Junk Drawer

Two wrenches, one ruler.

One stapler, jammed.

Fifteen pens and a lonely highlighter.

Pruning shears, small,

recently released from incarceration

in the garden shed.

Gift cards, business cards,

appointment cards. A hammer.

A Leatherman: the awkward

Jack-of-all-tools, but master of none.

Packages of tiny beads that morph

into marble-sized colored spheres

amazing all and sundry, but mostly me.

Allen wrenches and Lilliputian

screwdrivers for delicate jobs...

A box cutter for less-demanding ones.

One Noah figure

(and one Noah arm)

inexplicably separated on the ark.

Scotch tape, duct tape, decorative tape,

sticking together through thick and thin.

Keys. More keys. and yet more keys

unlocking the secrets of the ages..

or the back door of another house.

Receipts. Coupons. Phone numbers.

Twelve small black pellets of mysterious origin

and no apparent use.

A veritable variety store 

of pennies, buttons, magnets,

pins, binder clips, matches,

sticky notes.

And two harmonicas

Humming sad histories of

the forgotten.

Again.

Those of you dear readers who have followed our trials and tribulations over the years know that we move a lot. Thirteen or fourteen times (depending on whether you count some of the smaller ones) in 43 years. We've moved enough times in Alexandria that I half expect a garden club to call and tell us the theme for their house tour this year is Houses Where the McElveens Have Lived in Alexandria. (Four, if you were wondering. Five when we find the next place.)

So you would think we've seen it all, right? No. Every time, there is a wrinkle we did not foresee, or a problem we encounter. Every time is different, and that is what real estate stories are made of.

You've heard about the house that wouldn't sell for nearly four months--at which point a client walked through and asked who to make the check out to. He and his wife, ever since the 'For Sale' sign went up, had been working overtime, borrowing from family, and devoting themselves full-time to scraping enough money together to buy our house. I wish we had known.

Then there was the one that sold overnight while we were flying to Kay's graduation in Tucson. We put it on the market and boarded our plane. We landed and went to our hotel, only to find our phone blinking with the message that we had a contract. And there was the other one that sold--again, practically its first day on the market--in spite of a deluge that turned our backyard into a lake. We had three offers on that one.

Buying had its moments, too. Our first house in Old Town was one that we saw in late January, bought, and moved into before most of our friends even knew we were looking. We spent our first six months there explaining to friends that we had moved--and why. In another instance, we set what must be the land-speed record on a house purchase. We landed in Phoenix around noon, called our agent in Tucson (who we'd never met), met her for lunch 2 hours later, looked at houses for about an hour, decided on one, put in an offer and had it accepted--and were checked into our hotel and looking around for a dinner spot by 5 PM-- a full day and a half ahead of our schedule.

Our house is on the market now, and things have been moving slowly. At least for those of us who had gotten used to overnight sales. It's been two months plus, and, while we had a nibble the first weekend, we countered their (low) offer and they walked away. Then we had an out-of-town couple who 'LOVED'' our house (as who wouldn't?) and have visited it twice (and LOVED it still) and compared it to places in Georgetown (and keep coming back to us, professing their LOVE..). They went back to Connecticut to mull it over, then sent their agent with a contractor to figure out if they could make a few changes. I stuck around to answer any questions. Their changes amounted to almost a full gut of the house; more specifically, the 1st and 3rd floors, with smaller but significant changes on 2.  THEN, after a few more mulling days, they hopped in the car and drove back here from Connecticut to meet with an architect and a new contractor, both of whom visited--with them--the house that they still profess to LOVE. And then, no offer. Either they were (excuse me) fucking with us in a very expensive (for them) fashion, or they had the weirdest approach to home-buying we've ever seen. There was once a Broadway show entitled, "I Love You; You're Perfect; Now, Change!" I think these people may have seen that show--or written it.

And now, we are expecting....nothing. No one in their right mind would buy this house at our asking price--or even at an acceptably lower negotiated price--and then proceed to spend even more to revamp it. And yet...who would come all the way from Connecticut --TWICE!--for anything they weren't serious about? Or, if they were planning a low-ball offer, at least testing the waters with a low bid? (Note: these folks ultimately moved on to annoy and exasperate other sellers..) In recent weeks, we had another second-time viewer who also wanted to make changes--which did not bode well for a full-price (or even close) offer. And they didn't make one.  Our urban townhouse had no room for them to store their kayaks. (KAYAKS??!!??) Nothing is guaranteed in the world of real estate except irrationality..

So, we're back in limbo, a familiar location for buyers and sellers. We can't move ahead and we can't go back--at least until something happens. And what is happening is precisely nothing.

