When Realtors Cry

I tell people often...being a realtor is not just a job.  I find myself invested and involved with buyers and sellers in their most personal, most joyous, and most difficult times.  They tell me secrets.  They tell me fears.  They look for counsel.  One told me once she believed God had sent me into her life.  But never in the eight years I have devoted to this profession has the investiture been more profound, more personal than this week.  For this week, I close on the "house that built me."  With a nod to Miranda Lambert, lyrics have rarely spoken to me as did hers more times than once through this process.

There's a common and symbolic thread running through the history of this house that built me.... built by a man with three daughters, sold to a man with three daughters, and now, decades later, selling again.... to one of three sisters.  It feels.... as it should be.  And yet.....

Cleaning out this house of ours over the past weeks brought three daughters to laughter and brought us to tears.  Most importantly, it brought us home together....one more time.  Together, we laughed when Daddy failed to understand why none of the three of us wanted his beautifully framed Water Wastewater treatment certification...whaaaat... I suppose part of his Master's Degree work at the University of North Carolina (perhaps a little ironic with the s@#* currently enveloping UNC). 

We found laughter and a bit of poignancy when Daddy said, " If you don't want it, throw it away, I won't question," only for his three girls to look out the carport window and see our father peering over the rim of the giant thrice filled and emptied dumpster hauled in to hold it all, shaking his head in disbelief, occasionally actually reaching in to pull something out.

Diane and I had to laugh when we each discovered our own reasonable....not perfect but reasonable...baby books, then to find that in Donna The Favorite Child's book, there was nothing except...are you ready.... vaccination records.  Perhaps she was adopted from some illness stricken third world country, a feared carrier of some dreaded disease, and we simply never knew!!!

As usual, the teasing of my baby sister came right back to me when shortly we would find a letter penned by my favorite professor at Clemson to my parents.  I couldn't wait to read the wonderful ode to their eldest daughter Professor Berger must have written to Mother and Daddy.  I was totally disillusioned to find that he had written to advise he could only wish every student he taught were as charming and intelligent as....wait for it.....Diane.  How could this be?  Both Donna and Diane found to my way of thinking much too much humor in that silly letter.

We tried in vain to imagine locations or destinations for the seemingly endless oil portraits of the three of us...images of three daughters together and of each of us alone.  There was just no way, for our mom used portraits of her children the way most people use paint... some will no doubt say I may have inherited at least a bit of that gene.  Sadly, much of this art landed in the afore referenced dumpster.

We were reminded this house wasn't perfect.  This home wasn't perfect.  But from it a family grew...a family of  three sisters....that common, symbolic thread of this home.  Through holidays and birthdays and weddings and births of grandchildren and passing of loved ones, this house was our rock. In it we experienced the circle of life.  The address began as 607 S. Hickory and somewhere along the way became 703 S. Hickory.....Diane says that makes all this cleaning and purging and selling easier for her.  Somehow not for me, for it's the same brick and mortar that kept us safe and warm and drew us in.  It is...the house that built us.

To our buyers, we now entrust to you and to your precious family a jewel...a piece of our history.... a piece of who we are. 

Outside this house, we leave with you the stunning lot that to this day takes my breath away.  The beautiful pond lined setting that hosted wedding receptions and cook-outs with equal grace will give you moments to remember....I promise.

We leave to you the pears and dogwood,  the gorgeous azaleas of Hickory Street springs.  It is fitting I think that soon a swingset will dot that lovely landscape as well, and a child (believe it or not, a boy) will run and romp and revel in the wonderful play space.

We leave the sprawling private lawn where we as teens worked on our tans and where particularly Donna and Mother shared secrets and stories as they soaked up the sun.

We leave with you the grave of our precious Scamp, the Setter who we three would agree was our best growing up dog ever.  If you listen closely, you may hear his bark at times in the quiet winds.

We leave with you the wonderful interior spaces and places we loved....the kitchen where we always seemed to gather, the dining room where we shared those meals Mother loved to plan and prepare, the living room that Santa always found...even when three girls were long since grown and gone from home.  You'll put your own personality into those rooms.  They will become yours....hallowed halls and nooks and crannies of the memories your family will make.

I leave my bedroom swing especially to your precious Connor.  In it, I laughed and cried and read and prayed through the perils of teenagerdom.  I hope in it, he swings away from all the cares of school and grades and occasionally mean children and frequent growing up stresses and toward nights of peaceful sleep and mornings of new dawn as he begins to figure out life as I did.

