The end of an era.
Tuesday, 30 January 2007 02:24![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fatrockstarMy sister just sent me an irritated email telling me my grandmother's house in Montevallo, Alabama, has been sold. They didn't get very close to the asking price, either. I know my sister has been very upset at the thought of losing this house for any reason because she grew up there. It's the only home she's ever known. My mother died in that house.
Me, I don't have such an attachment. The house represents something entirely different to me. After years of living with my mother in various places and moving every year or two she eventually hit a brick wall after her second divorce and was left with no other option but to move in with my grandparents. What was supposed to be "just until she gets back on her feet" turned into a permanent arrangement.
Around year number two my grandfather keeled over playing golf. I must have been about 14. My sister was barely three. It wasn't long after that I started to get antsy and rebel with a vengeance. Without my grandfather there to keep the peace, I fought with my grandmother constantly. Add adolesence to the equation and my life was pure hell. It continued to be pure hell until I left to live with my dad at age 16.
As time went on the house transformed from a humble abode to a run-down shack. My mother and grandmother weren't that great at repairs and could barely afford to hire a handyman. Then there were the cats. There were always cats. We moved in with a cat, and there were already cats. Once those cats were gone, more cats arrived. Always, always cats. They had fleas and sat on the kitchen counters. I didn't have a cat for years because of this horror. To me, owning a cat was like owning a free-range termite colony -- property destruction at its finest.
I never enjoyed going back to visit that house. After two days of being unable to eat during any visit I was unable to stay cool enough to deflect my grandmother's attacks. I couldn't sleep in the dark because I was terrified of the cockroaches. The last meaningful visit to my mother while she was alive was tainted by the deterioration of the house.
...and my sister is mad as hell that its someone else's problem now.
I wonder if she has any idea what it would take to redeem that house. Does she even know what property taxes are? Building codes? Residential zoning? How much a real repairman costs? How much does she think she can handle? If I thought the house was worth saving I would have fought to buy it myself, but I don't. I hate that house. I hope they tear the fucker down and build a new one. That stupid, tiny house with its tiny fixtures, the plumbing that never worked right, and the electrical system that should have burned the place down by now...
She and I won't see eye to eye on this. Ever. I'm glad it's gone.
Me, I don't have such an attachment. The house represents something entirely different to me. After years of living with my mother in various places and moving every year or two she eventually hit a brick wall after her second divorce and was left with no other option but to move in with my grandparents. What was supposed to be "just until she gets back on her feet" turned into a permanent arrangement.
Around year number two my grandfather keeled over playing golf. I must have been about 14. My sister was barely three. It wasn't long after that I started to get antsy and rebel with a vengeance. Without my grandfather there to keep the peace, I fought with my grandmother constantly. Add adolesence to the equation and my life was pure hell. It continued to be pure hell until I left to live with my dad at age 16.
As time went on the house transformed from a humble abode to a run-down shack. My mother and grandmother weren't that great at repairs and could barely afford to hire a handyman. Then there were the cats. There were always cats. We moved in with a cat, and there were already cats. Once those cats were gone, more cats arrived. Always, always cats. They had fleas and sat on the kitchen counters. I didn't have a cat for years because of this horror. To me, owning a cat was like owning a free-range termite colony -- property destruction at its finest.
I never enjoyed going back to visit that house. After two days of being unable to eat during any visit I was unable to stay cool enough to deflect my grandmother's attacks. I couldn't sleep in the dark because I was terrified of the cockroaches. The last meaningful visit to my mother while she was alive was tainted by the deterioration of the house.
...and my sister is mad as hell that its someone else's problem now.
I wonder if she has any idea what it would take to redeem that house. Does she even know what property taxes are? Building codes? Residential zoning? How much a real repairman costs? How much does she think she can handle? If I thought the house was worth saving I would have fought to buy it myself, but I don't. I hate that house. I hope they tear the fucker down and build a new one. That stupid, tiny house with its tiny fixtures, the plumbing that never worked right, and the electrical system that should have burned the place down by now...
She and I won't see eye to eye on this. Ever. I'm glad it's gone.
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