We Buy Houses

The Big City

Part 21 of 28

I grew up in a house. As far as I know my parents bought it legitimately. They didn’t confide with me a single thing about it. It just happened that one day we moved from the old house to a different one, in a different town, and that’s where I grew up. These days, with there seeming to be some shenanigans about buying houses -- I don’t know the ins and outs -- I should consider myself lucky to have that experience, and how secure I felt.

I’m thinking I was very lucky because there appears to be a thing going on about mass-buying of houses and I have no idea why. Every pole in the Big City at one time or another has the offer to buy your house. Some of them are professionally made signs, stamped out at a rate of a hundred a second, obviously by someone either desperate to find a place or combined interests cornering the market or with some other motive. I can think of bad motives, but I’d hate to nail it with a haphazard guess and find myself in court, brought up on Disparagement and Malice with Malicious Intent, which could get me 5 to 10 in the Big House, which incidentally is up for sale.

O, if I could just gain entrance to the meetings of these people who want to buy every house in town! A fly on the wall, a seemingly mentally-off maintenance guy, or bugging them in their very lair, which might not be up to code. Then I’d find out the real skinny, and be able to swoop in (to the extent that there is malice and justice-doers who would reasonably do justice). But it could be something as malevolent as wanting to tie people up in knots, where they think they’re selling their house when they’re really obligated to pay you consulting fees till the 100th generation. I hope it’s not that bad.

Or, I suppose, it could all be quite legitimate. They’ve examined the market and figured out that if you buy every house in town, eventually people will need to come to you if they want a house. And having cornered the market, whatever price you name is by necessity the best they can get. Unless they go the old route, just buying an empty lot and building their own house. It’s tough for most of us to do that, whether it’s the first big problem, the expense, or the other problems, being so suspicious of everyone that we know that if we tried it the builder would have hidden cameras throughout the place filming us as we showered.

These days you can’t be too careful. I’ve been watching some videos of guys who build contraptions and putting them on their porch like they were a delivery. Someone else comes and steals them fair and square and are later surprised when they explode and saturate their environs with glitter as far as the eye can see. So there’s always someone up to no good. In fact I’ve learned to be so suspicious of everyone and everything, I ask for ID when I see myself in the mirror. And only realize a few minutes later that it was me and my ID’s with me in my back pocket. I look at it and dismiss the case.

Why are all these people -- and it could be the same seven or eight every time, and it just seems like the whole world’s gone house-crazy -- snapping up houses, and lots of crap ones at that?

Dear Grandma Therapy Letter

 

The Big City

Part 7 of 28

The same thing happened to me that's happenedd to small town immigrants to the Big City through the ages. I got down in a funk, and had to go to one of the raging hyenas who sit in their ivory palace mental clinics just waiting for easy prey, a quick buck, from supposedly "counseling" us, tamping down our desires toward a popular uprising because we’re so desperate for the old ways.

And, yes, my eyes were closed to the situation, that’s how desperate I was. Then, like sheep to the slaughter -- They still slaughter sheep, right? I haven’t had a sheep and biscuit breakfast in 30 years -- the guy had me with the teary-eyed Big City therapy exercise of “writing home.” In dark moments of life like that I don’t fight back as I should. I wish I would’ve seen through it immediately and literally gone "full terrorist" on that guy’s office, which you can do and get away with it. Counselors love bragging to other counselors about clients who completely erupt and destroy their office. The main problem is that there’s very little you can do to piss off a counselor, so they win.

Anyway, the dude roped me into the simplest, stupidest technique -- what am I paying the guy for when I had to write my own letter -- the Dear Grandma letter they make you write. Since she was the main authority figure in my upbringing. And who could win me over, back to sanity, any more than Grandma? See what the Big City does? I sort of support the idea of writing to Grandma, but the idea that these worms forced me still rankles.

