It had been three months since we’d given up trying to sell our home “by owner,” two months since we’d signed again with a real estate company, and two weeks since we’d signed a contract with real live buyers. As I busied myself organizing, packing and marveling that others wanted to help me, I thought about our buyers working on the flip side of the contract with their realtor and mortgage company. Both moves, theirs and ours, would happen soon.

When our real estate agent called, I assumed it would be to give us a firm moving date. “I’ve studied the situation thoroughly,” she confided, choosing her words carefully, “and my analysis is that the family buying your home can’t afford it. They’re having trouble finding a mortgage, because they’re really not qualified. Also, they haven’t sold their own home yet. And I know for certain they can’t play the two-mortgage game.”

My heart beat picked up speed and sounded like the flutter of wings carrying off the contract, along with our hope for a financial realignment. Having heard her perfectly, I said, “What?”

“I’m wondering if you and Nate will voluntarily let your buyers out of the contract, although legally you don’t have to.”

“You mean lose them completely?” I asked, my voice cracking. We’d worked hard and waited long to get this far.

“Yes, if you’re willing. Like I said, you don’t have to, but it would be a nice thing to do for this young couple.” Our realtor, by now a friend, had a sweet, southern disposition and the lovely accent to go with it. She waited patiently for my response.

“Let me call Nate,” I said, trying to think straight.

Her advice didn’t make good business sense.  If we didn’t sell,  she couldn’t get her commission. But even as I was dialing Nate, I had the sinking feeling we would end up doing what she suggested.

By the end of that day, the deal had evaporated, and along with it, our hope for financial salvation.

“Don’t lose heart,” our realtor said. “I’ve got many other interested parties.”

By this time, our friend Sue’s successful system of packing had put me on the fast track of eliminating and concentrating. I’d been emptying closets and shelves throughout the house like a woman possessed.  Our 188 photo albums had been packed and stacked and were ready for the moving van.

“Stop packing,” Nate instructed. “They say a house shows better if it looks lived-in. I guess we’re back to square one.”

And so my efforts screeched to a halt. Would it be a few weeks? A month? Another torturous year? The situation seemed dismal…  that is, until we told our kids the sale had fallen through. They saw this as a reprieve from the torture of a move.

Louisa took her letter off the wall and began to grin again.

Hopes up, hopes down.

House on the market, house off the market.

Price high, price low.

Gas on, gas off.

Wheee!

We were whizzing along on the real estate roller coaster without ever having wanted the ride, especially in the winter. It was February in Chicagoland, and the Nymans were freezing, both outside and inside, where our thermostat had bottomed out at 44 degrees. The gas had been turned off.

A cold shower in the summer is refreshing. In an unheated house with unheated water, its agony. Our kids were angry. We were angry. It had taken nearly a year to sever our emotional ties to our much-loved home enough to put it up for sale. Now another year and a half had gone by. Why wouldn’t it sell?

We had a variety of friends who had needed to sell their homes during the same time period. All had met with success, marveling at the high prices they’d gotten in the process.

At our house, now that the gas was off because we were late (months late) in paying our bill, most of us left for work and school each morning with dirty hair, dressed in outfits we’d worn twice already. “Shower at school if you can,” I told the kids as they stepped out the door.

Meals were a challenge. We had no oven or stove-top burners but were thankful for an electric fry pan and a microwave. Although the dishwasher worked, at the end of its cycle dishes weren’t clean because of the greasy residue cold water refused to remove. We got good at boiling water in the microwave and adding it to cold sink water for hand-washing plates, silverware, pots and pans after meals. Although my winter coat got dirty and wet as I did dishes in it, my cold, stiff hands appreciated the warmth of that water.

It took more than a week for us to assemble the nearly two thousand dollars needed to pay the gas company what we owed. They wanted it in cash, paid in person. As I slid the many bills into a metal tray beneath an extra-thick glass window, the clerk scowled as if to say, “I hope you learned your lesson, stupid. Go home and get your act together.” I felt like a criminal.

Eight days passed before our gas was finally turned on. The water heater resumed its job, the furnace whirred back to life and the oven began smelling good again. None of us will ever take for granted the simple pleasures of a hot shower or a heated home.

It was a good thing we couldn’t see into the future. The coming refrigerator break-down would have been too much to bear.