On October 9th, a cold and dreary autumn day, we finally got to tour the house.
I came straight from work, and Lisa showed up with YaYa. My in-laws were there too, but the lawyer was running late. Given the track record on the house, we were worried we’d be stood up, but he showed up alright.
The house . . oh my. At least the bench on the porch was nice.
Let’s take this more or less in order. The living room was in OK shape, except for hardwood floors that seemed to have been stained only in the middle 3/4th’s of the room, as if an area rug was covering the floor. I still can’t figure that one out.
Then dining room was a more depressing sight. The carpet was quite literally threadbare and held down more by dirt and dust than any adhesive. The scattered remnants of my Uncle’s tenantcy – a cabinet, a jacket press, a globe, books, etc – were stacked willy-nilly in half the room. The walls themselves had peeling paint and there were cracks running along the ceiling and walls.
Both the bedrooms were a whopping 8x8ish in size. The one to the north was home to peeling paint and water damage, while the other showcased a moldy, water damaged closet (the ONLY closet in the house), dirt (snot?) on the wall, and a handmade card taped to the wall that was addressed to my Great Aunt.
She’d passed away 20 or so years ago, btw.
The kitchen . . wow.
Filthy ancient lineoleum, a white porcelein monster of a stove that dated to the 50’s at least, a gigantic pile of boxes and refuse in the center of the room, and a low, country farmhouse style sink.
This cabinet or 'dry sink' was the very one mentioned whenever my Ma's attention turned to the house. It was a favorite of my Great Grandpa's.
Did I mention there were no working utilities, including water, in the house?
Off the kitchen was the bathroom, a hideous conglomeration of bright green ceramic tile, a clawfoot tub that had been boxed in, and a tiled CEILING that was falling down. You know, I just now realized there had been a towel on the rack at the time. Weird.
I think we went downstairs to the basement next.
My in-laws declined to make the journey with us, which (to me) sealed what I believed they thought of the house.
The basement certainly didn’t win me over.
There were two ringer washers as you walked in, with a message written on the wall that read ‘this wire’ (meaning the exposed, fragile looking thing next to the note) ‘ is live when power is on’.
Neat.
There was a giant of a furnace, older than I am, and a fuse box too, a cloth contraption that an electrician would later say couldn't generate enough power to run a modern washing machine or fridge, nor any appliance of worth.
Nearby was the old coal bin, empty of fuel but still home to coal dust, and now a storeroom whose wooden walls were rotting away and whose contents were mold covered and disintegrating.
Then . . . the dungeon.
A cobblestone floor sat between four cream-city brick foundation walls. [for those outside Milwaukee: this town was once famous for cream colored brickwork, of which my basement provided ample evidence].
The wall to the south was bowing and damp to both sight and touch.
The wall to the north was bowing too but was braced by large timbers set against it.
The effect, I’m told, of decades of being so close to a drop forge.
Throughout the room were rusted metal items and decaying wood. Off to a side was the old water closet, now minus a toilet, which too was falling apart. On the wall in front of where the toilet once stood was a tiny ashtray attached to the wall, cig butts still inside.
From there it was on to the second floor, up a surprisingly pleasant orange staircase distinctly marked by pale squares where pictures once hung.
A room was off to the left, the bedroom where my Grandparent’s once lived and where my Mother was probably conceived.
Now it was, to my eyes, horribly water damaged, with SHEETS of paint hanging off the plaster. The best part of it were the boxes of 25 year old S.I’s and Time’s laying around. More than anything, that room nixed the house for me.
The rest of the second floor was unfinished attic; typical floorboards, typical beams overhead. A (relatively) small amount of possessions lay around, including a 1939 calendar still nailed to the wall.
How appropriate for a house stuck in time.
The lawyer, just FYI, didn’t venture past the dining room and did his best to discourage us. It was clear he thought this a waste of time for all of us, and I don’t blame him.
Even the backyard, which prior to the walkthough had seemed so . . well, not good, but manageable, now appeared as it truly was: a madly overgrown lawn and a porch so neglected a small tree was pushing up from beneath the stairs. [note: the first pic of the porch is obviously from a later visit, since it's sans tree]
Afterwards Lis and I began to discuss the house.
"It’s a f*ing dump," I said poetically. "Let’s just take the pics over to my Ma. We’ll do a good deed by letting her see the place again and call it even."
"Really?" she said. "I kind of like the place. I think it has potential."
Let me here note that she once said the same about both me and the future popularity of American Idol. A 50% record is nothing to scoff at, so my ears perked up.
Heck, even my Mother in law turned out to like it.
I still thought she was nuts. It wasa bleeping dump, a travesty, a shame really, and besides, we didn’t have the money for a remodel.
When we got home I called our lender. She said if I wanted it I had two options: getmy family to accept an inflated bid then trust in them to willfully refund the difference for improvements, or apply for a 203K rehab loan.
I told her to get cracking on the 203K, and I put the word out that we were interested in the house.
I think the sellers were shocked, which tells you something about the place’s value, no?
And it was off to the races . . .