“Just pour out your heart and spirit,” the counselor went on, his straining weasel voice giving me the creeps, like someone or something that just slithered out of Eden, a snake from central casting if I ever met one. Yet with all that, the wool was still pulled over my eyes somewhat. It was a battle royale, really, as I saw the truth that I should reject The Big City, but I also knew that under the circumstances, Grandma’s house being moldy, pulled down and hauled to the dump, I had very little choice. “Go along to get along.” So I did my best, putting the letter in my own words, not copying out of a book:

"Dear Grandma, This is your old sonny boy here, hoping you haven’t forgotten me during your stay in the heavenly palaces. You probably haven’t. You may know more about me than I know about myself, from your perch above, so I’ll tell the truth. The counselor has narrowed down most of my trauma to the loss of our house. Remember, it was already very old. And the construction seemed to be a jumble. Starting like a small shed, then being built on over the years, whenever the mood struck our ancestors. It was always a patchwork. Weird cracks between pieces, and the wind would blow and separate everything even if just slightly. Those places where the roof didn’t join perfectly then took on water. Drizzle was no big deal to the better houses, but in your house it was Public Enemy No. 1. Then you and Grandpa gave up the ghost, leaving me as the caretaker/resident. On a limited income and with no knowledge of maintenance beyond patching the obvious. Which over time can be hard to catch up on. Well, eventually, the city came by and shut the place down, and came in with a court decree that I vacate, and finally carted it off to the dump wall by wall, everything from the floor to the roof, in that order.” My last tender words over the rubble were, 'It was nice while it lasted.' Which was a tribute to you and Gramps. Who probably could've done a better job maintaining the place when it was new."

I Could've Been a Job Foreman

You gotta love the perspective of an old man, able to see things so clearly what you shoulda coulda woulda done if you could do it again. Because if you choose wrong, you're sunk, all is lost.

I’ve definitely seen the career opportunities I've missed! With every passing day that drags by on getting Grandma's house fixed, I now see the golden opportunities of being a job foreman. What’s he do everyday but look for more complications, more things wrong, more ways to drag his feet? I could've done that.

It’d be easy to be a job foreman. Always get up on the wrong side. Nurture your mean streak. Limp from one task to another. Take the insurmountable as your default view.

Of course I'm seeing the renovation work on the house as hopeless. Plus, I'm in "The Big City," barely able to communicate with the job foreman in a useful way. Which means I'm screwed as they attempt to begin, then someday possibly finish their hopeless mission. They're like old war heroes, "Boys, I’m going in and I may not be back. I’ll be hip deep in big muddy and pressing on." So before you choose any job, pick your retirement plan; it could be a long hard slog.

The house is a mess. I'm hearing about mold, fungi, a thick cadre of pests and pestilence, all of it thick and messy from the roof beams to the foundation. Making me wonder, How can so many things go wrong? What'd I miss? I get good counsel from my pastor occasionally; they had a charity fund drive for me. I really appreciate his comfort and counsel, saying, "The morning's always darker just before dawn, or just after the job foreman shows up."

It's the job foreman, really, that inspired me to vacate the premises, the town, and even the state, to go to the Big City while they work ... Anything to be away from his bad attitude. His original sin — or virtue, if you look at it from the point of view of every task being a cash cow — is believing "It can’t be done." Whatever the problem, it's a lost cause, it's hopeless, no one can do it, and I may as well be the one to break it to you.. No doubt he secretly revels in it behind my back.

From their point of view, these are all billable hours, you get a job like this, you look ahead to the payout. Knowing there’s nothing I can do. You try to report someone to the authorities, it's a two pronged challenge. One, they're used to disgruntled homeowners and chalk it up to you being disgruntled. And two, they know contractors and job foreman have families and have to eat, so back off, this is the way they do it, by screwing you high and low.

The simple truth of the matter is, No home renovation is hopeless, really, they just make it feel that way. I don't care how big the fungus is, it’s not too big for the mind of man to surmount. If he wants to. But basically it's obscured because we are naturally scared away by fungus, spiders, microscopic hungry house rot. It looks hopeless to the layman, so we put our hand in the hand of the man who promises us hope. "I can do it!" The job foreman beams when he first arrives. It's downhill from there.

I might organize a support group for guys like me, caught in the home renovation trap. The place is too far gone to fix, but I'm too poor to afford something better. Or too stupid to see the possibilities. I don’t like debt. But when you’re an old man without kids, debt should be your friend. You go whole hog, you die, what are they going to do? You have a great house, you die.

I was never devious enough, rotten enough, or talented enough to have been a job foreman. At least with the knowledge I had then. That's the other thing about old age. You can easily see, Most of the helpers you get as you go through life have a million devious schemes up their sleeves. With the first thing being the paperwork. Make the paperwork complicated-looking, thick as your arms, get you to sign your life away. Surely there’s more codicils in the paperwork negating your rights than granting them. You're the little guy, you're screwed from the get go.

