Old, Red, Brick House

 
About seven years ago my next door neighbor at the time told me they were moving.  He wondered if I knew anyone who wanted to buy their house.  I told them I could think of a few people and asked them to keep us posted.  About a year later, they finally got around to actually moving.  My neighbor asked if we wanted to take a tour of the house.  We agreed, thinking we could tell our friends about it.

Upon finishing the inspection, my neighbor tore a sheet of paper from a notebook.  “This is our offer to you,” he said, handing me the sheet.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, laughing.

He continued with his speech.  “We are giving you a good deal and won’t negotiate on the price.”

“But we aren’t in the market to buy a house,” I insisted.

“If you want the house,” he said with conviction, “this is the price.  Let us know your decision in the next few days.”

I was stunned by the odd conversation.  “Okay, thanks,” I replied, shaking my head.  “We will look this over.”

We went home but didn’t think much about it.  Nancy did make a comment about how the kitchen was bigger than ours.  And I may have wondered aloud a few times as to what they were thinking.  But we were definitely not in the market to buy a new home – at least not for a few hours anyway.


The very next day, I walked past the house and it seemed to call out to me.  “Look over here,” it whispered.  I turned my head to look and suddenly got a strange idea.  I pulled out my phone and called my dad in Oregon.

“Hello.”

“Dad, do you want to live in my house?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to rent it or buy it?”

“Buy it.”

“Okay, I’ll call you back later.”  Click.

The next day I called my next door neighbor and said we’d take it.


About four weeks later it was a done deal.  After closing, Nancy and I walked through the house and talked about what we would do with each of the rooms.  I had been in the house several times over the years, but this time was different.  Most recently, I had helped carry numerous armloads of stuff out to the moving van, parked out in the driveway.  In all those trips in and out of the house, I didn’t really think about it being mine.  I guess the superstitious part of me didn’t want to jinx things by getting too wrapped up in it before it was official.

But now the house was ours, and this gave the familiar spaces a different feel than before.  We ended our tour of the house in the kitchen.  I realized there how pleasantly satisfied I was with the purchase.  Without really thinking about what we were getting ourselves into, we had actually stumbled on a great find.  “I like this house,” I said.

Nancy gave me a look that I understood roughly as, “We just bought a house, before you were sure you liked it?”

“It’s a great house,” I said.  “I think we did pretty well.”

“Yes we did,” she agreed.  “I can’t believe you are just figuring that out.”

“Everything happened too fast,” I suggested.  “I just went with the gut on this one, and it turned out to be a good thing.”

In reply, she just gave me another look.


Years later, I have come to realize this whole thing was less about the choice I made to go with the gut, and more about our good neighbors, who were really looking out for us.  They knew the house was better for our growing family, they understood prices were going up faster than most people could afford, They knew we loved the neighborhood, and they also knew we would take care of the old place like they would approve.  I suspect they decided months, if not years earlier, that we were the ones for the house.  It turns out our good neighbors were right.  They slowly made things happen, and in time, we finally fell in step with the way they had things planned.

And by the way, it has been, and still is a great house.

Grampa Next Door

This is a repost from my old blog, dated June 7, 2009.

Today my dad took a couple of the youngest children for a walk.  Not ten steps past our driveway, still in front of our house, the preschooler fell down.

I was sitting in the kitchen nook when it happened, watching them head slowly up the street.  An overgrown flower bed blocked my view so I didn’t actually see him hit the ground.  My dad quickly leaned down and helped him up.  By the look on my sons face, it was easy to tell he had gone down hard.  He stood there, red faced and crying, while my dad brushed the dirt and bits of gravel off his clothing.  5, 10, 15 seconds passed while my son stood sobbing.  All the while, my dad knelt beside him, brushing his clothes.

Eventually the crying ended and the red in my son’s face subsided to its natural color.  As they continued on their journey, hand in hand up the road, I considered the relationship between this unlikely pair of neighbors and friends.

For most of my life, my dad has lived hundreds of miles away from me.   For the most part, our time together could be counted in hours, days or weeks, with an occasional month long visit at summer time.  My son was just barely born when my dad moved into the house next door.  This was a big and welcome change for all of us.  While it may have been new and unusual for most of us, to my son, who has lived his entire life in a house next door to his Grampa, this arrangement is perfectly normal.

Ever since he was old enough to let himself out of the house, my son could be found hanging out at my dad’s house.  The first few times he got out, we panicked and ran out into the yard and street, calling his name and thinking the worst had happened.  Each time, we eventually found him at my dad’s house, working in the yard, eating a snack at the kitchen table, or listening to my dad read a book or play the guitar. 

Even now, at least once a day, he will slink away next door for a visit or a treat.  And, since those first scary experiences, my dad has learned to let us know where the little guy is as soon as he gets there.   

Recently, my dad took a week off work to get his yard in shape.  My son would spend hours over there every day, chatting with Dad and working in the yard.  When my dad finally went back to work, his preschooler buddy was very distressed and sulked around the house for several hours.

Lest you think this relationship is all one sided, listen to this.  On several occasions, my dad, who will be 65 this week, has mentioned how much he enjoys having my son come and visit him.  Of course it’s great to get a visit now and then from a grandson.  And yes, clearly one is in charge, while the other is aimlessly following him around (but, even these rolls change from time to time).  All said, they really do seem to enjoy one another’s company as good, old friends should. 

I suspect the enjoyment of one another’s company is most of what makes this friendship work – or any friendship for that matter.  It’s the spending time with someone you like – and who likes you back just as much – that makes a friendship a friendship.

If all goes as planned – and of course things rarely go as planned – I imagine we have about 15 years or so until this four year old son heads out into the world on his own.  It will be interesting to watch his relationship with my dad as it evolves over those 15 years and beyond. 

As a very young boy, my dad and his mother lived for a short time with his own grandfather.  Now, over 60 years later, he often talks with great fondness about this period of his life.  He very much loved his grandfather and is thankful for the many firsthand memories he has of him.  I am thankful as well, that my children will have similar memories of growing up next door to their own Grampa.