Sometimes what you see is not all that you get. Sometimes you make a purchase with a little sumpin’ sumpin’ thrown in for good measure.
We closed on our house on December 29th, but the
turn of events would be more Halloween-ish than Christmas-ish.
After not eating breakfast at a local diner, due to nervous tummies, Rob
and I headed over to our attorney’s office in Eastchester. We were dressed in
full business attire, because we were, after all, about to become property
owners. This was serious. This was the biggest financial transaction of
our lives, at least the biggest transaction with our own money. We
were about to purchase a house on nine one-hundredths of an acre of land. That was a lot of one-hundredths of an acre
of ownership (for us). This was our 40 Acres
and a Mule moment, (hold the mule) by New York standards. Immense.
We arrived at our attorney’s office. I had enjoyed working with our attorney,
Christopher, though it was also my first time really working with (read: paying
for) an attorney. He helped us get this
closing in under the wire of a tax year quickly coming to an end. Despite our professional dress, Christopher
greeted us in a hokey reindeer pullover sweater (granted it was a cold day),
and introduced us to his notary, a guy donning a too-small black velvet blazer,
which made him look like a lounge singer or a valet parker, or a guy who does
both in between notary engagements. Our
mortgage broker was also there, and he was rocking that fine line between business
casual and the festive holiday red and green color scheme. In the opponent’s dugout was our soon-to-be
home’s seller, Mrs. Reinhardt, in a white and red Mrs. Santa Claus parka outfit
with her post-cateract surgery sunglasses, her daughter, dressed
normally, and their attorney, apparently a friend of the family, and a smartly
dressed professional, the only one in the room taking ‘billable hours’
seriously. Missing from this picture, to
my surprise, was the real estate agent, on her big commission day. I say “the” agent and not “our” agent because
she was working for us but this house was also her listing, so the seller’s
agent and the buyer’s agent was one and the same. This is a bad situation I would recommend
avoiding at all costs.
Sitting in Christopher’s conference room, we filled out
about 5 trees-worth of papers, while the seller, her daughter, their attorney,
the valet/notary and our attorney had a mini Eastchester High School reunion
and chit-chatted about the teachers they had, who was still coaching what varsity
team and which teachers they knew who were still teaching there now. We were clearly the outsiders. Well I was clearly the outsider. I’ve learned much of ’good’ Westchester is
filled with two kinds of people: those that left the Bronx, and those that left
the ‘bad’ parts of Westchester. I’m
still not sure what constitutes ‘bad’ Westchester, but if you live in
Westchester and send your kids to private school, you must live in a ‘bad’
section. ‘Good’ sections are those where
the residents freely utilize their public school district. At the closing, we had two Eastchester school
district-graduated attorneys, so it couldn’t be that bad of a school district, even if one was
wearing a reindeer sweater.
There was some more chit chat about our walk-through in the
house the prior evening and by the way, where was the door bell? Initially confused by my question, the
Reinhardts realized they had packed up the chime box of the door bell, so that
was settled. The doorbell wasn’t your
typical ‘ding-dong’ sound, no, it played songs when you rang it, so I was sad
to see that little nugget of charm walk out of our lives. Perhaps noting some pettiness in my question
about the doorbell, the seller’s attorney passed a comment about “Kicking an
elderly woman out of her house at the holidays”. Hey, I can’t help it if the holidays
coincide with the end of the tax year.
They do every year so let’s wrap this up. We
went into contract 2.5 months ago so let’s get moving, and there was a first
time home buyers’ tax credit on the table and 72 hours left in this tax year so
let’s cut the chit chat and close already.
Then two unique events occurred at our closing. I had brought a bouquet of irises for Mrs.
Reinhardt. She was selling us her house
of 55 years, she was 85 years old and recently widowed. Mr. and Mrs. Reinhardt had bought this house
during the Eisenhower administration in their early 30’s to raise their
family. We were
buying this same house during our early 30’s. As yet an unmarried couple, times had changed,
Obama was president, and we house-hunted
on line. If I was having separation anxiety from my
rented studio apartment of six years, I am sure Mrs. Reinhardt was going
through a lot, even if she had her poker face on behind those huge, dark
glasses. During the walk through, it was
evident Mrs. Reinhardt had left her floral curtains up all over the house, and
her fake flowers all over the bathrooms and even in the back yard. She loved flowers. I’m not sure she loved fake ones more than
real ones, or if that was just a matter of convenience. So I brought the lady some real flowers. Our lawyer was touched, even the valet/notary
was touched, as was the hard-nosed seller’s attorney, and of course the
Reinhardts as well. It was the least I
could do.
In this warm-fuzzy post-holiday moment of sharing = caring,
Mrs. Reinhardt decided to share something with the rest of us. Her husband had died earlier in the year and
loved their house very much. His passing
prompted her to sell after all, but not before she spread his ashes over the
back yard.
Silence. Pin-drop
silence. Stunned silence all around the
room. I think the two attorneys were
quickly spinning their wheels to make sure the disposition of human remains on
the property didn’t nullify the transaction.
The papers were signed. The
checks were handed over. Did we all just
hear what we think we heard? Did we just
exchanged a bunch of money for nine one-hundredths of an acre (no mule) and a
sacred burial ground?
We closed on our house in December when the days are
shortest and the nights are long and we had no reason to be in the back yard. We went through a paint and plaster repair
job. We hung new curtains, we unpacked, we
moved in. That first spring time in our
house I’d go in the back yard with a suspicious eye like I was going to see
something out of place. Though I
eventually threw out all the fake flowers (placed amongst the real ones) in the
yard, I have never touched the other knick knacks left behind in the yard, like
the fake birds or the plaque with the sun on it or the ceramic frog, or the
wind chimes, and especially not the American flags. Mr. Reinhardt was a WWII vet and employed by
the Eastchester Fire Department. He
could be anywhere. He is
everywhere. Rob has felt a ‘presence’. The
cats sometimes watch things I can’t see move around the room, and then Nick
would do the same. Other friends have felt a ‘presence’. Sometimes even skeptical me has even felt a
‘presence’. The presence probably spends
most of its time in the littlest bedroom, which is the guest room, so come on over
and stay a night or two!
