The day after I closed on the sale of my first house I swore I would never move again. I told everyone that I was going from my new house straight to the cemetery.
I bought my house on Poplar Street from The Taylor family. The Taylors had raised 6 kids there. And when their last child went off on his own it was time for them to move. The house was too big.
The Taylors were lovely people. Our purchase was completely amicable. We disagreed over nothing. Buying the Poplar street house was a smooth experience. Selling my first house was nowhere near as pleasant.
The couple that bought our first house made everything difficult. They were first time homeowners--and it showed. Everything was an issue. I spent hours and days going to the building department to get official documents that proved we used town water (not a well) and that the house was connected to a sewer (not a cesspool). And even though the building plans showed that the downstairs closets stood outside of the footprint of the house, I had to take photographs of several other houses like ours to prove it . If these people could ask for a piece of paper –they did.—and I thought I was going to lose my mind. I thought then, and still do believe now, that the buyers got sadistic pleasure in making me crazy.
And then there was other weird stuff---the buyers didn’t have any joint bank accounts. And so their mortgage was complicated—and we sweated out their bank commitment. The entire experience was drama-ridden. Every time the phone would ring I found myself thinking—now what?
And the day before we closed we had the walk through. I was prepared. I had filled and touched up the paint on the walls. I soft-scubbed behind where the television sat. The house was immaculate. Everything was in perfect order. But when the buyer and his lawyer (his wife was AWOL) did the walk through, they perpetrated one final annoyance. They said the house was not empty. I left an area rug in the basement and the old refrigerator. On a shelf I left them the leftover tiles from the bathroom renovation and a roll or two of wallpaper. In the garage I left the leftover paint cans (marked by room) and extra pieces of moulding. They told me if I did not get rid of it by the next day, they were not closing. And I flipped out in silence.
And I immediately called the department of sanitation who were very accommodating ,and they promised me that no matter what I put to the curb, they would take it—and they would do it first thing in the morning—before the buyers and the lawyer returned for the walk through. And I was so angry I summoned the strength of Hercules and brought the rug up by myself and all the other stuff normal house buyers want. My husband came later in the evening with a friend to remove the old refrigerator.
And when the morning walk through took place, the house was empty—really empty. Not only did I remove all the stuff they requested but I took every light bulb from every single lighting fixture and the fireplace doors and the fireplace grate along with the solitary piece of decorative firewood(it was not in the contract.) And I went into the attic and took all the excess cable wire—extra cable wire was not in the contract either. And when the buyer complained that there was lint left on the carpeting from my herculean removal of the area rug, I reminded him that the contract said broom-clean—which it certainly was. And we finally got our money.
Years later when I was in PTA, the buyer-woman’s application to become a class mother somehow got misplaced. And later when she was nominated for a PTA position, someone lobbied for the other candidate. And when the woman entered a tournament at the country club somehow she did not get a good partner. And she and her husband were made to leave the golf course once for attempting to golf less than five minutes after the time women were allowed to go out—someone had reported them to the starter.
To this day I have imaginary conversations about what I will say if I am ever in a situation to converse with the buyers. Up to now I have only glared daggers at them. I plan to mistakenly call the man Dick---and then say Oh I am sorry I just thought you looked like one.
I still meet people who knew the Taylors—it happened as recently as 3 weeks ago. I always tell people with pride how lovely they were—it was an honor to have bought their home. And the thing is, when you live in a small town like this, it is good to have a stellar reputation --because it will follow you for years and years later. The Taylors never need worry---I will make certain of that.
Sometimes I look around at my house and think—gee do I really need this house anymore? It has gotten too big for my needs. It might be nice to downsize---some of my friends are doing that now. And then I remember all the anxiety and the work. And I think of the mess of renovation and the cost. I remember how much I still want to choke the people who still reside in my old house—and I can only conclude that moving is just not worth the aggravation—even if your house turns into a museum.
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