Lunchtime on a Tuesday, about a month and a half ago:
It was warm in the Lena Martin Room, so we left the door propped open in order to catch a breeze from the opening and closing of the front doors in the vestibule. A group comprised of Southern Baptists, Jews and Episcopalians were heatedly discussing a book about the holocaust. How could a holocaust happen…how can genocide still be going on today…how can people kill and be killed in such numbers without someone doing something to stop it?
One of my arguments was that (always with exception, of course) the aggressor oftentimes has the advantage of planning and surprise, whereas the victim behaves with disbelief and shock. There was agreement among the group. One individual made an example of the three planes of 9/11. Planes number one and two went to their targets as planned by the hijackers, filled with individuals who were probably thinking that theirs was a typical hijacking situation where, if they did what they were told to do, they would end up terribly late for their board meetings and vacations, but inconvenienced and alive. Plane three was filled with individuals who, via cell phone had already learned that theirs was not a typical hijacking situation, that two other planes had already proved the situation to be dire, and who, as an informed group, planned to fight back.
One individual queried, “But why wasn’t there a hero at Columbine…why did those big kids, those football players not take the shooters down?” Putting all reasons why the shooters did what they did aside, and trying to put the fact that I worked with some Columbine students when I worked with high-risk teens at the horticulture school in Golden, CO, I pointed out that although Klebold and Harris were individuals of slight stature, they were so well armed, and had so carefully planned their massacre, they had the advantage of planning and extreme surprise on their sides. At the time of the attack (1999), there had only been two other sensational cases of school shootings, but they had occurred so many years before, and pre modern media, few people were aware that they had happened. Schools did not regularly practice evacuations or lock-downs (they certainly do now). You just didn’t worry about something like that, because something like that couldn’t happen in your school (cue naiveté). For good and bad, what happened that spring day in 1999 prompted schools across the world to be aware of all behavior that could seem suspicious…and it still hasn’t stopped people (young and old, civilian and military) from orchestrating mass shootings at schools, malls, small town civic buildings, and Eastern countries…
As I sat there saying those words to my book talk mates, I heard a walkie-talkie go off in the vestibule of the library. My listeners leaned in towards me, and I continued. “For all we know, that walkie-talkie could belong to a person who has just walked into this library with the intent to set off a bomb that will drive people out of the front doors and into the crosshairs of a shooter who is waiting outside. They may have been radioing that shooter outside just now to give them the signal that it was time to get started…”
Just at that moment, a deafening siren went off and I almost crapped my pants (as I think everyone else must have almost done at that moment). Clutching my heart, I gasped for air and slid back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment to watch the little-publicized security camera footage from the interior of Columbine High School, dated April 20, 1999…
The siren was the monthly severe weather check that I always forget about. I could not have paid for a better set of events to occur while telling a cautionary tale such as I was telling that afternoon, and I sit here typing this while being revisited by the memory of wanting to crap my pants…
As a somewhat related sidebar:
After the Columbine incident, the Jeffco school district put in place some very strict lockdown codes for their schools. At Warren Tech (the Jeffco technical school where I worked when I lived in Denver), our lockdown procedure required all faculty and students to go to a specific building located in the middle of campus. Now, the greenhouses where I worked were located at the very outskirts of campus, near the foothill trails that led up into the Rocky Mountains. When the lockdown signals were given, we were to gather our students together, and as a group trek all the way across half of campus to get to the building where we were supposed to meet. Well, this wasn’t very smart in our eyes. The horticulture teachers all had an agreement that no other teachers (administration included) knew about. We agreed that we would go through the lockdown motions for drills, but that we would head to the foothills should a real emergency occur. You see, we all understood that if we ever had a shooter on campus, we’d be easy prey for them, especially considering the geography of the path that we would have to take in order to get to our destination. We stood a much better chance of survival on the trails that we knew so well from our flora hikes, and could get into the foothills really quickly if needed be. We never discussed this with anyone, it was just understood…
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Do you remember that one time when...