But I could've learned that. Imagine how empowering that'd be. I should’ve done it. Set my sights to be a job foreman, with all the personal confidence that comes from screwing the poor homeowner. You've broken him already. What more can he do but shut up and get the hell out of your way, while you and your team move in for the endless road ahead. I wouldn’t doubt if they were making things worse. Vials of poison, test tubes of virulent pests that they've imported from the jungles of Peru.

This is how the plague in the Middle Ages started. A kid wanted to be a job foreman on a castle and set about it. He worked the rest of his life, the apparent work on the castle limping hopelessly along, while the lord who used to live there was in the The Big City, unaware what shenanigans were going on at the manor.

I'm too old for this information to do me much good. I've got arthritis, it hurts merely to lie in bed. The death angel has me on the list. But you're young, your whole life’s ahead of you! Don't be a doctor, a lawyer, any pissant job like that. Be a job foreman! And be set for life, tormenting, terrorizing the populace, but making enough money, what’ll you care?!

The Old Days of Razor Blade Disposal

Wouldn't it be fun to see what goes on inside the razor blade disposal of an old medicine cabinet? I can only imagine, which is all I've been able to do, since I've never had the actual pleasure.

I know it must really be something, too, because I've known builders and home-wreckers who've seen it. But like in the battles of war, these veterans are suspiciously silent. In the case of war, they don't want to say what they had to do. With the blades, it must be something similar, too awful to describe.

Which is precisely why I'd like to see it. What kind of mess is it? You know it has to be bad. The old blades were immediately prone to rust. I used to see a blade set out too long on the shelf and it was rusty within hours. And it has to be just like rust on a car; it grows, it creeps, it starts attaching to things, and pretty soon the whole thing falls apart.

Just to imagine, then, what it's like in a well-used razor blade disposal, the blades are attached to one another, a big rusted assembly. Like modern art, maybe, just not as good. Rust is going up in a spiral, like in a cave. Every few days, more water drips in from a new blade entering and from the normal humidity of the bathroom or kitchen. (I have two such disposals, one in the "new" bathroom, made after the '70s, and one in the kitchen, the original one Grandpa shaved by.)

It'd do too much damage to the kitchen, I know, for me to start prying and tearing it out. So all these years, there it's set. Grandpa's been gone since 1977, so that's given the old blades a long time to settle. For all I know, they might be eating through the wall. If that ever happens, I'll take appropriate measures, fight them back as best I can. Use a fire extinguisher.

Grandpa didn't have any qualms about using the thing. For me, though, I look at it as a kind of small terrarium. It's an ecosystem for razor blades, but it's so finite, you don't want to put too much in it. But if you're not using it when you need it, why have it? That would be my original question? Why even have it? Of course it's for safety. When you need to throw away a razor blade, there's all sorts of dangers about putting them in the trash. Anyone could slice open their leg.

But they could've just as easily put in a detachable disposal system, like you see in the doctor's office, the sharps container, where you simply throw away the whole container when it gets up to about a pound. But no, for some reason, back in the old days, they thought, "We'll just hard-wire these things in the wall behind the medicine cabinet." Maybe make them eight inches deep, or better yet, let them go all the way to the floor. The razor blades then, even if you were in the house for 100 years, would never pile up enough to fill it.

Quite the idea, till you start imagining what's going on in there. Rust, doing all sorts of things. For all we know, it could be doing a DNA melt with your whiskers and skin cells, along with the moisture and mold, the house, and the souls of the people there. Pretty soon you've got a wall full of half metal, half spirit ghosts, or other beings come to life. Seriously, why else would builders be so quiet about what they've seen? Why else would builder be the only profession where they beg their sons to do anything but that?

The more I think of it, the more I'm willing just to let it go. I myself use disposable BIC razors. And they won't fit in the slot. The simply go in the garbage. And if there's any weird DNA/metal amalgamating to be done, it's happening somewhere else, not here at home. Still, I think I hear some tapping in the wall!

Major Spill -- When Walter Comes Marching Home

The life of Walter Spill had elements of the ordinary and the extraordinary. He was a military man, a family man, and a big wheel in the community. He wheeled and dealed himself into a dizzying life as an entrepreneur, making a lot of money and friends along the way. Then, like anyone who lives long enough, he died, with his bones gathered up and laid to rest with honors in Memorial Cemetery.

