Lou at work. The cats are fed and sleeping . . .
silence . . . a good cup of coffee in easy reach. Four realtors came
through this weekend, each at different times, with their prospective
buyers. No visible signs of interest yet . . . people just looking,
until something feels right, or is as good as it gets. We will lose
money on the deal, having bought on the upswing, some stock as well. We
went soaring then came crashing down like Icarus . . . totally
clueless—as so many of us were! Sixty thousand dollars disappeared,
almost overnight. Where the hell did it go? Someone must have it. Who
has it? The brokers made money. Got us on your way up and again on
way down, commissions, buy or sell. Are they the middle class? So many
of us would describe ourselves as middle class. My father thought he was
middle class. He was welding foreman at a Shell Oil refinery. But it seemed middle class. He put a son through college, owned a home, had a nice car and steady job. The fifties were a very different world, not necessarily a better one, but sure as hell different. . . and not so long ago.
If you have to get up early in the morning and not be late for work. If
you get a paycheck. If you need this job. If you commute to get to it . .
. If you have to be there. You are the working class--the vast majority of people on this
planet . . . been that way since time began. Only the scenery changes . . .
the acts remain the same.
I’ve had the feeling we would sell the house on the 3rd week. This week is our
third week coming up I think. It will be interesting to see. We must
leave the house when people come, but realtors are only asking thirty
minutes or less for people to look around. It’s easy to lose that much time,
diversions and errands. Shopping, filling station, cleaners. We went to
see Lincoln this weekend. One of the most boring movies I have ever sat
through. Lou loved it—thought it was wonderful. Being Swedish helped, I
think, a much less familiar story for her.
The cats continue to locked away in the small bedroom during our ever more
frequent absents. Bucks hates it. Amber likes her place on
the tree we’ve stashed by the window. She loves heat . . . to lay in the
sun. Her fur is soft and deep and warm. I pet her a just a few strokes,
if I risk more she will get up. I want her where she is, on her back,
slightly curved, feet in the air, basking in a shaft of sunlight. What a
Maybe it’s her utter state of peace that so attracts me. I want days
when there is nothing to be done. To be at home, a normal life again . .
. no stress and no not knowing. Home at last, home at last, Thank God
I’m home at last! Maybe it never really gets that good, but our next
moves will be made in search of temporary pleasures out of choice and
not require new houses. It will be another year at least before I reach
that state. Faster for Lou I think. She will be, ‘home at last’ after
fourteen years. A major change for her, as was her coming here . . .
except she spoke the language long before arrival.
Bucks sits on the other side of the small bedroom's door and
pounces like a Dallas linesman when it’s opened, attempting to bolt
between the legs of an unwary realtor. He’s made it once, and will again
I’m sure. It must be getting like a game to him, the different people
looking in—sort of a reverse Jack in the Box. He waits . . .What do his
cat-like instincts tell him of this human . . . or that one? What kind
of trick will work? The women faun on him, ‘Oh he’s so cute,’ which
makes it a problem. They get in the way. Men realtors are more
stand-offish and offer a better chance of escape.