Deal is null and void

The potential buyers have not been able to gather a deposit so the deal is off.

Here we go again. Last night two couples came through the house. Today two more. 

House selling saga continues

Yesterday I was a mess of energy, trying not to worry about house deal. 

At around two in the afternoon, I heard that the couple want the house, will take off the "subject to inspection" but didn't have the deposit money. I thought this irresponsible but Helen told me that once she was in a similar position - so much to think about when purchasing a house that she forgot about the deposit.  

The potential buyers have until 5 pm on Thursday to find the money otherwise the deal is null and void. 

So the waiting continues...

Flying

On Friday, returning from Albi I drove by a field of sunflowers with faces open to the sun - the first I've seen this year.

On Saturday, I flew to Vancouver via London into Rob's arms. Later that evening, my amazing Gill came home to welcome me. 

I didn't intend to come home until July 3rd but we had another offer on the house, a good offer, that included a personal letter. Gill just happened to drop in during the original viewing, and told the prospective buyers that she had been born into the house and showed them round telling the house's history through memories of her childhood. In the buyer's letter, he said that they found Gill's stories "comforting and reassuring" as he and his wife want to raise their children in such a home. "As a writer myself, I fell in love with the 'writer's cabin' and my wife, who is also an artist, loved the feeling of your house." 

Yesterday, an official inspector came through our home, digging into every nook and cranny in order to alert the buyers of any potential problem. The couple and their real estate agent joined him.

On Tuesday, the buyers have to give us a yeah or nay. If it's a yes, they want to move in July 11th and that's why I flew home early. I hope that they are the people we've been waiting for. 

The first man in my life

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight

I want our house sold at a fair price. We have had two offers that have fallen through. We are negotiating a third. We have another viewing today and three more tomorrow and all the worrying is eating away at my gut. I hate it. We may have to take the house off the market and wait for better times and the only problem with doing this is that we'll have to go through this process all over again. 

So I wish that our house sells at a fair price soon. 

Come what may, I'm flying home July 3rd. 

He's my man

Our song. 

Here we go again

We have another offer on the house - not as good as the last one but good enough. Sometime Friday the subject will be removed, or not, and Rob and I will know if we'll be able to lead a simpler life with no more invasive tours of our home. 

It's harder on Rob at this time as he's working impossible hours - one day he had to leave at 4:30 am and still he had to rise earlier to make sure all was proper. So I'm hoping more for his sake than mine that the inspection will prove the house worthy and we can move on, though money will not change hands until September 3rd.

No matter what happens, I fly to Toronto July 3rd, and will be back in Vancouver soon after.  

To everything there is a season

a time for every purpose under the sun...

The other evening, we had friends for dinner and Marlene created the substance - a potato and chickpea curry. (She is a wonder in the kitchen, can make something delicious from anything, refusing to waste - even the tops of the green onions.)

We began the evening at Ruth's artistically renovated houses - two ancient dwellings linked with a short staircase from kitchen to dining area - with kirs and tiny squares of bread topped with tapinade, cheese, and olives. 

I  left a few minutes early to add the finishing touches to our casual dinner. Plates and cutlery are placed en masse on the table, food on the island so our guests won't feel stuck in one place and can circulate.

I don't know about anyone else but I loved the evening. This may sound corny (I can hear Susan sigh) but there is something special about each individual who gathered this evening, speaking French, German, and English, representing Scotland, England, Switzerland, Germany, the United States, and Canada, who share a love for this tiny village, music and literature, good food and conversation. There is no pretention. Silliness and seriousness abound. 

This morning I sit on the terrace wondering what to do with myself. Brendan is down three flights of stairs working. Marlene is down one flight. Although this house isn't large, there is easily enough room for the three of us to live and work and not disturb each other.