Was he summa cum laude or magnum cum laude in school? No, he was just an average guy, with, as it turned out, a potential far exceeding average. His nation called and he answered, working his way up, about as far as a man can go, to the office of Major. Major Spill was a leader of men and a friend to all. He was the kind of guy you could count on to not desert you when the going got rough ... as it always does.

I spoke with one of the old-timers of town about Walter Spill, Dr. James Molar. One day they had a newspaper article about Walter in the Daily News, otherwise I probably would have never heard about him. (For copyright purposes, I will not quote from the newspaper account, but will simply do my best to paraphrase the key points of his life story as they come to mind, as well as my poor memory allows.)

The old-timer was a man who served with Major Spill, going back to his war service. The old veterans hate to talk about their military service, like pulling teeth, but if you pry diligently enough, going for all the angles, getting leverage, etc., finally you can loosen up the toughest molar. Anyway, this old boy, now frail and walking with a cane, bent with age, granted me a sit-down. We were at a particular cafe, a neutral site.

"So you served with Major Spill?" "Yes, that's right," his old friend, Dr. Molar, struggled to say, rasping, with each word a struggle. "You were together those years?" "Yes," he said with slight impatience, "That would appear to be what I carefully delineated a moment ago, with no excess verbiage added to the mix that might confuse you." I thought, "OK, I've got it..."

"What kind of leader was Walter Spill?" "A good leader," Dr. Molar managed to say, simply. But I dug deeper. "He was good, you say?" "Yes, good. By that I mean he excelled as a leader of men, prompted by some powerful inner source of fortitude and determination that is rare by any measure. The odds were against us, and as these things go, of course you have no guarantee of tomorrow. But the Major was fearless, prompting all of us to call forth our own bravery, till then an unknown presence."

"The newspaper said there was one battle where next-to-no one came out alive." "Yes, it was bad." "On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad was it?" With that, Dr. Molar struggled to his feet and left the room, and that's the last I saw of him. Leaving me to surmise that Major Spill and the others went together into battle with heavy odds against them, no doubt attributable to a larger or stronger contingency arrayed against them, with only one man of this side's force able to reemerge, that man being Major Spill himself.

The newspaper, just summarizing here, also told of Walter's poker-playing skills, Dr. Molar being their likely source. Just briefly, he had one hell of a poker face. Beyond that, quoting, "Of course all the other aspects of poker as a game, and the Major's keen gamesmanship at it, had to factor in, including his ability to read other players, his ability to compute the odds at any particular moment, along with that intangible thing we simply have to call luck."

After the war, Major Spill -- Walter -- came home and settled right here, back in his hometown. It was the post-war years, when new neighborhoods had to be developed. Walter settled into a career combination of city-planning, real estate, and cheap architecture. By now, of course, he was simply Mr. Walter Spill. There was a large profit to be made, with men coming home throughout those boom years.

Again, from the newspaper: "Socially, we were going from a more centralized arrangement of tight traditional neighborhoods toward the city's outskirts and beyond. It wasn't exactly sprawl, with the negative connotations of that word, but a natural widening of the local parameters, a thing of pride at the time. You annex, you pave, you make winding roads through the neighborhoods, you plant the same tree. At first the cheapness of the houses was a virtue, but naturally they quickly go to pot, after many years of hard use." As above, I take it Dr. Molar was the source of this quote as well.

The Man Of The House Movement

Lately I've been perceiving that there is something truly revolutionary (and wonderful) afoot in terms of the basic relationship between men and women. Call it men's intuition on my part, or something I dreamed about, or just an educated guess. Whatever it is, there can be very little doubt I'm right.

Of course I'm talking about the shift in the authority within the household, as evidenced by ... well, there's plenty of evidence, if you open your eyes and look. This shift -- which just a few short years ago would have been seemed incredible -- is taking us away from the woman's authority in the household (gynarchy?) toward a more traditional stance, with the authority of the man reestablished. We tried something else, it failed.

I've noticed it -- I feel I've noticed it -- to such an extent that I'm actually prepared to declare it officially a movement. A swelling tide like this isn't incidental, an all-out push, a thrust like this is more than happenstance. It's gathered a true head of steam at a fever pace, so much it can't be honestly denied. It's bigger than all of us. It's real. It's a movement.

The way I see it -- and this is palpable -- is it's so big I'm giving it a name. And it's such a juggernaut I'm giving it a big name. I'm calling it "The Man of the House Movement." How about that? Do you catch the distinction I'm making? Not a man in the house, i.e., something of a partner, something of an equal, someone to be pushed around. That would be substantially what we've had in recent years. This is man of the house, with the fullness of authority that that label connotes.