What do you do when, right as you pull onto 4th Street (between Taco Bell & Chick-Fil-A), one of the two unbelievably heavy industrial shelving racks that are tied into the back of your borrowed pickup truck breaks free from its tethers, rolls straight off the back of the truck, lands upright on its wheels and begins rolling down the street in the opposite direction in which you were going? You grip the wheel maniacally while stopping the truck, yell, “We’ve lost one and it’s rolling down the street!” and watch as Kansas Slim leaps from the passenger side of the vehicle to sprint after the careening cartzilla. Hazard lights get turned on. Slim strong arms the unscathed and unwieldy rack to the grass at the side of the road. Cop cars sit all over the parking lot of the Chick, but no one notices what has just happened in the middle of the street. We decide to let the rack sit where it is until we safely deliver the other rack to Slim’s place (the odds of anyone stealing it off the side of the road are probably nil…these things weigh a ton, and not everyone in Gadrock is into the industrial look). We worry that the remaining rack will fall out too, so we lay the rack over. I hop in back with it and ride like a thirteen-year-old headed to the river on a summer day. Except I’m not thirteen, and it’s not summer. When we go back for the escapee, it is still sitting on the side of the road where we left it. I think it may be sneering at us as we pull up. We manage to get it back up into the bed of the truck, and I distract it with stories of the nice place in the country where it’s going to live while Slim Eagle-scout secures it. I ride in the back again, this time to RBC. I want to call my sister to tell her what I’m doing at that particular moment, but she would probably alert the po-lice and then we’d have a heck of an escort just for shits and grins. Instead, I just keep my head down and my hands on the rack. No one seems to notice the red truck cruising down Rainbow Drive with a redhead hanging on to an industrial shelving rack in the back. Nope, folks ‘round here don’t think that’s unusual at all.
I can’t tell you how relieved we were to finally get that last rack safely stored away. Once we were back on the road (heading again to the mall for the more manageable remainder of the load), every time I took a turn or hit a bump, Slim and I would catch ourselves cringing and looking back at the bed of the truck to make sure nothing was falling out. We would then repeat three times, “There’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there.” Slim and I agree that we can’t wait until enough time has passed and we have an opportunity to ask each other, “Do you remember that one time when…”
I can’t tell you how relieved we were to finally get that last rack safely stored away. Once we were back on the road (heading again to the mall for the more manageable remainder of the load), every time I took a turn or hit a bump, Slim and I would catch ourselves cringing and looking back at the bed of the truck to make sure nothing was falling out. We would then repeat three times, “There’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there.” Slim and I agree that we can’t wait until enough time has passed and we have an opportunity to ask each other, “Do you remember that one time when…”
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Catching a bad case of glitter from Serge Gainsbourg.
Alex (to me): I can spell Baby Beethoven.
Me (to Alex): Really? Will you spell it out loud for me?
Alex (to me): Yes. B-A-B-Y B-E-E-T-H-O-V-E-N.
Me (to Alex): Wow, you’re brilliant!
Vicki (proudly, to me): That’s what his teacher said about him last week when he wrote it out in class.
Alex (to no one in particular): I’m going to have to pass gas now.
Vicki (to me): Can you spell I-D-I-O-T S-A-V-A-N-T?
Me (to Vicki): E-X-A-C-T-L-Y.
Quote of the day, from Demetri Martin:
The thing about glitter is, if you get it on you, be prepared to have it on you forever. Because glitter doesn’t go away. Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.
Listening to: Serge Gainsbourg (I love his “come on” French talk-over style of singing).
Reading: Run by Ann Patchett.
Eating: Kababs with Kansas Slim tonight.
Me (to Alex): Really? Will you spell it out loud for me?
Alex (to me): Yes. B-A-B-Y B-E-E-T-H-O-V-E-N.
Me (to Alex): Wow, you’re brilliant!
Vicki (proudly, to me): That’s what his teacher said about him last week when he wrote it out in class.
Alex (to no one in particular): I’m going to have to pass gas now.
Vicki (to me): Can you spell I-D-I-O-T S-A-V-A-N-T?
Me (to Vicki): E-X-A-C-T-L-Y.
Quote of the day, from Demetri Martin:
The thing about glitter is, if you get it on you, be prepared to have it on you forever. Because glitter doesn’t go away. Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.
Listening to: Serge Gainsbourg (I love his “come on” French talk-over style of singing).
Reading: Run by Ann Patchett.
Eating: Kababs with Kansas Slim tonight.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
A Jar Full of Note Paper, 1975
Several months ago, while doing research for a friend, I came across this in the Gadsden Times from March 27, 1975.
The Headline: Suicide note asks authorities not to seek victim’s identity.
Belle Chasse, La. (AP)-He only gave himself 16 or 17 years to “develop into a real person.” Then he bade his parents farewell in a note laced with philosophy and hanged himself from a persimmon tree.
“When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago,” wrote the youth, whose body was found six weeks ago but who still has not been identified. His note was found beneath the tree where he hanged himself.