I am the only one not doing serious work. I think now worrying about our West Van home is futile. Finally I accept that it may take some time to sell, or may not sell this time round. (Rob and I have decided we will rent it if nothing happens in the next month.) I have to move on and do something but what?  I am not sure but I realize after several days of proprioceptive writing that I am not content being just a cleaner of houses. I need more - some work that excites me. Money would be nice but I've never been successful at making money. Though this pisses me off and often makes me feel like excess baggage, I have to admit that it has never been a priority. And it is too late to work my way up the corporate ladder. I could take some job, any job, for a pittance to make something...

I feel like a bore. What would inspire me, spark my passion for words beyond Scrabble on Facebook? I tell myself I'm improving my vocabulary but I know, deep down, that I am procrastinating, avoiding the real work of writing. 

I don't know where to begin. I don't like what I've done so far with my novel. It's too contrived, not rich, too ponderous, not full of fun and laughter. It's boring. I am too heavy, too weighed down, putting emphasis on all the wrong things - like my incessant cleaning for one - spending hours on things that I could accomplish in one concentrated hour. How do I move away from this behavioral pattern? Perhaps I shall tie myself to a chair. 

Since turning sixty, I have been aware of time and how quickly it is gone, how little I have left. Ruth spoke of going to an island, learning how to die... and I see that I fear death, not finding myself, leaving before I have done what I want to do. I'm driving myself crazy but what if I have to be more crazy, let go of control, to do what I ache to do?  

Somehow the body has got lost in the housework. I imagine that I have a choice. I can have a sparkling clean house, a home that others covet, desire, would give anything to have. Or I can spend one glorious afternoon in the orgasm tent of Ruth's story - with my true love. 

Which would you prefer?

 

By the Beautiful Sea

Eight hours after leaving Castelnau, Marlene and I arrive at the fishing village of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. Michael tells me that Van Gogh painted here. It is beautiful but too stinking hot and my only  concern is to find our hotel. We weave our way through town slowly. Modern caravans are everywhere, parked in clusters around the water and throughout the town's narrow streets, sometimes taking two or three parking spots. Cars are tucked into every other available space - some legal, some not. A steady stream of pedestrians adds to the congestion.

We finally find our hotel and go to our respective rooms to freshen up. I had caught my usual flying cold and feel stuffed and lacking in energy but I cannot sit still. Here the sequence of events grows hazy.

We did wander through the town's streets that first night and did stop to eat in one central restaurant. I had moules et frites (mussels and fries) and Marlene taurus (?) bull steak and fries, a regional dish. The waiters and waitresses literally ran from table to table to kitchen so maniacally, my head was spinning and I could not relax, but still I was excited to be in this gypsy haven. (Wished unkindly and unreasonably that so many tourists  had not found their way here.) 

The next morning, we enjoy a quiet breakfast in the hotel garden and walk the few blocks to the town's chapel where I hope to catch some gypsy magic. Again we face crowds but there is music in the air and we stop to listen to "Karpatz" an ensemble - 8 beautiful dark men - who seduce us with their gypsy tunes. One woman spins through the audience, twirling a scarf around her head.  Marlene buys one of their CDs. (When I searched the internet for information about the group, I find that they are from Ukraine, Hungary, and Romania and "are all proud not to deny their Romani culture.")

We visit the chapel and Saint Sara's crypt (click on first picture) and then find a low stone wall in partial shade at the back of church to listen to a jazz duet. After a salad lunch, we return to our hotel to rest, before the procession of Saint Sarah. Thank the heavens, we had seen the statue earlier in the day, as it was impossible to see her facial features at our vantage point as she was carried - though elevated - through the crowds. Here I feel ignorant and sacrilegious. Sarah is a dark-skin-coloured doll with a tipsy crown wearing numerous sparkling fabric cloaks. I am intrigued by the devotion she inspires and yet know that she is a symbol of something that I can't quite grasp. Still I am happy to have witnessed the event. 

The next day, the two saint Marys will have their procession to the water. Unfortunately my cold is still stealing my energy so we do not leave the hotel late evening to witness the reported roma music and dancing in the streets. 