When you're the man of the house, you've got something, you're established. Like my grandparents. It was very clear, Grandpa was the man of the house. Grandma had her place, cooking, cleaning, making sure the grandkids had popsicles, etc. And Grandpa was the man of the house, in charge of the overall facilities, the well, the car, the grass, the weeds, where the outhouse was placed (it was periodically moved), etc. He wore the pants, literally, since weeds and lawn care, taking care of the well, moving the outhouse, etc., is something you'd hate to do in a dress. There wasn't all that much guff between them either; they worked as a team.

Something's happened in relationships, as I said, where it's swung back to the old ways. And not a moment too soon! It's easy to see why. You have that extra level of security -- these are very insecure times -- when you're working as a team, and where the man of the house is the man of the house. He's not out sowing his wild oats -- God forbid! -- or drinking beer in bars. To me, that'd be despicable. He's taking care of things, he's got it going on, in terms of responsibility and his ongoing care for the little woman.

Brick By Brick -- Your Criminal Edifice

Now that I'm the new Mr. Big, with Tony's death, I've got a lot more free time, time that I'm using wisely to keep myself focused and centered. I'm looking at it, in part, as time for reflection, with the idea that reflection contributes to my overall success.

Being a criminal, friends, isn't the easiest job in the world, that is, if you do it right. The prisons are full of dumb ass schmucks who thought it'd be easy, but then, and there's no known exception to this, they got sloppy, which is another word for stupid. These days, of course, there's a lot of dumb asses who post their exploits on social media, blogs and the like, which anyone with three weeks experience online can trace in seconds. And so they go to prison. Stupid! The problem is not enough reflection.

I've been reflecting today that establishing and maintaining a good criminal life is kind of like building a building, like building and maintaining a house. There's lots of similarities, and you can almost get lost in the comparisons; it's uncanny how many points of congruence, or overlap, there are. Leading me to think, and it's just a theory, that the first house-builder must have been a very successful criminal. Even to this day, you hear of burglars targeting houses, or criminals apprehended at houses, like a crack house. So there's a real closeness.

Anyway, we reflect, we start thinking, we gather our thoughts, we grant our minds free rein and our thoughts the ability to roam. And they keep returning to this idea that a good criminal life and the building process are very, very -- extremely -- close.

The first thing to our house is the basement and foundation. The basement and foundation may not be the "sexiest" parts of the house. The "sexiest" parts would have to be the shower and bedroom. But the basement and foundation are extremely critical to the house's integrity. It is that which is "foundational" that will stand you in the best stead over the long term. When the winds blow and a tornado or mudslide come through, if the foundation isn't any good ... then good luck! In fact, when vicious storms come, where do we go? but to the basement! Likewise, in the criminal life, you don't start out as Mr. Big. You start out at ground level, but what you first establish there will continue to ground you later.

The house then goes up. You next see its structure, similar to a body's skeleton, 2 x 4s placed horizontally and vertically and nailed, with all the water pipes and electrical conduits where they need to be. Without a basic structure -- let's say you just propped up a bunch of unsupported walls on the foundation -- something less than a doctorate tells you it's going to collapse. Because everything has to be supported. Similarly, in a good criminal life, one in which you're not immediately in prison, you need a structure. This could be a good gang, a network of associates, or looking at it another way, your growth in intelligence and how you let your experience at the foundational base rise up as a supporting structure.

Next, they put in the walls. I've never yet been in a good house that didn't have walls. Walls and windows. I'm serious here, I like good walls. They're useful, like if you have a stoolie and you want to put your arm up against his neck and raise him off the floor. You can't get a guy's eyes bulging out if the wall isn't there for support. Or say you simply don't want your house open to the outside elements 24/7, you need walls. In the criminal life, as we follow our reflections on the good criminal life, the walls represent an enclosure or environment for yourself. In other words, you're not simply exposed. When you're exposed, you're in prison in no time, where they have very good walls.

What comes next? Of course it'd have to be the roof. What good is a roof? Let's think about it a minute. A roof protects the inside of the house from sun, rain, and bird poop. It tops off the house, and helps keep what's inside in good condition, so you can live there comfortably for years to come. In our good criminal life, the "roof" means you've worked yourself up from the ground level and denotes completeness. Also, just as an actual roof makes a great lookout point for cops on the horizon, from your "roof" you can see more clearly the vistas, the opportunities of your criminal future.

