Bill is a perfectionist which sometimes poses difficulties. When Vicki turned eighteen it was time to downsize. We did what we could to make our turn-of-the-century charmer appealing: We painted rooms; Bill put heavy wallpaper on a problem wall; I painted the basement stair steps red and put black treads on them; we decluttered the attic, the basement and the garage. I paste-waxed the furniture, scrubbed the floors and generally cleaned, cleaned, cleaned — not my favorite pastime — for weeks. The whole house gleamed. The dining room table was set with our best china and sterling silver. I picked every flower that I could find so that there were bouquets throughout the house. All was perfection!
Well . . . almost perfection.
Two days before the house was to be shown, Bill said, “You know, the traffic area in the dining room floor in front of the kitchen door should be sanded and refinished.” I replied, “It’s good enough the way it is.” (A phrase that I’ve often used during our marriage.)
The next day I took the bus down town. When I was walking home Bill drove past. He slowed down, stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Don’t go in the dining room!” I knew — oh yes I knew! — exactly what had happened. By the time I reached the house, I’d developed a full head of steam.
Sure enough, he’d rented a sander, and the instant he turned it on, sawdust was laid down on every surface in the house. The paste-waxed furniture, the sparkling china, the glowing silver, Mother’s cranberry goblets, the shining chandelier, the woodwork, and the hardwood floors no longer gleamed. The lamp shades, the clean draperies, the freshly dusted shelves of books, and the kitchen and bathroom fixtures were all covered with dust. Everything had to be done over. Murder, suicide and divorce were contemplated in turn.
Panic struck both us and Gloria, our Realtor, when our first right of refusal on the house in Warren Park was about to run out, and we’d had few showings. We offered a bonus to any Realtor who produced a buyer and started a new round of cleaning.
The house was a mess; the beds were unmade; the kitchen was littered with dirty dishes. I pulled weeds in the flower beds in my bare feet while Bill and Vicki ran errands. Gloria called, “Rose Mary, the buyers’ Realtor called. They want to come back in twenty minutes for a second showing.” “They can’t!” I shrieked. This place is a mess, and I’m filthy!” Gloria said, “You have to let them come. I think this is it! I’m coming down.” She ran in the front door, yelling, “I’ll take the upstairs, you do the down!” We threw things in drawers, closets and cabinets. Dirty dishes went in the fridge since most buyers don’t look there. I sneaked out over the fence when they arrived and went up the street to Gloria’s house where her husband mixed a pitcher of much appreciated margaritas.
The house sold that day. Gloria, the owner of the Warren Park house, his Realtor, Diane, who was a former student of mine, and we all went out to dinner after the closing and had a merry evening.
A funny story about someone whom I fondly remember: Gloria’s husband, Judge Harold Kohlmeyer, was an expert craftsman. He had several hundred bricks and stacked in his front yard, planning to install a brick driveway. Late one Saturday night he awakened to the sound of “blam . . . blam . . . kerbang!” He looked out the window. Two drunks were trying to steal his bricks and were throwing them into a truck. Harold called the police. When the police arrived, they said to the thieves, “Do you know that the man who owns this house is a judge?” One of them said, “Aw, expletive deleted!” wclarke@comcast.net