Though we leave for home early the next day, Marlene and I are not unhappy to miss the bulls charging through the streets (the thought scares me) and have agreed that we will return another year. 

 

Dream Squished

Poor Marlene has had to live with me as I've paced and agonized about our West Vancouver home. For the first time, we had a decent offer and the people seemed ideal. He's a journalist. She's an artist. They visited the house three times. Their only subject was the usual official inspection by a professional. 

I learned at 1 a.m. that they're not going to remove the subject. They said that it would cost too much to renovate to accommodate their 4 children. I'm pissed off. They must have seen this from the beginning. I even mentioned it to the real estate agent. But there is nothing I can do but mope.

Everyone's house except ours seems to be selling. My sister and sister-in-law sold their houses within days of listing. Another family member just bought a house. 

Oh woe is me. I know. I know. Here I am in the south of France, sitting in Rob's office, taking in the sun that's especially glorious and warming on the terrace that looks over an equally glorious valley of multi-coloured green fields, spotted with clusters of trees. In the distance I can see the Midi Pyrenees.  I have just come back from a trip to the Mediterranean. How can I whine over one little old house deal? 

So here we go again. I can't make plans because I don't know what is going to happen. We may have to rent the house in WV. Our dream of simplifying our lives is once again put on hold. 

Keep your fingers crossed

It looks as if we have sold our sweet house. I'll tell more on Tuesday when the one subject is to be removed.

Meanwhile, in France, I leave today, with Marlene, for a gypsy pilgrimage in Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. 

Other than recovering from a miserable cold, all is well. 

I arrived safely in France yesterday

I have so much to tell but, first of all, I would like to wish a wonderful man, a happy happy birthday. 

(Tomorrow when I am so under the influence of jet lag, I will write about my journey here.)

Remember to click on picture...

Have I told you lately?

A song for my mother.

So tired, tired of waiting

Last week I sat down and cried. The house is being shown often, sometimes two times in a day, and yet we have had only one insultingly low offer. Although all house prices have slipped and we have lowered our price accordingly to the point where we are now lower than land value, no one wants our sweet cottage. I look around me. All is spotlessly clean - I'm sick of cleaning - so now all I can blame is the flaws - poor layout, scratched floors from 25 years of living, small crack on kitchen countertop, and on it goes until I feel as if I am tearing apart an old friend who has been good to me. 

I keep thinking of an image from Marion Woodman's "Bone" where she is stroking her stomach and apologizing to it for being so critical when it has served her well, despite her abuse. How can I compare a house to a body? When one dreams of a house, according to Jungian thought, one is dreaming of self. I transfer this to strangers walking through our personal space, turning on every light, opening drawers and closets and it almost feels as if I am standing naked in Grand Central Station. 

You should be tougher I tell myself. To hell with those who don't like what they see. 

Rob says that I shouldn't take the lack of interest personally, and yet I know he too is becoming anxious. Someone once described us as "old hippies" in reference to our life style and our lack of need to fancify our house. Oh we would have liked to buy better stuff and even, at one time, a bigger house but the desire was never strong enough. Besides we don't like being in debt except for travel and computers.

So why did I cry? I was sitting in my little house in the garden, reading a soppy novel, nearing the end, when one of the main characters dies of cancer. Earlier in the day, I had been sorting my filing cabinet and rereading old letters from Leslie, my friend who died half a dozen years ago. Were the tears, tears of grief compounded with tears of frustration? Both Rob and I want to move on, start a new adventure, but without the sell of our house, we are stuck in a waiting room. 

Or should I look at the situation differently? Our accountant says sell and Rob and I snap to attention and put the house on the market. What if he's the idiot? What if we wait a couple of years, rent the house out to make a few bucks, and find the housing market is back on track? We could be one or two hundred thousand dollars better off than if we sold right now. 

Of course, no one knows how long it will take real estate to come into its own again, but why not wait it out? At the moment with interest rates so low, it isn't difficult to carry our debt. 

