It’s Monday, April 18, Tax Day. Last night, simmering under sheets, I couldn’t sleep. At 3:30 am, I paced terrazzo floors and resigned to the prospect of not buying the house.
The closing had been set for this Friday, Earth Day. But last week, my loan officer called, “The processor says you need to close Monday, or, since you’re self-employed, you’ll need to file proof of income for the new tax year.” Sarah pressed,” Then, we’re at the mercy of the IRS and who knows when they’ll clear things and if the seller will wait!”
I gasped. This house-buying had been a roller coaster since my application figures were mistyped and closing date set too late and I switched lenders. Bracing myself, I breathed deep and called my realtor. “Somebody didn’t know this sooner?” Judy shuddered. “I’m in Philadelphia. My sister bought me tickets for my birthday. I won’t be back ‘til Monday evening! But, you can close without me.”
“I can? “My eyebrows rose. Settling myself, I called my lawyer to reschedule the closing. Her assistant, Laura, answered. “There’s a possible defect in the deed,” she said. “We’ve been going back and forth with the title company. We didn’t say anything cause things weren’t clear. We’ll be in touch.” Staring at the wall, I swallowed hard, clutched my keys and stumbled to the car.
As my eyes scanned Fruitville Road intersections on the trip to tutor Algebra, my mind scrambled, “What’s a deed defect?”
That night, I phoned my sister in law, Shirley, a housing lawyer in California, to find out. When she said, “I’m leaving for Canada tomorrow at 6 am and I’ll be in flight all day,” my attention shot in anxious arcs. But as she closed, “I’ll call your lawyer before I leave to see what can be done,” my nerves settled and I slept.
While the new day arrived, the lawyer was not to be found. So, I drove to her office. There Stella, her kindly receptionist, told me my lawyer and assistant were in conference all day, unavailable. My shoulders tensed. As Stella’s warm manner softened my senses, sobering words seeped through my aching heart and I pleaded. Staring at my desperation, she dialed the assistant to see what she could do and Laura came out to the waiting room to talk with me.
“There’s no way we can close Monday,” Laura insisted. “The title company needs to properly document and record the deed. It’s their responsibility!”
“But they’re not doing it.” I said, my eyes prodding. “Please, I’m paying you. Write up the document and send it to them to sign. I may lose the house!” “I can’t promise anything!” she replied. “We’re in conference all day. You were supposed to close next week! ”
Wrung out, I descended by elevator to the vacuous lobby. I pressed through the revolving door to the stifling street scorching in the sun. Pacing, blinking out glare, tilting my phone to view numerals, I dialed my brother Rich, a California lawyer, to see if he could draw up a document though it wasn’t his field. “It’s a tight day, Donna. I have a meeting with a congressman in 5 minutes, but I’ll do what I can.
And he did, as did my attorney’s assistant who sent out a document 4:30 pm, Friday afternoon.
The weekend was barren. With no word from the lawyer, my thoughts simmered. In the abyss of Sunday’s dark, I crawled from bed, strode shadowy hallways and conceded, “I might not get the house.”
But Monday morning, eyes glazed, I squinted at my lawyer‘s email. I think we can make this happen. Come by the office. She had received a scanned copy of the signed document; the original would be overnighted.
“Could this be true?” My stomach stirred, as I slid my dress on, half believing the house would be mine.
At 10 a.m., perched in my attorney’s conference room overlooking Sarasota roof tops, I stretched my spent mind around explanations of piled pages I signed and dated. Then, gobbling an almond butter and starfruit jam sandwich, I sprang to tutor a high school student Geometry for her End of Course Exam. On the drive home, under a starry sky, my realtor’s voice rang from the phone. She’d meet me at the house in the morning with the key. My skeptical eyes closed at her words to grasp them then opened suddenly as my foot pounded the brake to avoid hitting a Honda stopped at the light. Starring in the space between cars, I gathered, “The house is mine.”
Returned to my rented home, I’m sprawled on the couch, temples pounding. My listless eyes scan books on shelves, curtains on rods and compost in the yard. A vague memory of my plan to pack a room a week flits by. This was my intent before days ran full of texting what the seller must for the house to pass inspection, proving bank deposits weren’t laundered so the processor would finalize my loan and tutoring frantic students to pass statewide exams. “At least I dug up and bagged the garden soil to bring with me and sowed grass in its place,” I think. But the mount of empty boxes bears on me. “How can I pack, move and clean this place in a week and a half?” my drained mind mulls. I consider hiring a mover, no longer able to depend on my former boyfriend’s truck and strong arms, yet can’t see spending the money while saving for a new a/c. But it’s an option I sleep on.