“I never did develop into a real person and I cannot tolerate the false and empty existence I have created,” he wrote in the note, addressed only to “Mom and Dad.”
He added this aside to authorities:
“You are bound to preserve domestic peace and order. If you pursue who I was (and spend hundreds of dollars) you will accomplish little. There are no legal consequences of my death or any kind of entanglements. All that can happen is that you will shatter the domestic peace and order of two innocent lives. Do not deprive them of the hope that their ‘missing’ son will return…Let me be, let it be as if I wasn’t ever here. Simply cremate me as John Doe.”
His body was found on Valentine’s Day by a couple driving through the woods. They noticed a white shape shimmering through the trees. They stopped to look and found the body hanging from a limb of a tree, a bedsheet tied around his neck.
He was wearing a maroon and yellow knit shirt, blue trousers and unmatched socks on his shoeless feet. A jar full of note paper lay against the tree trunk.
“It is best if I cease to live, quietly, than risk that later I will break and shatter by violence or linger years under care,” the boy told his parents in the note.
“I implore you to see a psychiatrist in order that you might understand my death and my life. Ask thoroughly about what I was and you will see that it is not tragic that I am gone but more natural than if I continued…”
The letter concludes, “I am no longer interested in the world and know that it is not interested in me. When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago.”
Plaquesmines Parish authorities have circulated “John Doe’s” description and fingerprints to police across the country. But the body still lies in a funeral home, unidentified and unclaimed.
As Valentine’s Day draws near, I can’t help but think of this young man, so wonderfully articulate, and so full of disappointment at how his life turned out, so set on making sure that no one was inconvenienced by his life, or his death. He sounds to me as if he had developed into a real person, just painfully incapable of recognizing it, painfully incapable of allowing others into his life to help. I wonder if they were ever able to determine who he was and if his parents ever found out what happened to him…
The Headline: Suicide note asks authorities not to seek victim’s identity.
Belle Chasse, La. (AP)-He only gave himself 16 or 17 years to “develop into a real person.” Then he bade his parents farewell in a note laced with philosophy and hanged himself from a persimmon tree.
“When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago,” wrote the youth, whose body was found six weeks ago but who still has not been identified. His note was found beneath the tree where he hanged himself.
“I never did develop into a real person and I cannot tolerate the false and empty existence I have created,” he wrote in the note, addressed only to “Mom and Dad.”
He added this aside to authorities:
“You are bound to preserve domestic peace and order. If you pursue who I was (and spend hundreds of dollars) you will accomplish little. There are no legal consequences of my death or any kind of entanglements. All that can happen is that you will shatter the domestic peace and order of two innocent lives. Do not deprive them of the hope that their ‘missing’ son will return…Let me be, let it be as if I wasn’t ever here. Simply cremate me as John Doe.”
His body was found on Valentine’s Day by a couple driving through the woods. They noticed a white shape shimmering through the trees. They stopped to look and found the body hanging from a limb of a tree, a bedsheet tied around his neck.
He was wearing a maroon and yellow knit shirt, blue trousers and unmatched socks on his shoeless feet. A jar full of note paper lay against the tree trunk.
“It is best if I cease to live, quietly, than risk that later I will break and shatter by violence or linger years under care,” the boy told his parents in the note.
“I implore you to see a psychiatrist in order that you might understand my death and my life. Ask thoroughly about what I was and you will see that it is not tragic that I am gone but more natural than if I continued…”
The letter concludes, “I am no longer interested in the world and know that it is not interested in me. When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago.”
Plaquesmines Parish authorities have circulated “John Doe’s” description and fingerprints to police across the country. But the body still lies in a funeral home, unidentified and unclaimed.
As Valentine’s Day draws near, I can’t help but think of this young man, so wonderfully articulate, and so full of disappointment at how his life turned out, so set on making sure that no one was inconvenienced by his life, or his death. He sounds to me as if he had developed into a real person, just painfully incapable of recognizing it, painfully incapable of allowing others into his life to help. I wonder if they were ever able to determine who he was and if his parents ever found out what happened to him…
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tea and Thorazine
The new Andrew Bird album Noble Beast is out, and it does not disappoint. To listen to the first track go here:
Noble Beast
I first started listening to Mr. Bird when I moved to Ithaca and there was a swing dance revival that busted out all over the place. He was playing with the Squirrel Nut Zippers then, and I totally dug his righteous fiddlin’ and sweet wistlin.’ Years later, he went solo with his own band, Bowl of Fire. Now he is just Andrew Bird. He is still righteous.
