Randolph Caldecott: Taking leave. (1885)

"More complications sat between us and our exit."

We focused on leaving through the last half of our Exile. For over six years, The Muse schemed to position herself—us—where we could cleanly leave. In Takoma Park, Maryland, our starting point seemed impossibly far away from our target in Southeastern Washington State. A single hop home seemed unlikely to work from there. Further, after the first six years in Exile, we barely had our heads above water. We'd need more capital to achieve what we aspired for upon returning from our Exile. The Villa would need considerable refurbishment once we returned, and we'd learned that opportunities for accumulating wealth were few and farther between there than they would be almost anywhere else, like in Colorado.

Our first move took us to Colorado, then, where we figured we just might be able to swing purchasing a home. It had been seven years since we'd declared bankruptcy, so our credit history was legally clean. If we were careful, we could secure a platform from which we might launch our final push home with enough cash to make a difference once we arrived. Colorado's housing market was raging but had yet to achieve the furious pace of the Washington, DC area. We arrived just in the final nick of time. Had we waited six months more, it's doubtful that we could have afforded to buy anything there.

We found what turned out to be the perfect place for our purposes. The Gods must have guided our hands, though a canny real estate agent helped. I broke one of my cardinal rules, though, for I agreed to own a house for the primary purpose of eventually flipping it for a profit. More than sixty years old by then, I'd never made a penny in any real estate "investment." I'd found the purchases more of sinkholes than assets. Every place I'd owned up until then had become a money pit, our vaunted Villa not yet withstanding. The Colorado place seemed likely to appreciate fast and remain eminently marketable even if some Jehu like Trump managed to get elected, even if some black swan pandemic wreaked havoc. Of course, both of those unlikely possibilities would happen.

The Colorado house sustained some damage in a severe hail storm that passed through one afternoon. It caused a few billion in damage in the area in a scant half hour. It managed to crack the frame of the tall cathedral window in our entry room, strip some paint from part of the house, and seriously damage the roof. Insurance would rescue us. Our neighbors were contractors, and they replaced the window. I sanded and repainted the damaged siding boards and the deck, which had needed refinishing, anyway. I'd tamed the wild deer meadow yard, improving the house's curb appeal.

As the final push came near, we invited a real estate stager to advise us on making the place marketable. We escorted her through the rooms we were justly proud of. She sat us down and broke the news: We'd probably need to move out if we expected a decent price for the place. "It reeks of grandma," she confided, "and nobody's interested in buying grandma's place." She also advised that we paint every interior room and replace the tile countertops with granite. We should also refinish the kitchen floor, which showed its age. Our final few months of Exile were spent in a construction zone, with our life fairly disrupted before we’d even started packing. This move would be on our dime, so we'd pack ourselves. We considered ourselves expert packers after three moves in just under twelve years. We rented a larger storage unit and emptied the premises over the following months.

The Muse had successfully wrangled her transfer to Colorado, and The Damned Pandemic finally produced a premise under which we could finally return to The Villa. The Muse had been working remotely since the beginning of the pandemic, close to her office, but that campus had been closed to all but essential personnel. She could have fulfilled her pandemic-modified job responsibilities from anywhere, so she began planting seeds that would ultimately provide the permission she'd need to relocate her operation back home. The only difference as far as her co-workers were concerned was the neighbor's rooster, who had the habit of crowing in the background while The Muse held forth on her Zoom® calls. More complications sat between us and our exit, though. The next installment will recall some of those.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz