Reflections on the Fourth Week of Spring

    Wire rim glasses halfway down his nose and a soft smile lifting the ends of his lips, Paul, our Howard Hanna Realtor, arrived at our Cleveland house fifteen minutes early Tuesday. On his first visit in September, he'd made several suggestions in each room. This time he walked around the house and nodded. Then we sat in the back bedroom, the only room with furniture. He asked questions. Do you know of any lead issues? Are there any arguments over the property? Has the house ever been inspected for mold? Did you have water in the basement in the last five years? He checked boxes. Spence and I signed and initialed. Paul gathered the papers, slipped them into his brief case, and said, “Now I just have to put the for sale sign in the front yard and take one picture. I'll send our photographer later. I'm not good with a camera.”

    “Janet takes great pictures,” Spence said. “She can take pictures for you.”

   Paul's eyebrows rose. “Great. Email them to me.”

    Under bright blue skies, I snapped photos of the the house and the garage from several angles. Inside took longer. I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom and picked loose pile off the newly installed carpet before taking pictures of the second floor. I cleared porch clutter, swept the cement floor, washed the French door windows, and scrubbed the hardwood dining room floor before taking first floor photos.

    On Wednesday, with a badge pinned to his shirt and clipboard clutched in his hand, Steve, the Cleveland Heights Housing Inspector, arrived on time. He read aloud an item on the inspection checklist (a violation we had to correct). Spence led him to that part of the house. Steve looked at the work, checked the box, and read the next item. In ten minutes he cleared all violations.

    Two hours later, wearing heavy shoes and neat khaki work clothes, Eric, the Junk Gone Today owner, arrived. He turned off the gas to the old stove with only two working burners. His crew rolled the stove out the front door, down the steps, and to the street. They moved junk in the back of their truck then hefted–clunk, crash–the stove into place.

    Eric looked Spence and me in the eyes. “With the lever in this position, the gas is off. If you push it down,” he pushed the lever down and rotten egg odor escaped into the room, “the gas comes on. You don't want to do that.”

    Spence drove to the hardware store to buy a one-inch cap for the pipe. Since he'd forgotten his tool box, he didn't have the pipe wrench and vice grip to remove the sleeve near the end of the pipe so the cap could screw on tight. The hardware store guys agreed with Spence, and he assured me, that as long as the valve was closed, we could leave the cap off with no harm till he fetched his tools from Wells Wood.

    I opened doors to clear the air and scrubbed the kitchen walls, fridge, cupboards, sink, floor, and trim. I even removed an accumulation of crumbs and dust which had accumulated under the blade of our new, unused dishwasher. Then I scrubbed the stairs to the basement, swept the laundry room, and cleaned the back bedroom before taking more photos.

    When I walked to the truck for our ride back to Wells Wood, trim boards and a box of nails behind the house diverted me. I stowed them in the garage which Spence had cleaned and organized.

    We left the house Mom Dot clean.

    Friday, Spence made a solo trip to the Cleveland with a punch list. Gas cap was first. He also removed a branch, moss, and lichen from the garage roof, spread straw over grass seed he'd planted, and built a raised bed over the snake pit (ivy growing at the bottom of a tree). A stack of five-page brochures entitled “Presenting . . . 2389 Rinard Road Cleveland Heights” sat on the kitchen counter.

    Spence brought me a brochure. Seventeen of my color photos were artfully arranged on its pages.

    I sit and study the brochure again and again. Waiting for a buyer is the hard part.