got my dander up to no end. Who does this person think they are coming into my home and touching my things like that? There's so many holes in this whole thing. Number one, if the painting was so precious WHY WOULD YOU FORGET IT IN THE FIRST PLACE? Number two, If you noticed that the painting was missing WHY WOULDN'T YOU RETURN TO YOUR PREVIOUS HOME, KNOCK ON THE DOOR AND ASK FOR IT BACK RIGHT AWAY? Jeez, I'm not a complete hard ass. If PHO were to have contacted me within a couple of days or the first week, heck even the first month, after moving I would have gladly given them the painting, but TWELVE YEARS LATER! Give me a break! The Painting was obviously not so precious to them after all now was it. (I think I'm foaming at the mouth after this rant, better end it.)

Needless to say, the open house was a complete flop. All that hard work for nothing - We were expecting more people and a potential offer. We were hopeful. With hopes dashed (nearly to pieces) we're wondering what's the next move... We haven't decided yet, but I assume we will keep on and drop our price and see what comes next.

So, that's where Merry's been for the past two months, contrarily lost in the house from hades, contrarily plugging along, contrarily getting things done, and just as contrarily contrary as usual. Whew!

The Wheatlake House

The other day I decided to read my saved emails and I came across this one, written to my mother by my Big Brother Jim as a response to her telling us siblings that our childhood home was scheduled to be torn down. Of course, unless you had lived there you wouldn't know what he was talking about, but there are some memories that anyone who came from a big family or lived in a big farm house can relate to and I thought it would be nice to share it here...enjoy!

"June 21, 2004

Mom,

Despite the condition of the place, my memories came flooding back when we walked into the place. I remember the warmth of the place, even in the cold of winter, when we came in the back door and the smell of supper cooking on the stove. How we waited for Dad to come home so we could tell him what we had done that day and to be together for dinner. I do so miss having dinner anymore, as we are in such a rush in this day and age. I remember Sammy dog licking Dad's smelly rotten feet in the front room and the nights we sat and watched TV and ate ice cream together. The time the guy shot the house from across the room. Coming over the hill from the east and seeing the Walsh Hilton lit up like a Jew church. Cutting hay and milking cows. Building the barn and swimming in the back pond. Eating apples with the cows in the back pasture and all those many trips out exploring the neighborhood. Drinking coffee and seeing deer run across the field to the west, with everyone jumping up and running out the back door to catch a glimpse of what they were. George Geib and Georgie Barns coming over. Hiding from Frank Barnes and his family till they went away. Plowing snow for hours just to get enough room for Dad to get in the driveway. Taking care of that worthless Taffy horse for Frank B. Fighting with my brothers and sisters, goofing around in bed at night till Dad threatened us with immediate death and dismemberment if we didn't shut up and go to sleep. Ted Geib falling off of the picnic table in the garage after drinking too much brandy after snowmobiling. The memories go on and on. What are treasures for us, are nothing for others that can't remember or just plain don't care about the past.

Till I die, I will remember.

Someday, I will write these things down so my kids and grandkids can remember too.

Take care,
Love, Jim"