Is there a history buff in the crowd?

Our realtor called again. “Let’s brainstorm for a way to set your house apart from the others that are for sale. Can you think of anything?”

“Well,” I hesitated, wondering if what I was going to say was positive or negative, “it’s almost 100 years old.”

“Ok then,” she said. “I know a man at the newspaper who might publish a story about that. It’ll be free publicity. Could you write it?”

Many years previously, an elderly gentleman, hunched over with osteoporosis, rang our doorbell and introduced himself as “the little boy who helped build this house.” (He was in his 90s at the time.) I welcomed him inside, and as he paced through the rooms, he dictated the history of our (his) home. I knew I could write a good story for the paper. A shortened version appears below.

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In the year 2009, this house will celebrate its 100th birthday. Built in 1909 by a local farmer, 103 Creek Court had a rural address and fronted on a narrow dirt road that eventually became today’s eight-lane Palatine Road. The farmer owned one square mile of land and operated a dairy farm, milking 100 cows by hand twice a day.

The original farmhouse had a living room, kitchen and bedroom on the main floor with three bedrooms upstairs. These were closed off by a door and left unheated during the winter. With several additions, the house grew to six bedrooms, three baths and five other rooms.

Back in the early 1900’s, the kitchen had a dry sink without even a hand pump for water. Before the first well was dug, the family got its water from the nearby creek, for which today’s Creek Court is named. Food was cooked on a swing-hook in the fireplace.

The main dairy barn sat just across the current driveway. During the 1930’s, economic tragedy struck this farm when the herd shared grass under a fence with a neighbor’s cows, who had hoof and mouth disease.

All of the cows became infected, making their milk unusable, which sealed their fate and that of the farm. The farmer dug a massive hole next to the milking barn, herded them into it and shot them all. Interestingly, when builders began digging for the foundation of our next door neighbor’s house in 1979, they ran into this grave of cow bones and halted excavation until the mystery was solved.

Recent gardeners at 103 Creek Court have dug up square-head nails, iron wagon wheels and the remains of old farming equipment buried in the concrete of the front steps. An antique hay rake, once pulled by a team of horses, was also on the property.

Used as an office by the developer of the current neighborhood, the old farm house was slated for demolition in 1980. However, once the other half-acre lots were sold and built, the developer decided to renovate 103 Creek Court and let it be the house on the rise that had been standing longer than all the others… nearly 100 years.

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The realtor and I hoped to find a buyer interested in history, but only time would tell.

Too good to be true

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.

“Oh Lord, I have to pack!”

When the reality of our upcoming move finally hit me, it was like a tidal wave with water up the nose and an undertow that swamped me.

From my prayer journal:

“Lord, Today I have five hours at home to work on organizing and throwing stuff away. All I feel like doing is throwing up. I’m not kidding about the nausea. Where do I even start? Basement? Attic? Garage? Crawl space? Book shelves? I can’t do it alone. Also, I need a handyman, a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician and a landscaper. Who are they? When can they come? How can we pay them? Oh Lord, please prioritize this mess!”

And under I went, swirling in a wave of confusion and chaos, wondering if I’d be able to make it through to order and stability. I called out to God often, whenever panic started rising, which was every hour.

One day I walked into the house with several cardboard boxes, and the phone was ringing. It was my friend Sue from Colorado. “Don and I have cleared two days, and we’re flying to Chicago to help you do whatever needs doing. Don will bring his tools.” Now it was my turn to cry. God had heard my questions, and Sue and Don were his answers.

They arrived toting overnight bags full of work clothes and tools, as promised. After Sue asked, “What needs doing?” it was obvious from my stuttering that I didn’t know how to begin.

“We’ll begin in the basement,” she said with firmness, marching toward the stairs. I followed, quietly whimpering with gratitude. “Get me a marker, a roll of tape, three black garbage bags and those boxes you collected. We’ll start in one corner and work out from there.”

As I stood staring at her in wonder, Sue continued. “One bag will be for trash, black because once something goes inside, you won’t be allowed to see it again. The second bag will be for give-aways. You’ll be downsizing, so you won’t be able to keep everything. The third bag will be for keepers. When that bag is full, we’ll transfer its contents to a box, label it, tape it and stack it.”

I felt my body go limp with relief. Sue had become my life preserver, rescuing me from going under for the third time. As we worked, we talked and laughed. When we came to a questionable item, such as a science project one of the kids had worked hard on and received a blue ribbon for, I began to sink again. “We can’t throw that away!” I whined. But Sue squared her shoulders and said, “Get your camera. We’ll take a picture of it, then get rid of it.” For each “no-I-can’t” dilemma, Sue had a “yes-we-can” idea.

Meanwhile, Don was eliminating items from my “Handyman List” the way a bee bee gun shoots cans off a fence: done, done, done. Slow toilets ran faster, sticky doors opened, a stubborn computer obeyed, rotten house siding morphed into new, malfunctioning light fixtures shone, and 23 other things.

In the basement, Sue and I gradually transformed piles of debris into neatly stacked, labeled boxes ready for our move. Garbage cans were loaded and my mini-van was filled with bags for Good Will. The tidal wave had calmed.

As Nate and I stood at the door waving good-bye to Sue and Don, the phone rang. It was my sister. She was coming over the next day to help me “with anything that needs doing.” God and friends were bringing us through.