The following is an online quote that I remember reading about one of Mr. Bird’s more fascinating songs, Tea and Thorazine (on the album Oh, The Grandeur!):
Noble Beast
I first started listening to Mr. Bird when I moved to Ithaca and there was a swing dance revival that busted out all over the place. He was playing with the Squirrel Nut Zippers then, and I totally dug his righteous fiddlin’ and sweet wistlin.’ Years later, he went solo with his own band, Bowl of Fire. Now he is just Andrew Bird. He is still righteous.
The following is an online quote that I remember reading about one of Mr. Bird’s more fascinating songs, Tea and Thorazine (on the album Oh, The Grandeur!):
Tea and Thorazine sets the mood for the rest of the album which tends to stray from the vigor of "Candy Shop" and delve deeper into Andrew Bird's dark world of the mentally disturbed. The tune is slow, with eerie fiddle sounds to set the tone of a horrific mental institution. In the liner notes, the usually private Bird gives some insight into his inspiration- his brother is Autistic and spent some time in an institution where he got his art supplies taken away by some bad doctors.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Fried Chicken Livers
Edgemont house is not to be mine. Fannie Mae came down some, I went up some, then we both sort of dug in our heels. No regrets. Moving on. Am putting the house buying on hold for a couple of months so that I can recover from the initial shock of almost owning a house. Plus, class starts tomorrow evening and I need to concentrate on that right now.
Today officially starts day three of a week-long vegetarian experiment that I have embarked upon. This all started when Kansas Slim’s brother told him about giving up meat for two weeks. Slim decided to follow suit. This was announced on the same night that I arrived on Slim’s doorstep with two rib eye steaks (no, it was not the sight of the steaks that reminded him of his brother’s endeavors)…I didn’t do the best job cooking those steaks that night, probably because I was feeling so much carnivorous pressure from the thoughts of possibly showing friendly support of Slim by giving up meat myself. I mean really, why let a friend face that kind of pressure all by themselves? I am aware of how difficult it is to give up something that you enjoy. I have tried a couple of grand gestures of Lenton surrenderings, and have failed miserably. Like the one time, in Ithica, when I gave up armpit shaving because lots of the young women who lived there were carefree and happily harry-pitted. It looked natural and low-maintenance, so I gave it a go. Even now, eleven years later, I still wake at night, bathed in a cold sweat, having relived in my nightmares the horrors of that week and a half I went sans Daisy shaver…make no mistake, I shave my pits religiously now.
But we’re talking meat, not armpit shaving. See, I also tried giving up meat once. It was back in 2004, and I was working at the horticulture school in Golden, CO at the time, and I intended to give up meat for a whole month. After about two weeks, I ended up giving up the giving up of the meat because I was doing manual labor and had zero energy with which to pick ax and shovel, and I felt it was all due to my dietary change. I just couldn’t do it…
So, I decided that since I am not doing much manual labor these days, I might be able to swing a week of vegetarianism this time. Yesterday, Slim and I went through some cookbooks, and talked about the meatless dishes that we already enjoyed on a regular basis. Then we decided on a menu for the week, loaded up our cloth bags and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase what foods we would need in order to have an herbivore’s chance in hell. The following is the list of contenders, some of which we went ahead and made last night to store up in the fridge:
Broccoli Salad-pictured above.
Pita Salad-bagged salad w/ feta and Kraft Zesty Italian dressing.
Black Bean Tacos w/ Salsa
Falafel Burgers-tofu is the main ingredient.
Indian Curried Potato Wrap
Hummus
I have high hopes this time. I have yet to be hungry, and may actually be eating a bit more in order to offset the psychological stress of knowing that I am purposefully avoiding meat. I woke up craving fried chicken livers this morning though…they’ll have to wait until Friday…
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Wanted: A Place To Hang My Hat
So, with the world’s smallest homebuying budget (pre-approved for an amount that is within my terribly realistic and below-poverty-level, but with good credit, means), I began about three weeks ago looking in earnest to purchase a home. After having to shell out what seemed to be millions of dollars in rent in my past life, I felt that I should put my money to work for me by buying instead of renting. I came to this conclusion after having compared the average cost of a single-family home here in Gadsden to Denver. In Denver, a single-family home of approximately 1200 square feet starts at around $275,000. Here in Gadsden, AL, a single-family home of the same size can start at $85,000, or even less. Why would I pay rent if I could build equity?