I probably should mention all the furnishings, paint, wallpaper, appliances, flooring, alcoves, linoleum, and the like, that make the inside of the house comfy and cozy. You wouldn't want a house that didn't have anything in it! Unless you were just holing up somewhere till the heat died down, or you were doing quick drug deals or something like that. In an actual house to live in, you want nice things, like maybe a fireplace to burn evidence in. Or a toilet with a strong industrial flush. Similarly, in your good criminal life, you're not stealing money and jewels, swindling and cheating just for the hell of it. That'd be pointless. You're doing it so you'll have nice things, bling and other cool things. Because that's what life's all about, enjoying what you have and hoping no one takes it from you.

There's No Place Like Home

I'm up with the chickens today. It's a beautiful day, like in a musical. The sets are all idealized like that. Looking out, the garage and tools and things setting around it look like the backdrop for the Opry, well swept. I might go out and yodel a few happy tunes and work with a lasso.

I'm puttering around. Thank God for the house patching industry. They were here and got the place fixed up. I'm shivering thinking about what it would've been like if the Grangers had taken the freezer right through the wall. It would've made a better story ... that's about it. As it is, I had them leave a few bullet holes, in case the place is ever made into a museum.

I've heard of that being done. We went to a museum. Some guys had robbed the bank, like 1890, then hid out in the museum. They shot holes in the wall, which are carefully preserved to this day. So, see, the town is saying, "Thank God for those robbers back then or we wouldn't have anything to be proud of today." It makes you think if you went there to rob the bank today, they'd give you a big bouquet and ask what took you so long!

But the life of crime is no life for me. Nor is the life of crime-solving. Nor is the life of running around the countryside investigating, trying to stamp out organizations who prey upon their fellow man. As for today, anyway, I'll leave that to those who know how. I was getting too personally involved anyway. I'd be almost willing to overlook their crimes for a chance with Lemaperu. And her mom wasn't half bad either. But it'll never be.

Which is OK. Because today I'm singing the old refrain, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." How often did they tell me that over the years? Too many! It humbles my heart that so often I live like it isn't so. I look at these four walls -- thinking of this room in particular -- and think Wow, I'm cooped up. This isn't a life for a full grown man. If I'm willing to live here, why would I neglect the rest of the world? But as soon as you do, what happens? You get shot down. I about got shot down right here, when the world came calling.

No, here are my things. A stack of CDs. This computer. A glass of milk. A cup of tea. The tie I wear to funerals. An empty candy bag. My hot jazz hat. Other things. I need to appreciate what I have. And where I have it. This old house.

Someday, I suppose it's bound to happen ... Grandma will die. And some guys will carry her out on a stretcher. But until that day! ... Until that day we will live life to the fullest right here!

Then some years later, however many, who knows? I myself will pass on. I'll just be sitting here. Or maybe I'll be curled up in bed. Maybe I'll feel a hot rush flooding my heart or brain. Maybe I'll see the lights of glory. And raise my arms until they collapse in that final ecstasy. It's bound to happen, sad as it sounds. I'll probably lay there and rot before someone finds me. Then the same guys will bring in their stretcher. They'll have their faces bound up or under big gas masks. They might carry the whole bed out in the yard and pick me up with a machine to avoid infection. Then set the bed afire -- my estate be d---ed!

I don't mind talking about it. Then the museum people can come in and get things arranged for the tourists. Whose first question will be what happened to his bed. It'll be an interesting story. He died alone and no one noticed him, etc. And right there on the lawn is where it burnt.

Not exactly the Fantasy World of Harry Faversham, but it's something to think about on a beautiful day. I don't mind starting with a cold shiver. ... But this is my desk and these are my things. There's no place like home. None, nada. If there's anywhere else like it, I'd be interested in knowing where.

In The Cellar You Can Set Your Mind At Ease

Who among us hasn't yearned for a nice basement drain to lay in, curled up naked, enjoying the coolness that cellars always have? There are places perhaps more romantic, more exotic, and sunnier, but there's nothing quite so refreshing that's usually so close at hand. If you're without air conditioning upstairs, you do have it downstairs, on the floor, on the lowest part of the floor.

