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.