Last week I wrote about the process of preparing our Irvington house for sale. The owner of a ranch-style home on three quarters of an acre in nearby Warren Park had accepted our First Right offer. This meant that whoever showed up with a better offer could beat us unless we could proceed to closing. However, we had to have our house sold to do that.
Gloria Kohlmeyer who lived up the street was our excellent Realtor and did everything possible to hasten a sale. She even roasted a turkey in our oven during an open house so that the house would smell yummy and homey.
Our first right was due to expire in two weeks, and the owner told his Realtor who had been one of my former students in French that he wouldn’t extend it. Talk about stress! When I became a Realtor I understood the stress that owners and buyers suffer.
People who lived a block away looked at our house because they’d outgrown theirs. Meanwhile, we started a new round of cleaning and furbishing. Dishevelment was the disorder of the day when Gloria called one afternoon: “The buyers want to come back in an hour for a second showing.” “They can’t,” I shrieked. “The house is a mess! The beds aren’t made; the dishes aren’t done; Bill’s repainting something; and I’m dirty from weeding flowers.” “You have to let them come. A second showing means they’re serious. I think this is it! I’ll be down to help.”
She rushed in the front door, shouting, “I’ll take the upstairs, you do the down.” She ran upstairs, made beds, straightened up and tidied the bathroom. Bill and I took out the trash, ran through the downstairs with the vacuum cleaner, washed the countertops and the sink, and stashed the dirty dishes in the oven.
We sneaked out the back door as the buyers arrived and went to Gloria’s house where her husband, Harold, stirred up a much-appreciated pitcher of margaritas. We were having a merry time that became even merrier when the other Realtor called and said that she was writing an offer.
Thinking about one memory is akin to pulling fish on a stringer from the pond that exists at the center of one’s being: When Bill and I first lived on Ritter there was a big house up the street that had been converted to one-room apartments rented by single men. I always found it rather spooky when I went there to register people to vote.
Optimist Harold Kohlmeyer bought the trashy place and worked miracles. In addition to being a judge, Harold was a master craftsman who did his own work as his hobby. He put down gorgeous parquet floors, installed tiles from Spain around the fireplace, and built a wonderful kitchen and a new bathroom.
While putting in a new brick driveway, he had a pile of bricks in the front yard. About two o’clock one Sunday morning, he was awakened by a loud noise. “Ker-blam! . . . blam! – - – blam! . . . blam! . . .” A couple of drunk guys were stealing his bricks and throwing them into a truck. Harold called the police. One of the policemen said to the drunks, “Do you know whose house this is?” “Naw.” “It belongs to a judge, that’s who!” “Oh, – - – -!”
Harold remarried a few years later, but, alas, he died suddenly in New York City. His widow called me, “I’d like you to list the house.” “Are you sure you’re ready? Yes, I need to move on with my life.” “I’d be honored.”
Listing such an exquisite house is an exciting part of being a Realtor. However, there is another side. She and I both cried so much that I had to rewrite the listing contract. wclarke@comcast.net