TRIAL OF A NOVICE SELLER or I LOVE THAT MY TRACT HOUSE IS CONSIDERED REAL ESTATE

The last time I sold a house I told a prospective buyer she could not look in one of the bedrooms as there was a baby sleeping and thus sacrificed a chance to unload a property in the depressed market of 1983 Michigan. I wouldn’t do that again. Actually, I wouldn’t do any of this again. (Famous last words, right?) Keeping to the baby theme, it occurred to me that preparing a house (with 36 years of skin sloughings, dust, moldering books, furniture, ancient towels and thread-bare sheets) is akin to labor. It doesn’t hurt as much but it lasts longer and you have the same driving wish “I just want to get up and walk away from all this.” I’m sort of joking. The fact is, I’ve met an angel. Bill Moyers said once during an interview that he had been helped in his career by unseen hands. Well, these hands are seen and they are busy. This realtor – a gift from my daughter – is helming the whole, messy process, from getting in competent, efficient repairmen, painters, carpet-layers, etc., to buying new fixtures (updating), to gently suggesting disposal of ancient, rickety things (piano, inherited furniture, broken bookshelves) and then bringing and LOADING a pickup truck to take to GoodWill or the dump – many times, to pruning the bushes, to decorating my house with items I’d never think of in a million years – like a four-foot Buddha. Love that Buddha. I may ask to keep him. My agent (I’ll call her Franci Bissett) offers suggestions, solutions and sympathy whenever they are needed. It was not an easy decision to trade the comfort and familiarity of two generations, the concrete stylings of my children in the driveway, the memories of those family years and a hundred years of furniture passed down from New England to Ann Arbor and Virginia. It was (and is) very, very hard to leave the dearest friends in the world. But Franci and her crew have kept me on track to move forward. And life, apparently, is all about change. Just ask the Buddha.

RE-LOCATE? IT'S EASY THEY SAID

I didn’t have much to do last weekend so I bought a house. Eventually, I mentioned it to my husband. “This online shopping has gotten out of hand,” he complained. “First it was just vitamins and batteries then it mushroomed into shorts and sheets and gnomes (don’t ask) and now you’ve bought a house? Where will it end?” With the house, probably, seeing as I failed to allow for the fact that the funds for it, coming out of an IRA account, will cost us half again in taxes. And because this means that not only do I have to de-clutter/repair/clean the house we’ve lived in for thirty-six years, we now have to move. Yikes. My mandate, dictated by age, infirmity and a desire to hang out with some of my grandchildren, was to find a ranch-style house in a neighborhood near one of my adult children. The closest potential neighborhood was five-and-a-half hours by car (long-distance move, i.e. leaving behind dear friends) and the house in question turns out to have a steep staircase from the lower-level garage to the first and only floor of the house. Oh, yeah. There’s a steep stairway to the basement, too, and another to the front door. Because of it’s yellow siding and red shutters, I have named it the Overripe Banana. Banana for short. “Why did you buy a house with stairs?” The not unnatural question came from my mother, who is ninety-eight. “Because Emily liked it.” “Why did you buy that house?” This question came from son number one, Adam. “Because Emily liked it and I liked it.” “Why did you buy any house online?” This from son number two, Ben. “Because Emily liked it and I just needed to land the plane on some aspect of my chaotic life.” He seemed to understand. “You are gonna love this house,” said Emily, my daughter, who intends to purchase a house a mile away from the Banana. “I knew it the moment I walked in.” She’d called me on Facetime to show me how much I would love this house that I’ve never seen in a town where I’ve never been. “It’s got a great kitchen and a sun porch. And it’s small. You won’t have to bring the ironing board.” I admitted those were selling points. I failed to ask whether it had a bathtub. Or even bathrooms. Or (gasp) air conditioning. “And it’s got a big basement,” daughter continued. “Plenty of room for your books.” For the record, I have never lived in a house with a basement and I usually associate that part of the house with The Tell Tale Heart. I always think there will be a body in the wall. Part of the explanation is my natural competitiveness. This is a quality that has seldom served me well. Hours after I’d facetimed the Banana, someone else made an offer on it. It was a good offer, too, and if I wanted it, I had to act fast. And generously. My excellent realtor (she really is) and I decided we’d have to go well beyond the asking price to have any chance of winning. Naturally, I gave her carte blanche. I like to win. Twenty-four hours later I found I was the owner presumptive of the Banana. Would my furniture fit into the small rooms? Would my books? Would I, as an alum and third generation fan of the University of Michigan be happy in Buckeye country? Could I survive in this cute neighborhood with its ratio of 2 to 1 Republicans? What about the patched Midwest roads? What about the drinking water that comes from Lake Erie? What about my local newspaper? What about my lifelong friends??? Belatedly I asked Emily, the only blood relative who has actually seen the house, other questions. “Is there a sidewalk? You know I like a sidewalk. You know, for my bigwheel.” “No sidewalk,” she reported. “But there isn’t much traffic. You should be able to play in the street.” “What about a dog fence?” “Er, no. But you can put an invisible fence in the backyard.” I caught a quick mental image of Toby’s fat little body leaping into the air from an electrical shock each time he sauntered outside. “It’s a great school district, mom. And the library’s across the street.” I thought about the hundreds, probably thousands of dollars I’d spent buying books from Amazon during the last ten years. Maybe the house would pay for itself. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t happen before my 60-day grace period ran out and I had to pay those pesky IRA taxes. `