The Game

So, I submitted a bid on Ducky-Puppy-Kitty-Goosey (this is going to get tedious, isn’t it? – ed Yeah, we’ll have to think of a new name for the place, but not yet! – bob), and sadly it was rejected. The seller then offered his finest repartee conceding two thirds of the difference. My agent’s advice was a sound “I think we should take it,” and so it came to pass that I’m the final bidder on a cute, cozy, and charming cabin near the heart of the village of Idyllwild.

On my inspection, along with two thirds of my siblings, I found a few more warts. Like the sewer pipe that’s connected to the system with duct tape. Like the room addition with the roof that abuts the shingles on the existing roof and not the boards underneath. Like the clawfoot tub on blocks in the 1/8th bathroom and the potbelly stove—also on blocks—in the “family room.”

This stuff is minor, the charm and the affordability is still there and I’m taking a leap.

I guess you can say the leap.

More later,

bob

UPDATE: Good gravy! I have the acceptance of the acceptance letter with the sellers’ actual signatures in my hands hot off the fax machine (what a great use of 1940’s technology!). The handwriting is a stilted, halting cursive that speaks volumes about the signatories’ ages as much as their reluctance to sell. Halting, cautious, never crossing below the line, they’re clearly going through the motions on the advice of their counsul—better known as their agent.

Frankly, I’m sad for them. The man of the house decided to retire on The Hill, but now that their health is failing, the kids have summoned them off of it and away from their retreat to a simpler life. They’ve been “forced to sell,” which is good for me, but bad for them. They’ve done a lot of work on the home that they expected to spend the rest of their lives in, and now that age is punishing them they’re further beaten down by some kid looking for a deal.

I got that deal, but I hope that they won’t begrudge me my opportunity. It only comes knocking once in a very brief while, don’t you know. – bob