0007

The bulk of my material wealth consists of two cashier's checks which I have in an envelope with me as I drive down to Solon Springs for the closing. The realtor is there with John and his partner. John is wired; the others accuse him of having too much caffeine. I wonder if it may have more to do with closing a sweet deal. No matter; papers are signed, and I now own a fixer-upper house and four sheds on 20 acres of partially wooded land. It is a sweet deal.

Oakland is halfway between Solon and Superior, so I stop on the way back. I'm greeted by a rubbish pile just outside the back door. Despite my express wishes, John has had the house 'cleaned out', if you can call this mess a 'cleaning' - boxes of all kinds of stuff, already falling apart in the snow and rain of the past two weeks. East of the house are the ashes and broken fragments of their burn pile. So much for sorting through the house's hidden treasures. Well, at least he didn't have the pump house bulldozed.

The key to the house is a padlock key, fitting padlocked hasps on two of the house doors (the other two are nailed shut) and two of the sheds. I let myself in to my new home.

The smell of camphor assaults my nose as I enter. The crew who did the 'cleaning' left odds and ends everywhere, in a rather haphazard manner. Whoever last lived here obviously found mothballs very useful; they, too, are everywhere, and many have been crushed underfoot by the crew.

I'm poking around upstairs when I hear a blower motor start up below. Egads - that's the furnace! I run to the basement, and cut the gas and power to the furnace, my first sovereign act of ownership. Now this is a puzzle. I realize that most folks are not as scrupulous about consumerist issues as me. But why would the people who owned this before John (he only had it for a few weeks) keep the power on and the furnace operating with no one living here? There isn't even any plumbing to be concerned about. Were they keeping the house warm for the mice? Well, things will be different now.

I wonder where these folks lived, paying bills for a place they didn't live in anymore? Speaking of which, I'd better read the electric meter so as to report that number when I call to transfer the account to my name. (I'd like to get off the grid, but - one step at a time.) And the bills will come here now. Speaking of that, is there a mailbox? I walk to the road: no mailbox for this address. Poking around the sheds, I find three old mailboxes, one of which seems to be in decent shape. One of the more decrepit ones says "Wilkinson" on its side. Hey, that's the name of the road! So... way back when everything around here was new, this must have been the Wilkinson home, and probably Wilkinson Road was named after the folks who lived here, in this house. Cool.

OK, make a list. I'll need a bed, table, a chair or two. Keep my eyes open for a kitchen stove of some sort. Cooking and kitchen supplies. And come back with tools, and set up the mailbox. Still too chilly and snowy to start digging a garden. But not for long; it's almost April.

0006

The paperwork has gone back and forth without a hitch, and closing is set for the 31st. I continue to do little things around Lenore's house, and arrange my finances. No mortgage; I'm buying with my own money.

Only one other note worth mentioning: the property tax. John bought this as an 80 acre parcel, and has just split it four ways. I'm buying the 20 with the buildings, of course, which rightfully carries the bulk of the tax burden. Pro-rated from previous years, the figure for the 20 acres should comes to less than $500. I'm thinking once I get a good garden established, maybe a few chickens, etc., that I should be able to generate $1000 per year. I think this is realistic. To try to make more would not be feasible without mechanized equipment, which goes against the whole notion of why I'm doing this in the first place. This place will have to be self sufficient; it will have to generate enough income to meet expenses. So, if I can make $1000, less $500 for property taxes, that leaves another $500 per year for a very frugal way of life. I think I can do this.

0005

I called John later Wednesday evening, telling him my finances just won't allow for his asking price. I suggested a lower price, even lower than my Pinochle number (the price of the Oliver place). John is a pretty bad actor, giving me the song and dance about picking on a weak old man who's just trying to scratch out a meager living. But that's OK, it's the way John plays this game. He said he'll have to think about it. I replied that I'm also looking at another place, so I'll have to decide before too long. May as well show John that I know how to play the game, too.

John called while I was out yesterday, and left a message that he supposes he can come down, but not as far as my low offer. His come-back offer is better, but still a little higher than my Pinochle number. So I called him back; this time I got his machine. I offered him the Pinochle number, take it or leave it, that's really as high as I can afford.

I just got a call from the realtor who acts as John's agent. She says John has decided to accept my offer; may she send me the paperwork to get things rolling? I say Yes.

