Once, my son, the plains were dotted with them
My real estate agent asked if I would mind letting my buyer in to take some measurements last night. And I said, “I thought buyers and sellers were like matter and antimatter…” and she said, “I think this will be okay.”
Which it was, because as it turns out, my buyer is the nicest kid you could hope to meet. Twenty-six, single, currently living with his folks about a mile away. He described himself proudly as an “auto body technician” — which is how the local trade school describes this noble profession in their TV ads. (He’s restoring a 1966 Dodge Dart; the two-car garage was a selling point).
But the real selling point for him? All the little 1940’s gracenotes that made me fall in love with the house: the fixtures, the tile, the woodwork. I was just sure some ignorant boo-boo would buy this place and gut it, but he’s keeping the lot…right down to my beloved Delta kitchen faucet (“the chrome…!” he sighed). An elderly plumber unclogging my drains once called his apprentice to come and stare at this great American classic, one of the last ever spotted in the wild.
I don’t know where Mister Autobody Technician got his aesthetic sensibilities, but he didn’t miss a single architectural quirk of Weasel Manor.
So that’s good. Sure I’m getting reamed — but at least I get a nice, respectful young man for the job.
October 1, 2008 — 8:18 am
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