This Old House

The house we sold 3 years ago in a near western suburb of Boston is on the market again. It was a split level "center entry colonial" without architectural distinction. We built a fantastic deck on the back and put a curved walk of paving bricks in front and created a large rambunctious garden. Didn't do nuthin' inside the whole time we lived there until we got ready to sell and the realtor said, "eeek! You've got to get rid of that ugly 80's wallpaper!" We never had time, money or inclination to renovate. Jack was already a pretty dull boy from all the work in corporate America.

We put a 8 months of sweat equity into the house, hired Mr. Handyman twice, hired a landscaper who thought prune meant "attack and destroy," had 3 garage sales, hauled untold "stuff" off to the dump, the resale store and the auction house, and sold the house within a week to a nice young couple with two kids who loved the neighborhood, the school district and had big plans for the house.

In bleak mid-winter, Significant Other saw our old house for sale in the paper. Big fancy price. We talked to old neighbors. The couple had split and the father had moved out. House stayed on market, price reduced once then twice. Finally saw an open house and couldn't resist the urge to see what THEY had done.

Now you have to realize that this is New England and the politics may be liberal but the houses are traditional and conservative. The center entrance colonial rules, and the Cape is a more modest but equally traditional architectural style. The ads described the house now as "young" and "updated," which we were not. Actually, we like extreme modern architecture and were happy to find the place of our dreams with big windows, soaring ceilings and wide open spaces. Very not New England.

On a bleary Sunday we went to the open house. Loved it with reservations. The kitchen, living room dining room were now one big area with half walls between the kitchen and the other rooms. Open and bright. The kitchen had a major renovation with fancy range, refrigerator, dishwasher, new big windows to the nice deck. Fantastic counters, island, la-di-dah. There were two new bathrooms and everything looked really cool. For some reason, she, the wife-decorator, had gotten rid of the coat closer in the entry hall. Downstairs in the former mud room were lots of coat hooks, but would you really hang a fur or a sheepskin on a peg? The broom closet in the kitchen was also gone. Now the BIG fridge sat there. New England folks like little windows and dark separate rooms. They don't really cotton to modern. The wife was Swedish and must have grown up with Scandinavian furniture and "young house" ideas.

It still hasn't sold. By now, it's a terrific bargain. I feel sorry for them. They never got to live in the nice finished place. Did the renovations wreck the marriage? She seemed like a type A who probably wasn't fulfilled with kinder, kuche, and kirche. So skinny that kuche would not have been a priority. Probably didn't go to kirche either. Oh dear. Probably the kind of woman who should not have stopped her career to raise kids.

Not my problem, but you always feel bad and sad and mad for kids who end up in a divorced household. At least I do.

My poor luxuriant, almost out of control garden is gone, too. All the nice plants. They left one lilac. Even tore up the foundation plantings. So now there is a sterile look in front with bare foundations. Probably ran out of money. Time. Energy. I mourn for the iris and the creeping phlox my friend gave me, the mayapples carried from Illinois, the lovely painted daisy, the Louisiana iris, and all the good perrenials. Adieu! My mother's variegated iris and her little miniature irises. I wanted to weep. There should be a registry where people intending to rip out gardens can let others come and take what they want. I didn't want my daffodils to die. And now no one wants the house.

Alas, alas.

Grapeshot