And on the seventh weekend, we rested.
But still, whipping the house into shape so we could put it
on the market was a personal test of sorts, stretching back far beyond six
weekends.
Not only of spirit. “If I have to replace one more doorknob, I’m gonna puke,” I grumbled to Cindy.
But a physical test as well. I’m still doing physical therapy – the result of a hamstring I pulled yanking up sub-floor. And both Cindy and I no longer jump from our chairs but instead ease … ourselves … up, accompanied by all sorts of disquieting effects: slight moans, winces, bone pops and the occasional “ah, my back!”
If we were doors, we’d be the squeakers needing WD-40.
And if it’s been a test, it appears we’ve passed. For this morning, I’m sitting on the back patio. The dogs are wrestling in the spring thatch. The birds are raucous, the wind is blowing softly, the buds of both bush and tree are peeking out.
And I’m writing, because I now have the time.
You see, last Monday we allowed our realtor to bring in
three couples who wanted a sneak peek at the place. The house wasn’t officially going on the market until two
weeks later, April 15th.
We thought, “Okay, what’s the harm?” So that prior weekend, we redoubled our efforts to get the house ready.
The first couple stopped in that morning. We had an offer by Monday night … full price.
So assuming the inspections, appraisals and other mysteries of house closings all pass muster, our work is done.
It’s a bittersweet moment, of course. In fact, I was a bit grumpy that Monday evening.
“We priced it too low,” I complained to Cindy.
Imagine my feeling: In whipping this house into shape, we’d been like Burgess Meredith, the crusty Coach Mickey Goldmill, to Stallone’s Rocky.
Tearing down wallpaper, tugging out bathtubs, pulling up
floor, putting down tile, slapping paint here, there … everywhere.
“You’re gonna eat lightin’ and you’re gonna crap thunder!” Mickey roared at Rocky.
Yeah, house ... listen to Mick! That’s you, babe. We’re gonna get you in shape for the big debut. April 15th. It’s tough out there. So we need ya fit, trim. We’re gonna make you strong, sleek, modern. We’re gonna turn you into a … well … a friggin' prize!
And then came Monday. And the offer. And after all that effort, all that struggle, it was done. Over.
It was like Rocky running up those stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art … you know, where he raises his fists in fitness triumph at the top, just ahead of the big fight. But this time some wise guy stops him halfway up.
“Yo, Rock! … never mind. It’s cool. You can stop. No need to fight. You’ve already won. Creed threw in the towel way early. It’s over. So go back to Adrian. You, her, get youse some cheese steaks. Get a life, buddy.”
Yeah, house. Never mind. You’re sold. It’s done. We’re done.
Cindy, my kids and my friends can’t seem to understand my deflation. I’m not sure I do, either.
I think at its heart it’s because almost every free moment of ours has been devoted to the effort since November at least. It was frenetic. And in a flash it was over.
Or maybe it’s just the realization that we’ll be leaving a good friend. Yeah, probably that.
The good news is my sails are beginning to fill again. The future is ahead, not behind. And the speed of the journey seems to be quickening.
We promised the new owners a few other improvements before we hand them the keys. Stain the deck, fix some basement ceiling tile … that kind of thing. Nothing major.
But this weekend? Nah, we’re resting.
Yo, house! It’s cool. You can stop. Get ya some zzzs. You’ve done your job.
Yeah ... for 15 good years, you’ve done your job.
Not that the effort has been of biblical proportions. Poor Job, for one, clearly had a
rougher time of it.
Not only of spirit. “If I have to replace one more doorknob, I’m gonna puke,” I grumbled to Cindy.
But a physical test as well. I’m still doing physical therapy – the result of a hamstring I pulled yanking up sub-floor. And both Cindy and I no longer jump from our chairs but instead ease … ourselves … up, accompanied by all sorts of disquieting effects: slight moans, winces, bone pops and the occasional “ah, my back!”
If we were doors, we’d be the squeakers needing WD-40.
And if it’s been a test, it appears we’ve passed. For this morning, I’m sitting on the back patio. The dogs are wrestling in the spring thatch. The birds are raucous, the wind is blowing softly, the buds of both bush and tree are peeking out.
And I’m writing, because I now have the time.
We thought, “Okay, what’s the harm?” So that prior weekend, we redoubled our efforts to get the house ready.
The first couple stopped in that morning. We had an offer by Monday night … full price.
So assuming the inspections, appraisals and other mysteries of house closings all pass muster, our work is done.
It’s a bittersweet moment, of course. In fact, I was a bit grumpy that Monday evening.
“We priced it too low,” I complained to Cindy.
Imagine my feeling: In whipping this house into shape, we’d been like Burgess Meredith, the crusty Coach Mickey Goldmill, to Stallone’s Rocky.
“You’re gonna eat lightin’ and you’re gonna crap thunder!” Mickey roared at Rocky.
Yeah, house ... listen to Mick! That’s you, babe. We’re gonna get you in shape for the big debut. April 15th. It’s tough out there. So we need ya fit, trim. We’re gonna make you strong, sleek, modern. We’re gonna turn you into a … well … a friggin' prize!
And then came Monday. And the offer. And after all that effort, all that struggle, it was done. Over.
It was like Rocky running up those stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art … you know, where he raises his fists in fitness triumph at the top, just ahead of the big fight. But this time some wise guy stops him halfway up.
“Yo, Rock! … never mind. It’s cool. You can stop. No need to fight. You’ve already won. Creed threw in the towel way early. It’s over. So go back to Adrian. You, her, get youse some cheese steaks. Get a life, buddy.”
Yeah, house. Never mind. You’re sold. It’s done. We’re done.
Cindy, my kids and my friends can’t seem to understand my deflation. I’m not sure I do, either.
I think at its heart it’s because almost every free moment of ours has been devoted to the effort since November at least. It was frenetic. And in a flash it was over.
Or maybe it’s just the realization that we’ll be leaving a good friend. Yeah, probably that.
The good news is my sails are beginning to fill again. The future is ahead, not behind. And the speed of the journey seems to be quickening.
We promised the new owners a few other improvements before we hand them the keys. Stain the deck, fix some basement ceiling tile … that kind of thing. Nothing major.
But this weekend? Nah, we’re resting.
Yo, house! It’s cool. You can stop. Get ya some zzzs. You’ve done your job.
Yeah ... for 15 good years, you’ve done your job.
 |
| Rest easy, friend. |