I look around me. Vancouver is especially beautiful in the spring, especially when the sun is shining. Rob and I went to an art show yesterday and met a young Russian woman who moved here a couple of years ago. She reminds us of just how lovely our home territory is, and says that next to two cities in Switzerland, Vancouver is the third most desirable place to live in all the world. 

Why, I ask myself, am I making such a fuss? Where is my business head, my animus? If we have to wait this recession out would it be so terrible? 

As I am sitting writing, wading through these thoughts, Rob calls. Strangely or perhaps not so strangely, he is asking himself the same questions. Perhaps we can give this no-decent-offer situation a positive spin. Perhaps, in the end, if we can find the patience, we will be richer (not only monetarily) and less indecisive several years from now. 

The House is Alive

Champagne Friend

Yesterday Helen and I dropped in at Maura's home to wish her happy birthday. Her husband and daughter were there waiting for her. Maura has had no time to relax and enjoy her day. Her dining room table is set with sewing machine, patterns, and frothy tutus. Behind the table is an industrial clothing rack, lined with assorted dancing costumes. She is out doing costume fittings. 

When Maura returns, she tells us that she'll celebrate her 60th in June when all the costumes are finished and the dances have been danced.

This woman accomplishes so much and all she does is beautiful, I think, as I look out the window and see her garden full to bursting with opening flowers in all the colours of the rainbow.

Her house is a mess. She has no time to clean the surface of things.  And although I could not live like this, I am envious. 

Salsa Sister

We are just about to take off to Cathy's birthday party. This week has been unusually busy and there's so much I'd like to say, including a promised continuation of a blog an entry back. I will try to be more diligent this coming week. 

Though a lot of people have been viewing the house, peeping in our closets, no one has made an offer so I continue to clean, to spruce up the garden, and whine. Silly really... but the waiting is getting me down. I thought reducing the price would entice a buyer but nothing seems to work - even baking banana bread for an agent's open though all commented about how good the house smelt. 

I must learn to have more patience. 

growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional

When she's writing her blog link 

when we were young

(Click on picture to see full size.)

It is hard to believe that it has been 40 years since I met Rob, 30 years since I became a mother, and varying numbers of years since I struck up friendships with such strong women as Penelope right through to Kate and Marlene (and most recently, Mary.) Once when I was feeling particularly pathetic, my oldest son said "Just look at who your friends are. Do you think they'd stick by you if you were pathetic?"

 It's hard to believe that I began this blog April 3rd, 2003, over a year before Gill began hers. 

So I have been a blogger for six years. I began originally when Gill and I were in Northern Ireland and I wanted family and friends back home to know what we were up to. In those early years, I often wrote every day. There have been times when I spilled my guts onto these pages and times when I haven't been able to say anything - either because I have been too fearful or too bored with myself. Every time I've wanted to stop blogging, someone (usually Kate) says no and so I have continued though not as often.

So much has changed for Gill. She's lived in Northern Ireland and Vancouver for her last two years of high school,  then Paris and Toronto for five years. Soon she will receive her BA. I only received mine when she was kicking inside my belly. 

I did try to enter the graduate program in Art History at UBC but the prof (a Frenchman) who I wanted to work with didn't want me - "a West Vancouver housewife" - despite my A average. The director of the program told me to take more courses which I did until I flew off to France with my children for a year. 

France changed everything.

to be continued

Music to My Ears

I forgot to mention the flowers I received for my birthday. Bev decorated the house with 60 tulips. Sonia gave me this beautiful orchid I keep by my bed. Gill and her love gave me a bouquet of exotic blooms. Mary sent pink tulips. Heidi and Maura presented me with fragrant roses and Sarah, a pot of white Easter lilies. The day before my birthday, Helen came over with a bouquet of passionate red flowers. Our house looks amazing. (Now why won't someone buy it?)

Here's a link to the poetry I received. 

Robert Bly says that you have to hear a poem twice to understand it but sometimes I need more than twice. There's also poems that people were too shy to read and several from friends who could not be present.