From this house, I absorbed lessons of strength (many would say stubbornness) from my mother.  She taught and I learned to value family above all other possessions. In this house and from my father, I learned about integrity, faith, accomplishment, becoming all I can be.

The most enduring possession from the house that built me  I keep with me always and everywhere.  It's the singularly important relationships with my sisters.  In good times and sad, when I'm at my best or worst, they were and are with me without judgement.  Yes, that thread...that common thread in the history of the house that built me...that built three sisters...that's the one I'll treasure most.

Yesterday, we closed.  This morning, I awoke to chirping birds, the promise of a new day, another client, another home to represent, and a repeating refrain that I just can't shake... "Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me."


I know they say
You can't go home again,
But I had to come back one last time
You may not know me from Adam
But those handprints on the front steps are mine.
Up those stairs in the little back bedrooms,
We did homework and learned who we are.
And I'll bet you didn't know
That under that live oak
Our favorite dog is buried in the yard.

When I touch this place or feel it,
The brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it's like I'm someone else
But in this house I find myself.
You leave home, you move on, and do the best you can.
At times I'm lost in this old world; I forget who I am.

Now, I won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me.

The Ties....or The PJ Drawstrings....That Bind

The Olde English Christian hymn reminds "Blest be the ties that bind..."  I find that I am more and more grateful, yes blessed, for and by traditions.  They are the ties that bind me to those I love most, particularly to my sisters.

Our mother was stubborn.  I can say that.  No one else had better, even though I am quite sure everyone knew.  Stubborness is a terrible affliction.  I am well aware, for I inherited that trait.  I am quite sure many readers will be stunned by that admission, and yet, I must say I respect that my mom was stubbornly committed to tradition.  From when presents were opened (and how) to where we sat for our Christmas meal (Diane, did you ever once sit beside Mark for Christmas dinner), from attending church as a family on certain special days and sitting always on the right side of the second row from the front to the order that the bereaved should enter the church to celebrate the life of a loved one lost, tradition and protocol were important to my mother.

Over many more years than I would care to count, one of my favorite yuletide traditions  became the comfortable certainty that three awkwardly wrapped presents with stick on bows would be found under the Blakeney tree each Christmas....awkwardly wrapped because Daddy usually had been pressed into last minute gift wrapping responsibility.  Somehow the surgical precision of this healer's hands did not always translate to his Christmas wrapping endeavors. Sorry, Daddy.

These three perhaps awkwardly dressed but decidedly precious packages held three perfectly identical pairs of pj's...one for Donna, one for Diane, and, yes, one for me.  Okay, okay already, maybe not perfectly identical....Donna's extra smalls, Diane's smalls, and my mediums....oh alright, sometimes larges.  As my mother required, we synchronized our gift opening so that three sisters unwrapped our "surprise" simultaneously, and no one sister could ruin the moment of discovery for the other two.  Should one sister inadvertently get ahead of the other two in the unwrapping process, she was quickly admonished by the ever watchful, ever anticipating mother overseeing it all.  Christmas happenings had usually come to an almost stop in the Blakeney living room, by now strewn in torn paper and unravelling bows and ribbon.  The younger grandchildren and often the husbands had long since moved on to playing or watching tv or a little more post dinner nibbling or dessert.  Daddy was out looking for trash bags.  Often, by the moment of the great annual pj reveal, only Mother, Donna, Diane, and I were still sitting and chatting and opening that last, looking back, most special gift.

Pj's now open, oohs and ahs and 'I love thems' complete, sometimes we modeled...sometimes not.  We laughed and joked....about Donna preferring the slightly more bare cami styles and about Diane's and my favorite and preferred flannels with long pants and long sleeves.  Is anyone really surprised by that?

Later every Christmas, clean-up complete, tummies full, eyelids heavy, cars loaded, three sisters left my parents' home and headed to our own. I always found a lingering joy and an extra little smile in thinking about those pj's.  Via the usually quite cute, but on rare occasions not especially so, pajamas,  I felt linked to my sisters and knew that although we each ventured separately on these Christmas Day nights back to our own homes, in fact back to different states, we were and always would be bound, as much so as if our pj drawstrings literally tied us together.

So, on this Christmas Day just past, when suddenly three mysterious gifts magically appeared....one for each of us...for Donna....for Diane...and for me....I caught my breath.  I vaguely remember hearing one of the grandchildren ask why Aunt Di, Aunt Donna, and Aunt Neesie had an extra gift...one more than everyone else.  (I would guess that query came from one of my all-knowing, all-counting children.)  I barely heard the wise Hannah respond that it was a "tradition"....a tradition my mom clung to as now, in her absence, so did her daughters.  My hands shook slightly as I opened my gift, but I already knew....it had to be....the pj's.

