Tenants Are Coming!

The month has disappeared quickly, even faster than anticipated. Work, work and more work at Stonepile. And in a few days, the first of two sets of tenants arrive. We are kind of ready, kind of laid back. There is too much nice stuff there to suffer a bad tenant. I know the real estate warning is not to leave it if I care, but we have, assuming only the best of intentions. Meanwhile, financial woes accrue and the job front is stalled, the house sale is stalled. When will it end? The tenants are coming. It gives us a reprieve, and rent. Not bad things in and of themselves.

Summer Time

". . . And the living is easy." So go the words to the song. The demands of getting to school on time and after school pick-up and activities, of homework, of square meals at normal times are relaxed. We can sleep as we choose, wake when we want, eat when where and as we wish. The sunsets come later, the dawns so early, the days are ever longer for a few more days. The temperatures are rising, today into the 90s, bonafide "summer" temperatures. I remember writing, once upon a time, "it was so hot, the dogshit melted down Beacon Hill." There will be thunderstorms this evening and the scent of ozone in the air. Dog laws have changed most of that for quite a while, and I doubt that shit can melt. Inside the apartment, the fan runs silently with sufficient force to make a significant difference. At the beach no one's been swimming. The water is still cold, not yet inviting. Birds chirp with abandon in city and by the shore. This is the opposite of winter, its harsh and brittle cares out of mind, far away. We know how quickly things can turn. We fear where the summer of our contentedness may lead us with June's easy living. But for now, lush green and soft air surround us, and all is well.

The Street Where You Live

People stop and stare, they don't bother me. There is nowhere in the world that I would rather be..." So I am walking up the street and around the corner I hear a voice, "Mr. W..." and I turn and see the friend of my daughter, along with her father and their dogs. I walk with them and they invite me inside, where I see the sister and the grandmother and the mother. It is so nice. It feels like home, a place where I am welcome, like family. I ask about the contest one girl went to last weekend; I ask about the graduation story her sister told before the school at her graduation. And then I learn of a social snubbing, and then about a grandmother who always told her children that they could do anything they set their hearts upon. And about another grandmother who said "no." Like my mother. Over and again. You are not good enough, you are nothing compared to your Dad." And see, both mothers had and impact. Now, as an adult, one says, get over it. But the damage was done; it is so much easier said than done. Yes I can, yes I can, yes I can. It is the little engine that could. In my house, I guess, I was the little engine that couldn't. So get over that. Question: can one get over thse paradigms, these blocks, all by oneself? Can one heal? Can one ever get past "go"? All seems possible on the street where you live.

Summer

School is out, as of Monday. The girls are at the summer house, along with the dogs. I am in a hot apartment in Providence, trying to orchestrate and organize my life. I wish I were at the shore, for sure. We are so tied up by real estate I cannot think. We cannot move from A to B to C until we sell A. And no one's offering, and the price goes down and down, and down some more, along with our cash and aspirations, our freedom to make good decisions, our peace of mind. Why us? On the surface of things, all is well enough, but one misstep and we are in big trouble, swimming in air, on the rocks: pick your own favorite scene of destruction. You know what? I think I'll go out for a walk and take in some fresh air. I am stewing in all these bad anticipations, and there is not a thing I can do to resolve the situation. Amean. Still time for change!

The Real Estate Business

Beware those who pose as "friends" while seeking to rob you in your vulnerability! Sally called last night, ecstatic that her decorator friend Nancy had said she was going to buy our house, warning Sally that she "would be putting in a low bid, and not to take it personally." And Sally, astute business woman that she is not, told her that we "could just say no" to the offer, that we "could all be friends." I think not, especially if an offer materializes with strings or an absurd amount. As I have yet to see the offer, I must not be too quick to judge. I can see the tire-kickers' waltz, the violins about to play, the pat on the back to see where to stick the knife.

This is the very same Nancy who had her friendly broker lowball the estimate for our house last summer, coming in a mere 50% below all other realtors in their estimate, while communnicating all this information within hours between themselves, before we, the owners, even knew the resultls of her appraisal. This is the same Nancy who offered to pay Sally "McDonald" fare while working together over the the winter and spring, who has less talent than her ability to manoevre and negotiate. This is the same Nancy who has clients paying her tens and perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars on gaudy and useless interior decorating projects all the while, whose husband is a distribution executive at Reader's Digest. This is not an impoverished "friend," but one who has larceny in her soul. All is not right in our little town. I do not trust this person. She knows too much about our pains, our vulnerability. We have confided in her over the months, as a friend. It is an equation that is out of balance, a train in the process of derailing. I can see the disaster many miles ahead: just wait. The sharks are circling. The table's set for feasting, and guess who's for dinner?

The Education Business

Orwell cautions the naive to remember that beneath all illusions and the veneer of altruism, private schools are businesses. The beds must be filled, the salaries of faculty must be paid, and classrooms must be built, maintained and heated. All that said, I will have my first encounter with a Head of School in the position of mendicant, seeking more time to pay what is due. The strongest arguments are legacy and performance. That is, four generations at the Wheeler School, and a straight-A report card in the 8th grade. An overzealous and aggressive business manager has threatened to take away Sophie's place next year if we don't pay the outstanding balance immediately. "You are using us as a bank," he said. "We have a waiting list for every grade," he threatened. Thus Orwell and my reality coincide. We have no option to pay on demand, although there are friends and relatives who might help us in the end. This will be a critical meeting of our minds.

The Real Deal

I've been worming about all my little problems and concerns these months, this fall, winter and spring. Poor business sense and judgement, I guess, my puny little problems. I just watched Pamela drive out of the parking lot with Ronald, on their way to Boston. She has breast cancer. Today she will learn whether she has a death sentence, or something curable, depending upon whether the cancer has metastasized or been caught before its spread to her organs. It's hit or miss.

All she knew, about a month ago or less, was that she had an unexplained rash on her chest. Otherwise, she was asymptomatic, feeling strong and healthy. Time for Change takes on new meaning in the company of death, the real deal. This woman seems to be as kind and gentle as anyone I know. Sweet, trusting, a woman of faith. There is no sense to make of her life-threatening cancer. Pam's predicament is not fair nor righteous nor just. Yes, I dare say this, not the religious cant that it is not for us to understand the ways of God. This is a cruel and meretricious sentence.

Pam drives with her husband to the hospital,Dana Farber, among the very best there is, but even the beste doctors there cannot save her if the disease has moved too fast, too far. She has no complicity in the diagnosis. It is black or white, she will die or live. It will be her ill-fortune or good luck, and that is all there is. Thumbs up or down. And if she is fortunate to receive a reprieve, then she will have her work cut out, just to survive the chemotherapy and surgery and stress. At that point, she will be complicit in her own survival, after her body's betrayal of her spirit, harboring this sureptitious disease. Now, for a few hours, she will not know her fate. The verdict the doctors, in a sense, her jury will find or what news they will deliver. Right now, she can hope for is the much better of the terrible news, that she can live an uncircumscribed, longer life, or not. They have not yet told her sister of the news. This is an ugly piece of work. Right now, there is nothing more to say. We wait.