The word “Realtor” comes from real property — i.e. the land and permanent structures and should be pronounced “Reeltor” rather than “Real-a-tor.” Really proficient Realtors have real estate in the back of their minds 24/7. In fact, it is easy to become obsessed with it. They love to exchange war stories, and Vicki and I shared some when she and Tom were here for the weekend.
I heard a mega-producer from Houston with $50 million in yearly sales speak at a convention. She said, “When the buyer and I got out of my car the owners’ yappy little mutt ran up and bit the client on the ankle. The man pulled out a gun and shot the dog.” “What did you do?” someone asked. “I called the owners, made an abject apology and ended up buying them one of the most expensive breeds of dog in the world.”
Another dog story: One of my colleagues came into the office one Monday and moaned, “I had a horrible time yesterday. I had an open house at one of my listings. A dog went in when I opened the door, greeted visitors and napped in front of the fireplace. When I opened the door after the open house it ran out. It had started to rain and was very muddy. The owner wouldn’t be home till late. I figured he wouldn’t want his dog left out, so I chased it down — I was wearing my best suit and high heels, of course — and dragged it back into the house. Late that night, the owner called: “What did you mean by letting my neighbor’s blankety-blank dog in the house. It got mud all over everything!”
Realtors deal with a lot more than land, boards and bricks. They have a rather unique entry into people’s lives. Some of our stories weren’t funny because life isn’t always amusing. Vicki told about a closing where an elderly couple sold their little Lake Shafer home that they dearly loved and had updated and decorated with all sorts of pretty little touches. The lady had suffered a debilitating stroke, and they needed to move closer to their son. Vicki said, “I felt so sorry for them because they were so very sad.”
When I was a girl I’d hear my mother say, “So-and-so is breaking up housekeeping.” That’s probably an old-fashioned saying, but I have come to understand what it means and its great poignancy.
Breaking up housekeeping can be as heart-wrenching as breaking up a marriage or relationship because people are giving up their homes and possessions. They’re leaving behind their neighborhood and neighbors, their favorite chairs and furniture, their knickknacks and crafts, their stoves, their pots and pans, their spices, their jams and jellies, their sewing machines, their beds, their sheets and towels, their china and silverware, their books and photographs, their fishing equipment and games, their flower beds, their automobiles and all the other familiar and comfortable possessions collected over a lifetime.
We should own possessions, but in a way our possessions own us because they have become woven into the very fabric of our lives.
Also, people leave behind the chores to which they were accustomed such as cooking, cleaning, raking the leaves and shopping. They have too much time on their hands, too little to think about and lose the capacity, the will and the energy to do anything about it. They must abandon their lifestyles and their independence. Someone else will determine when and what they will eat and when and where they will go.
We need to think — really think — about our lives, look into ourselves, develop strategies to shape our future while we still can. I am approaching 78 and feel the chill wind of old age at the fringe of my existence. I ask myself, “How I can avoid the above sad scenario?” I mustn’t tarry. wclarke@comcast.net