The trees are now down, the Christmas china put away.  The exchanges are made, the kicking myself for how much I have eaten begins.  The new year hangs on the horizon.  But, for now, for just another moment or two, I think I'll crawl back into my cozy Christmas pj's and nap... and remember....three awkwardly wrapped presents.....three perfectly identical pairs of pj's......ties that bind three sisters.  How about it, Girls?  Shall we?  I love you.....


PS: To Pat, for your ever present respect for and understanding of our past traditions, we love you.  We three look forward to building new traditions with you and Daddy.

Christmas God Sightings

At least twice in the days leading up to this Christmas, I have experienced God sightings.  I have no doubt. The first was last Sunday.  Looking for something, as I always am this time of year, I walked into my drawing room after church.  A single stream of light shone through our front window. As directed and specific and pronounced as a spotlight, the beam settled perfectly on the manger scene topping my bombay chest.  I grabbed my camera; I got the shot.  The photo may not do justice, but I had to try to capture the moment.  I didn't want to forget.  I didn't want to let it go.

Today, one week later, in a not so quiet way, God touched me again.  This blessing began well  before the 'Sunday Before Christmas' sermon.  I am so sorry, Pastor Brian, but today, the messenger was not the minister; the message did not belong to the pulpit.  For, one row up from me, in the congregation trimmed in red and green, a tiny angel with long dark curls and a big red bow, sparkling red skirt brushing this way and that, eyes glistening with the reflections of the enormous decorated trees to her left and right and lungs filled with true joy, threw her animated little head back and sang with a conviction the likes of which I am not sure I have ever seen or heard.  Yes, Pastor, you were upstaged, if unintentionally, by this little lamb as she sang of the silent night and a sacred manger.  She sang with the passionate fury of a Child of God....she sang with joy...with a child's joy....the true joy of Christmas.  As she sang, she smiled, her sweet spirit filling the place.  I and several others around me stopped our suddenly inadequate singing to lean toward this littlest of angels, she of the second pew, stealing the show for all those blessed to be close enough to share this moment with her.  She once or possibly twice reached up toward the heavens.  Still singing, she smiled again and nodded toward the minister who himself had now turned to take in this tiny songstress, perhaps already realizing his message today could have waited.  His work was done.  His sermon was already delivered for many in the form of this little one.

I felt my own emotion welling up...I knew my drug store mascara was about to let me down. The tiny princess, somehow an irresistible cross between Shirley Temple and Jackie Evancho, sang on, throwing her head, or perhaps more accurately her very soul, back even further as she sang....so far in fact that I feared her neck might pop.  She twirled and swayed from side to side as her seated mom rocked what must have been  a younger sister.  A third child, a son, draped his arms sweetly around his mother's shoulder.  This mom's eyes closed, as she seemed to bask in the moment, and I thought this is this woman's Christmas, surrounded by her children breathing in the caroles her totally uninhibited daughter provided, celebrating the birth of a King.

I am so thankful for these little moments in the midst of  the usual seasonal craziness.  I am so very thankful that last Sunday and today, I saw....and heard....the Christ in Christmas.

The Man....The Myth....The Music (or at least the iPod)

I've been walking a few times a week, and with no iPod of my own, I have commandeered Adrian's. Not just the fact that I usually walk first thing in the morning, but also the fact that this particular iPod houses a very wide array of music ... well the combo has led quite literally to more than a few eye opening experiences.

This iPod, like the man, is a mystery of the highest order, and listening to its quite extensive playlist has been....enlightening, to say the least.  Perhaps confounding is a better description.