Limbo is almost worse than hell.

Who, What, When, Where, How

I can no longer write tragic poems

that ask why.

I no longer want to hear the news

that asks when and where and how.

I know the what.

I know the who.

I wish I could forget all the whos—

forget the lost:

their parents, friends, and children,

their loved ones, those bereft..

And I want to forget the other whos—

the blamers, the hate-filled voices

that say they had it coming

(that God somehow

forgot he loved us ALL)

those whos who lift up words

or guns or even laws

that mete out punishment

for the innocent.

I can no longer write of tragedy

that has become a commonplace.

We hear the news:

the wheres, the whos,

the hows, the whens.

We know the whys.

We’ve been here before.

Teacher Appreciation Day

It’s been a long time since I slid my knees under a desk, sat up straight, and riveted my attention on a blackboard, but I can still remember the names (and often the foibles) of all my teachers, from Sister Catherine Philomena in first grade to Sister Berchmans in organic chemistry in college. I remember the ones I loved, the ones who scared me witless (that was you, Sister Fulgentia!) and the ones who taught me nothing except patience with their dithering. (No names, but a certain math teacher comes to mind.)

To all these ladies and gentlemen, I offer my apologies…for my youthful inattention, my rush to judgment when your teaching bored (or at least didn’t inspire) me, for my failure to appreciate your sacrifices.  Kids don’t always understand that teachers have lives outside the classroom, that they have bad days, and pressure from all fronts, and sometimes, are as unwilling to be in that classroom as the most restless of their students. (This is where a sense of humor comes in handy.)

Even more, I offer my congratulations. Who else has managed a career that is (in the eyes of most observers) a thankless, poorly-paid, demanding (both physically and emotionally and time-wise)  frustrating job where you are consistently judged by a jury of people who know nothing about education and could (they think) do a much better job of it than you? Forget congratulations—bring out the medals. Big gold saucer-sized ones.

I’ve lived on both sides of the desk, and am the richer for it. As a student, I learned STUFF: the facts and figures and relationships and thinking skills to make my way in the world. As a teacher, I learned different kinds of lessons. I learned about life and how to manage mine and others’; how to cram 30 hours of work (and more) into a 24-hour day. I learned how unfair the world could be for the disadvantaged, whether that disadvantage took physical or financial or emotional or intellectual form. I learned what an influence a single teacher could be by watching my colleagues change lives on a daily basis, simply by listening and encouraging and, yes, by demanding that kids live up to their high expectations.

No one knows what teachers do unless they have been down in the trenches with them. No one appreciates a teacher until they have saved your child—or you—through their hard work, their compassion, their belief in the basic goodness of those they teach. It is not all homework and grades and discipline and classroom management. It’s not all books and lesson-plans and meetings and parent conferences. Teaching is all of these, but so much more. It’s caring and dedication and an incredible amount of tolerance for the crap that comes your way, often in torrents.

Go ahead. Thank a teacher.

House Ghost

I haunt a house. And the house is mine. I drift from room to room and never leave a trace--no rumpled bed, no empty teacup or random spoon on the table: only an occasional breath of fresh flowers or lemon furniture polish. When visitors come, I disappear, only to return when all is quiet once again. I do not exist.

I am a phantom, living/not living in a house that is for sale. How strange it is that, to sell a house for people to live in, we must first pretend that no one lives there. Strip the place of personality, of family activity and pictures. Pristine rooms, devoid of habitation. Polished sinks and fixtures; gleaming counters and shining windows.  We achieve the common denominator with which buyers can identify. And then...disappear.

I have to wonder what they say as they wander our rooms and observe the spectral outlines of our lives. Do they notice the maps, the arks, the beautiful turned-wood bowls? Do they skim the titles of our books and magazines and imagine who we are?  Why are they moving? Do they aspire to a different life, a life like ours, full of interests that range from Shakespeare and theater to Dick Francis, to Western Exploration, to poetry. Do these casual observers record the secret places, like the window where I  watch the squirrels scurry up and down the willow oak to their nest? Or the chair by the patio door where I can see the fat robin splashing in the fountain? Do they notice that, in the afternoon, the sun hits the prism of the foyer light and spills rainbows in the hall? Probably not.

Someone will buy this place, I know. It's a matter of time and finance, of income and outgo, supply and demand. Papers will be signed and exchanged, and money will zip along electronic trails to different banks and different pockets.  Squirrels and robins and rainbows will continue, unobserved.

I will be gone, revivified in a new house, full of new discovery--ghost no more.