My first intent was to find something old and bungalow-ish (my favorite type of home), in the downtown area, something near the Catoes, Johnson’s Food and the liberry. I had a bitterly disappointing start with the old Greenwood home on Newton and Turrentine. From the outside, the Greenwood home looks charming and well-built. Once inside, it becomes evident that it is a first-time homebuyer’s nightmare. Too much work, work that would include things like ripping up asbestos tile in the kitchen, taking out an entire house of old wallpaper, replacing the roof that has been leaking so much that the back bathroom’s floor has buckled (meaning some interesting structural damage), replacing what appears to be the very first prototype of a modern central A/C unit, painting the entire inside and out (work that I am not opposed to, as I enjoy painting, but the outside shingles were also made of asbestos), tearing down the barely-standing “garage” that is full of black mold…etc, etc, ad nauseum. My realtor, Judy Hamil of Bone Realty, was very forthcoming when she warned me that I would probably have a difficult time finding something in the downtown area to suit my needs; if I could afford it (did I mention that I have the world’s smallest homebuying budget but pretty high old-school standards?), it would need significant work, which translates to significant money…if I could afford it and it didn’t need work, it would probably not be in a safe area…how sad to hear those words uttered out loud. I had been afraid of that being the case, but hadn’t really wanted to hear that it was, in fact, true.
So, I begged Judy to not knock herself out scouring her listings for me, especially considering my budget, that I would do the research and make a list of homes that I was interested in seeing by myself. With the help of Kansas Slim, we found a couple of places in the downtown area, and one really intriguing foreclosure in Alabama City. Now, Alabama City is my second area choice for living in Gadsden. I love the history of that area and I love the old Mill Village construction of the homes. Looking at the listing of this particular house in Alabama City, I couldn’t determine where it was located. There was not an address, and I didn’t recognize the house (when I first moved back to Gadsden, I was determined to find something in The Village, as I loved the idea of living close to the rodeo grounds, the old Victorian mill supervisor’s homes and, most importantly, Big Lots…so I drove around that area a lot back then). I assumed that the house was in an area that I was not interested in living…you know…Deliverance country...up near Hinds Road (cue banjo music)? But, after putting his super-power reporting skills to work, Eric discovered the address to said home, and we went up to investigate…and am very glad that we did. After first being confused at the orientation of the home (the road runs along the back-side of the homes on that street because the old road ran on the other side of the ravine), we saw enough of the place to know that it was on the list of homes to see with Judy. As a matter of fact, it moved to the top of the list of homes to see with Judy.
Last week, Judy met me at the little craftsman bungalow in the Mill Village. Kansas Slim was there to witness. Sadly, and happily, the Village house ruined me for all other houses. Please see photos on Eric’s and my Flickr sites:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ericwright/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolroarkyork/
Judy showed me three more places within my price range in the downtown area after having shown me the Village bungalow, and I couldn’t help but compare them and notice that nothing was built as beautifully as the Village bungalow. I made the list of pros and cons…I had Eric, my dad and Kris go through it again with me to make sure that my eyes were seeing what I thought they were seeing…and I made an offer Friday evening. I am now waiting for word. There are lots of things that I’ve left out of this blog about the house, about my homebuying research, about my four mortgage pre-approvals (had to get the best fit for me), about deciding on which home inspector I would use in the event that my offer was eventually accepted, about my lists…lists of pros and cons, room-by-room prioritized lists of things that need to be done, frightening lists of financial things (earnest money, closing costs, pre-paids, on and on)…I wouldn’t want to bore you all. But I’m sure that if I get this house, it will all come out in the end, because I can’t talk about anything else. All I am capable of talking about right now is THE HOUSE. Which makes me impossible to be around. The Catoes have told me that it’s okay, that it’s normal, and that all of my friends have been through something like it before, and that everyone will understand (THEY-the Catoes-are especially understanding…right now the they are redoing their entire kitchen, this after less than a year of living at The Parsonage). My, oh my, but when it rains, it pours.
So, everyone please wish me luck, pray for me, light a candle for me, or do whatever it is you do. I know that it’s gonna be what it will be. It may be my time to own a house, it may not. We’ll see. I’m certainly getting an education in the meantime. I’ll keep you posted. And keep the Catoes in mind during the kitchen redo. I am looking forward to future parties in that new kitchen.
Reading: Amy Sedaris’ Hospitality Under the Influence (because she is my entertaining guru) and Harry Potter’s School Books by J.K. Rowling (a Christmas gift from the Robinsons).
Listening To: My own random thoughts about THE HOUSE.
