“When you're safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you're having an adventure, you wish you were safe at home.”
~ Thornton Wilder
Part II -- Killjoy Street
I own part of a house on the island of Nantucket. The house will be sold at the end of this month. I have owned the house with three others for eight years.
While I owned the house, I didn't tell many people about it for fear that they would think I was a person born to privilege when I was really only born to Richard and Ruth in 1962 in Dorchester, Massachusetts. While this was a privilege, it didn't make me privileged. Growing up, I was well fed, clothed, and loved; however, I didn’t get a mini Mercedes SL 500 Two Seater Car on my 7th birthday, a pony for my 10th birthday, a car for my 16th birthday or a small condominium upon my graduation from college.
When my parents bought their home in Sudbury in 1964, they paid $22,000 for it; at the time, my Mom said that they had enough money to pay the basics. Anything after that like trips and entertainment weren’t in the budget. That’s not to say we were poverty stricken; I did get the first Atari among all of my friends, though I was pretty sure that my Dad bought it for himself first and foremost!
My parents, specifically my Mom, did give me a great gift besides the gift of life. It was my college education; I paid for a year on my own, but my Mom paid for the other three. I was very fortunate in that regard, and looking back, I never felt deprived; I’m sure I wished for a pony on my 10th birthday or a car on my 16th, but I always felt like I hadn’t really missed a thing when I was growing up.
After my Mom died, my Dad sold our family home in Sudbury. He moved to a small condominium and bought a house on Nantucket. When he first bought the house, I was perplexed.
My Dad never liked going to the beach when we were growing up, and now he’d be living just a mile from the beach. When I found out his new girlfriend had been to Nantucket most every Summer of her life, it didn’t take me long to figure out why he bought the house. I had hoped she was worth the somewhat radical purchase. (In my opinion, she wasn’t.)
After my father died, I inherited a bit of the house, which I then bought with a family member, owing to the fact that we had to buy out two others. We had a grand plan to rent the house and use it in the off-season. Well, after only two years, that was a bust, and we ended up renting it year round for the remainder of the time we owned it.
I went down to stay at the house after I was first laid off; two tenants had moved out, and I needed to clean up their mess. It was a difficult trip, but I’m glad I made it with my trusty scaredy cat dog, Monty. In hindsight, little did I know it was to be my last trip; I only wish I had enjoyed more, but when I left, I guess I already knew that it was unlikely that I’d ever be back.
Anyway, it was decided a while ago that we needed to sell the house; it had become a living nightmare, and that’s putting it nicely. It was sad to think that such a beloved place by my Dad had become a battleground involving relatives who behaved so very badly, wretched tenants, slimy realtors, and bozo buyers. But, as one friend said recently, “Thank gawd you’re almost done with that place.”
This past weekend, it was time to begin clearing out the house in preparation for the closing. The first closing date had been originally scheduled for February 14th, which told me that a true test in life had to be losing something you loved on a day that was all about being with the one you loved. After a few glitches (see “bozo buyers” above), the new closing date was April 1st, which immediately reaffirmed for me that I was a fool for buying the house; however, I should learn from the experience and always try to make a joke about it.
Anyway, the tenants (see “wretched” above) were told they could take anything they wanted when they departed recently. It seemed best given that there weren’t any things I wanted from the house (that is, there weren’t many things that hadn’t been ruined by the above-mentioned wretched tenants). The realtor (don’t see anything above and only imagine an ugly slug wearing a Nantucket island pendant around its neck) mentioned she knew “some Costa Ricans” who might like to also take some furniture.
I laughed when I heard that. Not only was she slimy, but she was with the “Costa Ricans” too. (You’ll only get that if you listen to “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.) I can only imagine that she got some kind of kickback for providing furniture, as I failed to see her helping people who were most likely low-paid workers on the island. Can you tell I’m a tad bitter?
Well, there are three stages when selling your father’s house under these circumstances. They are grief, anger, and bitterness. I could only hope that relief, happiness, and joy came right after I signed the paperwork to pass the house onto the buyers (see a picture of Bozo the clown and his live-in girlfriend).
I was asked if I wanted furniture from the house. At first, I said I didn’t. Upon reflection, I changed my mind and chose two desks and a chest. The desks belonged to a great Aunt and my Dad; the chest had belonged to my grandmother.
The trunk was mahogany, and I had it refinished after my grandmother gave it to me. I tried to store clothes in it; however, it turns out my grandmother’s middle name was “Mothball” when it wasn’t Louise. She had put so many mothballs in it over the years that anything I tried to keep in it ended up reeking of mothballs.
When first moving furniture down to the house, I decided that the chest might make a nice coffee table in the family room. It was shipped down to Nantucket and remained in the house with our Winter tenants. Unfortunately, I found out that the Winter tenants had let a party guest, who was wearing stilettos, dance on top of it making it look like it had been a victim of chicken pocks; you know how much I love shoes, but I couldn’t look at a pair of stilettos for about two weeks after that.
In my heart of hearts, I knew I really didn’t want these things. Had they belonged to family? Yes. Could I have lived without them? Yes. Did I need to take something from the house, because I needed to walk away from it with something that had once been in good condition and meaningful? I guess so.................................and then there were the whale mugs.
Last night, the whale mugs were brought home to me. I requested them; however, I hated them. My sister-in-law bought them as a house warming gift. They were ugly, small, and she paid a fortune for them on the island. I couldn’t exactly tell you what they meant to me, but they’re in my house now.
I was also given something else. When it was presented to me, I gasped. I knew it so well, and I found it hard to believe it had survived the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos.
My Mom was never one for clothes, cosmetics, or anything fancy or expensive. I’d say this gives more credibility to my “I was adopted,” claim in that regard, but I can’t escape the fact that I have my Dad’s creativity and sense of humor, although unlike him, I don’t call women “broads,” which he always did in jest. I call them chicks!
My Mom’s china was a very inexpensive pattern called Blue Danube. She had all the basic pieces. My brother’s first wife had given her some extra pieces over the years, and this was one of them. My Mom used to keep hard candy in it.
I stood there and looked at it. I flipped the top up and down. I remember she kept all her china in a hutch that my Dad had moved to Nantucket when he first bought the house. I asked “Did someone take the hutch?” thinking that it was yet another piece I should have clung to, all the while I knew I was clinging to things like they were life savers when I should have been swimming away, far away, under my own power.
I was told that one of the Costa Ricans had taken it. Damn them all I thought; damn the relatives, the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos! I was then told that a woman had taken it. She said that she had young children, and it would be great to place her nice things in something that her kids couldn’t get into.
Okay, damn the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos, but I’ll leave the Costa Ricans out of it. I looked at my Mom’s box again, and I flipped the lid; I wanted to cry, but I would not cry in front of him. I looked up at him, thanked him for the box, and then hoped that what comes around goes around. I was glad that my Mom’s hutch had gone but come around to a woman who would treat it well and store her special things in it like my Mom did so many years ago.
All night long, I kept trying to think that the time owning my Dad’s house was a learning experience and that the passing of the house on (Kill)Joy Street, unlike my father’s, was a good thing; however, sometimes, good things don't necessarily feel so good. This morning, I took my Mom’s little Blue Danube box into work, and I placed it on my desk. I had the rest of her china at home; however, sometimes it felt like that when things went to pieces, it was important to scatter the pieces everywhere and in time, like a jigsaw puzzle, you'd be able to put it all back together again, at least in your heart. ♥
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