Tuesday morning arises with a thought. A moving party! I beam. Yes, but will folks come? I send an email to find out: Earth Day, New Digs, Moving Party and Potluck. Bring your car and dish to share to my old place. Take over a load and eat with friends at my new one.
Hatchback brimming with canning jars, rakes and shovels, I drive to my new home to meet my realtor, Judy. Down Bahia Vista Avenue, dodging Amish couples on bikes, eying clusters of bearded men and aproned women licking ice cream cones, I ponder, “I can bring my things from one house to another, but how can I move from living alone to in community?”
After Judy leaves my new home, I walk the land barefoot. Caressing citrus leaves, lying on pine needles, peeking under oaks branches, I think, “This is mine to take care of… and it will take care of me!” I picture tomatoes and okras budding by the patio, an outdoor shower perched by the pines, rockers swaying on the porch, and dance in delight.
Before driving to work, I see my friend Jessica’s text, “I’ll be in Tallahassee at FSA helping with a conference on sex-trafficking, but can come by Thursday morning to help you move!”
“Great!” I write back, sighing in relief. “Can you bring your boyfriend’s SUV?”
“Yep, and he’ll come too if he can,” she replies.
Maya phones, “Friday’s Passover and my landlady’s having a Seder. I want to join her and her family, but can help in the morning.”
“Wonderful!” my shoulders relax, “We’ll have lunch.”
That evening at my Anthroposophical study group Joe says, “There’s a truck in the driveway. Take it any time!” Thrilled to be doubling my carrying capacity, I drive it home, thinking I’ll make him a chocolate tofu pie when I find my pie plate.
Come Thursday morning, Jessica backs up to my front door in her boyfriend’s SUV. She zips into the living room and we survey dining room chairs and table, deciding what to load first and where. After shimmying then carrying furniture, we dart inside and out, sliding a tall lamp in this slot, a small box of pencils in that. “Good puzzling skills,” Jessica confirms, as our vehicles brim with a collage of my belongings. After unloading at my new abode, we gleefully look around then hug good bye so she can get back to her graduate school reading and packing for her trip.
Friday morning, Maya moseys up the front walk, straw hat tilted towards sky, “Whaat a beeeauutiful day! I prefer this heat to New England blizzards. How ‘bout you? “
“The heat,” I say, staring at piled boxes.
Maya meanders in, eying the disarrayed lamps and bookcase. “Quiiite a sceeene here,” she muses. “Moving is an event.”
Maya’s on siesta recently relocated from Massachusetts. She’s a gem for driving 30 minutes from Venice to help me, but I wrestle with the impulse to drag her into my frenzied pace. Instead, I try to brake, slowing down a few gears, and in time, we load boxes. But when I see the single layer of file drawers neatly lain on her back seat, I turn to the house to compose myself. Then, in weighed words explain the efficiency of full carloads and improbability of my moving on time, without them. We come to temper each other, I stretching her stride, she slowing me down to a reasoned rhythm, softening my heart.
That evening, doors fly open and seats and trunks are packed full. Cars turn left then right in array as a flock of geese in route to my home. Amid boxes of books and leaning mops and brooms, Maura, Ann, Neil and I sip red pepper soup and talk around the table.
“Back in the day,” Ann says, “A group of friends and I planned to live in community. Instead of sitting around gabbing, we did projects: shingled roofs, painted sheds, dug gardens. We saw who needs to take their time, who can’t take the heat — we got to know each other.”
“Yes,” I nod, grateful my solitary creek’s current is mingled with my friends’ streams.
With my having much more to move, Glenn arrives the following Wednesday at 7 am, lifting a dolly from his car. “What’s to do?” he asks. As we make our way around the house, dissembling the compost bin, stacking tomato cages, bagging mulch, he tells of his enlistment in Vietnam, teaching English in Germany, transporting 13 huskies to Maine.
And after tilting the last shovel of mulch into the lawn bag, he wipes his sweated brow and admits, “Boy, I didn’t think we’d get through that!” My indebted eyes concur.
At 8:30, Tessy comes for the second time. “This is more than a person can do alone” she says, and starts packing cups and plates. JFK and Chris drive up at 9 to heave my couch and bags of compost into their truck.
In a daze and wonder I look around, feeling that I’m carried on a current of friendship.
Tessy pokes her head from behind the cabinet and says, “This feels like a modern day barn-raising.”
And it is.