My first intent was to find something old and bungalow-ish (my favorite type of home), in the downtown area, something near the Catoes, Johnson’s Food and the liberry. I had a bitterly disappointing start with the old Greenwood home on Newton and Turrentine. From the outside, the Greenwood home looks charming and well-built. Once inside, it becomes evident that it is a first-time homebuyer’s nightmare. Too much work, work that would include things like ripping up asbestos tile in the kitchen, taking out an entire house of old wallpaper, replacing the roof that has been leaking so much that the back bathroom’s floor has buckled (meaning some interesting structural damage), replacing what appears to be the very first prototype of a modern central A/C unit, painting the entire inside and out (work that I am not opposed to, as I enjoy painting, but the outside shingles were also made of asbestos), tearing down the barely-standing “garage” that is full of black mold…etc, etc, ad nauseum. My realtor, Judy Hamil of Bone Realty, was very forthcoming when she warned me that I would probably have a difficult time finding something in the downtown area to suit my needs; if I could afford it (did I mention that I have the world’s smallest homebuying budget but pretty high old-school standards?), it would need significant work, which translates to significant money…if I could afford it and it didn’t need work, it would probably not be in a safe area…how sad to hear those words uttered out loud. I had been afraid of that being the case, but hadn’t really wanted to hear that it was, in fact, true.
So, I begged Judy to not knock herself out scouring her listings for me, especially considering my budget, that I would do the research and make a list of homes that I was interested in seeing by myself. With the help of Kansas Slim, we found a couple of places in the downtown area, and one really intriguing foreclosure in Alabama City. Now, Alabama City is my second area choice for living in Gadsden. I love the history of that area and I love the old Mill Village construction of the homes. Looking at the listing of this particular house in Alabama City, I couldn’t determine where it was located. There was not an address, and I didn’t recognize the house (when I first moved back to Gadsden, I was determined to find something in The Village, as I loved the idea of living close to the rodeo grounds, the old Victorian mill supervisor’s homes and, most importantly, Big Lots…so I drove around that area a lot back then). I assumed that the house was in an area that I was not interested in living…you know…Deliverance country...up near Hinds Road (cue banjo music)? But, after putting his super-power reporting skills to work, Eric discovered the address to said home, and we went up to investigate…and am very glad that we did. After first being confused at the orientation of the home (the road runs along the back-side of the homes on that street because the old road ran on the other side of the ravine), we saw enough of the place to know that it was on the list of homes to see with Judy. As a matter of fact, it moved to the top of the list of homes to see with Judy.
Last week, Judy met me at the little craftsman bungalow in the Mill Village. Kansas Slim was there to witness. Sadly, and happily, the Village house ruined me for all other houses. Please see photos on Eric’s and my Flickr sites:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ericwright/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolroarkyork/
Judy showed me three more places within my price range in the downtown area after having shown me the Village bungalow, and I couldn’t help but compare them and notice that nothing was built as beautifully as the Village bungalow. I made the list of pros and cons…I had Eric, my dad and Kris go through it again with me to make sure that my eyes were seeing what I thought they were seeing…and I made an offer Friday evening. I am now waiting for word. There are lots of things that I’ve left out of this blog about the house, about my homebuying research, about my four mortgage pre-approvals (had to get the best fit for me), about deciding on which home inspector I would use in the event that my offer was eventually accepted, about my lists…lists of pros and cons, room-by-room prioritized lists of things that need to be done, frightening lists of financial things (earnest money, closing costs, pre-paids, on and on)…I wouldn’t want to bore you all. But I’m sure that if I get this house, it will all come out in the end, because I can’t talk about anything else. All I am capable of talking about right now is THE HOUSE. Which makes me impossible to be around. The Catoes have told me that it’s okay, that it’s normal, and that all of my friends have been through something like it before, and that everyone will understand (THEY-the Catoes-are especially understanding…right now the they are redoing their entire kitchen, this after less than a year of living at The Parsonage). My, oh my, but when it rains, it pours.
So, everyone please wish me luck, pray for me, light a candle for me, or do whatever it is you do. I know that it’s gonna be what it will be. It may be my time to own a house, it may not. We’ll see. I’m certainly getting an education in the meantime. I’ll keep you posted. And keep the Catoes in mind during the kitchen redo. I am looking forward to future parties in that new kitchen.
Reading: Amy Sedaris’ Hospitality Under the Influence (because she is my entertaining guru) and Harry Potter’s School Books by J.K. Rowling (a Christmas gift from the Robinsons).
Listening To: My own random thoughts about THE HOUSE.
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