Looks like I'll be buying the Oakland place.

0004

I have procured some U.S. soil maps of Douglas County. They indicate that the land in Oliver is mostly clay, while the soil further south is lighter. In calling around, I happen to find the soil scientist who remembers doing the survey in Oakland, remembers the very section of land that I'm interested in buying. It might be a bit too sandy for agricultural purposes. But ideal for putting in a conventional septic system - sandy top layer, clay deeper down.

But what I keep thinking about are the trees, for firewood. I need to see this Oakland place again, so I drive out there today, without John this time, and tramp around in the snow, just to get a better feel for the place. It's even more heavily wooded than what I first thought: pacing it off, it seems to be over half wooded. 10 acres of trees!

The area close to the road and house is mostly clear. I have my spade with me, and find a couple areas where I can dig, under the melting snow. It is sandy, but I think it will grow things OK. I'll be able to scope that part out in due course. I go into the pump house, and work the handle a few times. Water comes out. Good.

Maybe I drove out here today because the land was calling to me. At any rate, I'm coming to terms with what I must do. This part of the transaction is like Pinochle bidding; you've got to have a number in your head beyond which you will not reach. But you never tell the other guy what that number is, and you never show your cards. Without necessarily mentioning the Oliver place, I must get John to match that lower price.

0003

I drive out to this second place, and John meets me there as promised. He's still talking fast, giving me the sales pitch, on how he just had the house painted (does he think I'm blind?), and how I'd better make an offer, because this kind of deal won't last long. Uh-huh.

It's a mess; there's no doubt of that. It has obviously not been lived in for some time. But I can see that it's a solidly built house, not as cobbled together as the one in Oliver. Foundation looks sound; the basic structure is solid, and the wood floor downstairs is black with decades of dirt, but I'm already seeing how nice it will look sanded and freshly varnished. But, on the other hand, broken plaster all over, doors completely missing, drafty and decrepit windows and doors, no plumbing at all, probably no insulation, the wiring is extremely old and primitive, etc., etc. It would be a real top to bottom project, alright.

John is busily apologizing for the old junk still lying about in every room; he'll have that all cleaned out, don't worry about it.

"No," I reply, "please leave everything as is. If I buy this place, I'll want to sort through all this stuff myself." I'm thinking a hidden treasure or two amidst all the forsaken junk, even treasure that only I would value, that other folks would throw away. John shrugs.

We go back outside. Four outbuildings, plus a ramshackle privy. The building nearest the house is literally a small tarpaper shack. I look inside, and see an old hand-operated water pump. Cool.

"And I'll have that old shed bulldozed, too," John declares.

"What?" I cry, "Why would anyone want to bulldoze the pump house? I, for one, wouldn't want to buy this place if you got rid of that!" John shrugs again.

Despite John, I'm liking this place. I tell John so, but that I'll have to look into whether his asking price (upper 30's) is something I can handle. I'm trying to buy time. I need to think about this.

0002

Surprisingly, I receive another response to my ad, this time from a fast talker, an investor named John. He has a place for sale south of town, in Oakland, also a fixer-upper, and also on 20 acres of land. I take down the directions, and agree to meet him there tomorrow.

0001

This was the ad I placed in the free shopper's paper:

WANTED TO BUY: Inexpensive fixer-upper house on 5 to 40 acres of land. Ph. xxx-xxxx

I didn't know if I should expect any responses, but the ad ran in today's shopper, and I got a call right away this morning from a fellow in nearby Oliver, so I went out to see his place.

He and his wife, a young couple, want to relocate to Maple because they prefer the schools there, and have family in that area. The house is an older farm house, fairly livable, but has some serious issues, like the well and pump. But I asked for a fixer-upper, and the price is right - the low 30's. The house in Oliver sits on 20 acres, all pasture and grass, no trees to speak of. I will want to have a supply of firewood, and not rely upon the propane furnace. Hmmm.

I tell them I'm interested, but need a couple days to think about it. That's cool with this guy. He seems like an honest young man, and this may be the deal I'm looking for. Their phone number is one digit different than Lenore's. If I were the superstitious type, I might take this as a 'sign'. But I tend to be pretty deliberate. Don't jump just yet.