There are things about the cellar that I don't like that much. I associate it with storms, because we'd always grab the first aid kit and a radio and head to the cellar. And the bugs. There are strange crawling things in the cellar. Bugs with two heads. Bugs with 100 legs. Bugs with pinchers, stingers, hooks, offensive stink emissions, poison. It's a wonder bugs get along as well together as they do, with the vast offensive and defensive equipment they're always packing.

And there are things about the cellar, besides the coolness of a low drain, that I like. Such as the shelves of food we used to have down there. Grandpa would be bringing in baskets of stuff from the garden, and Grandma would be boiling it and putting it all in jars. This is what they used to do. They had some interesting stories of keeping food on hand back in the old days. Meat buried in hardened lard. The iceman putting ice through a hole in the wall. The milkman bringing his cow to the door.

I started off OK last night in bed. But I soon became very restless, tossing and turning. I couldn't sleep, so worried, so conflicted, so stewed up about everything going on in my life. Vast and terrible scenarios were playing out in my mind like a war. So I got up and went to the cellar. It's been cool lately so I didn't take off my pajamas. But I did lay there on the floor for a while -- I left the light on and looked at it dangling up there till my eyes got fuzzy and I slept. It does seems like when you're as low as you can go it puts your mind at ease more easily.

I woke up a little earlier because of the discomfort and stretched. There's some pain from being on a concrete floor. But I stretched and that made it better. I brushed off a couple of two headed 100 legged poison-pinching bugs and decided to sit at the chair and little table. I pulled out that box of books, from the same place down there where I found the Sex and the Single Girl book last year. I was picking through it. It's all musty.

Suddenly my eyes perked up. Down in the bottom was a folder and some papers having to do with the grange. The past comes calling!

Looking around the cellar, I came to one unmistakable conclusion. The cement floor, the drain, the light bulb, the furnace, the table, the chair, the boxes, the books, the shelves, and everything else my eyes beheld ... Other people have been here! I do not know when, I do not know who ... Maybe it was just Grandma and Grandpa and our family. But over the years, at some time, whether in building the house, which seems certain, or since the house has been built, which equally seems logical, Someone has been here!

The Illegitimate North Side

Here's something I've always felt but have never put into words, that I've always felt like the north side of our house isn't as good as the south. It looks weird seeing it in print, but it's a feeling that's persisted for decades.

We go in the south side. The pictures we've taken over the years are on the south side. It's sunnier on the south side. The garage is on the south. We get water on the south. All our outhouses have been on the south. The north is more or less forgotten, like uncharted territory, like the dark continent. Anything might happen on the north side. I might be taken captive by natives in the few trees over there. The north is no good.

We have the porch on the north side. Hardly ever used. There's a view on the north side, but everything is distant, except things up close, like the road, the trees. People pass by on the north side, but on the south side they come to visit. The north is wild, the south is home.

I mow the grass on the north side, but I feel like it's less worthy of mowing than the south. There are things to discover on the north side, I believe, but I'm not very interested in discovering them. If I were to see a block of wood on the north side, I'm about 99% sure it would be rotting. Things on the north tend to rot faster than on the south. That's the difference the sun makes. It's moist and buggy on the north. It's dry and domesticated on the south.

I look out the window on the north side, but I'm looking at the view in the distance. My eyes barely see the yard. You could get lost on the north side and no one would see you. I think other people feel the same way but never say anything.

There's some things I could say about the east side too. When I look at the east side from the north, I feel like I can barely reach the south. But when I see the east side from the south, I know I'm home, and there's nothing to see up north. The west side isn't so bad, especially from the south, because you have the sun hitting the west at more auspicious times of the day. But to see the west from the north is, again, to long for the south and to feel morose.

A Facade

I read somewhere that the church in Rocky Horror Picture Show was just a facade, I'm guessing like the old Hollywood buildings we used to see pictures of. It definitely looks real, and I wish I could see a picture of it from every angle.

That's quite a thing to build just for those opening shots, especially when there would have to be a number of actual church buildings around that you could easily go and film in front of. Why build a church front when there are lots of churches already built?

The house I'm imagining in this blog -- its overall theme -- burned down around 1979, sometime between 1978 and 1981, let's say. I have a few pictures of it but I don't believe I saw the actual rubble. Maybe I did and blocked it out. No, I'm sure I didn't. But going way back, i.e., to all those pre-burnt years, there's lots of pictures of it. In pictures, though, it looks like it could be a facade.

I like the arrangement of the people in the top photo. It has a kind of eternal look. And I know the people. The key thing here is that in those days it's not burned. Then later it is.