I am, using the term in its loosest possible translation, working out one day, enjoying a spectacular seasonal morning as I walk, smiling, waving at passers by (you  know the queen wave, right...although I must say it doesn't come off quite the same with sweats and sleepy eyes), and listening to the inspiring strains of  "Here I Am, Lord "  from the Ipod.  Truly getting in touch with my inner zen, I breathe deeply.  Again in the spirit of full disclosure, more truthfully I pant a little.  I travel on, taking in my beautiful neighborhood, thanking God quietly for all my many blessings when suddenly and most unexpectedly, Clarence Carter bursts into my "in touch" moment with his anything but zen "Stroking".... more accurately "Strokin".  And, trust me, this was not CC's PG version, if he even had one of this particular blush worthy masterpiece.  I was so suddenly and shockingly jolted back to reality from my almost meditational state that I stepped off into a ditch and barely maintained any balance...or propriety...at all.  The 'queen wave' became a frantic swat as I simultaneously tried to pull out the ear buds and find the change button all while keeping myself at least semi upright.  But, the iPod run amuck had already moved seemlessly on from "Strokin" to ...."Skanking."  With the now fascinating change ups between beer and blues country and R if not X rated Tupac rap, between Billy Joel's prolific and poignant piano and Marley's soulful reggae, from the King of Pop to Reba, from "Cover of the Rolling Stone" to "Fat Bottom Girls" (this latter definitely not a favorite backdrop to my walking workout), I find myself wondering what possibly could be next. But then I think...with this man, I often wonder exactly the same thing.

There have been a few golden moments...my discovery of  the studio version of  "Rainy Nights In Georgia" by Sam Moore and Conway Twitty took my breath away.  Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis"....do I detect a bit of a traveling theme in the man's iPod?  I definitely identify with that.  And I LOVED finding jewels like "Jesus and Momma Always Loved Me....even when the devil took control"  I could have written that one myself....ah, yes, not the easiest child was I.  You just have to love country music for its uncanny ability to hit the nail on the head, don't you?

Speaking of  'Momma', Pastor Joel rightly compared mine to a prism, but I find myself currently convinced by the iPod that Adrian, at least as go his musical inclinations, is even more a prism. His downloads have both delighted me and mortified me.  One note, just please tell me that with volume full on, no one else can hear what I am listening to, for I have discovered.... forgive me, Pastor Joel... that "Strokin" does indeed have a great beat for walking.

I am not sure what the proper iPod etiquette is here.....do I tell Adrian that much of his music is vastly inappropriate?  Or do I just 'let it be.'  (Yes, the Beatles classic is on the playlist. along with the incredible "Imagine.")  This is, after all, Adrian's music.  He is, out of some probably delusional support of my half-hearted efforts to shape up, letting me borrow his device because I do not have one of my own. Hmmm.  Finally deciding to broach the subject I ask my hubby where on earth he found this eclectic assortment of music and why is it on an iPod that our probably not as naive as I would like to think children can easily access.  His answer....short and sweet....."Joseph did it."  Ahhhh, another question to ponder....when did it become so easy for a father to sell out his eldest son?

Photo Credit to Internet

Mamma Had A Six Pack

When does that time come.  When exactly does it happen that so many things seem suddenly to be in 'past tense'?  We were so looking forward to our summer vacation...a return trip to gorgeous Round Hill in Hanover, Jamaica...a place we all love and the site of some of our most favorite vacations ever.  As we so often do, we pulled out old photo albums to remind ourselves of past trips and favorite spots in this special resort.

So, we were gathered around the coffee table....flipping through albums, laughing and recalling, excitement building as our travel day drew near when Drew suddenly pointed at a pic and exclaimed,  "Momma (that's me) HAD a six pack!"  Well that's just great.  Already wondering why we didn't choose a diving vacation requiring full on scuba gear...... or better yet,  that ski vacation where appropriate attire would have been snow suits instead of the unavoidable swimsuits for this trip, I suddenly felt very inadequate.  Momma HAD a six pack....yes, it hurt a little, and reminded me not fondly of a trip to Garden City a few years back, when the then ten year old Drew proudly announced to everyone poolside on that particular day, "Mommy's jiggly!"  Reference Definitely Dee blog of  April, 2011....yes, it happened just the way I recorded it.              .

Recently, ironically also occurring as we looked through old photo albums, we came upon pics of a litter of pups we had while living in our previous home in North Lancaster.  Photo after photo of precious cocker spaniel pups...all curly eared and nub tailed.  I thought Drew would be fascinated by the puppies.  His comment..."Momma, we HAD grass then?"

Not quite sure when the "has" and "haves" becomes "hads".....probably about the same time things get jiggly..... and the grass dies.

Hose and Toes

(Photo cred to internet)

I n-e-v-e-r  wear hosiery.  Hose pinch, run, rip and ruin my day.  They are a fundamental scourge on all of womanhood and quite simply an expense and a bother I think I can do without.  At least I thought I could.  But recently, the liver marks...I think that is what they are called.....guess I have gotten to the age I need to know for sure.......and various and sundry other signs of aging are telling on my legs.  So, I told myself a pair of hosiery might be in order.

It has been many moons (and the lunar theme from my last post continues) since I last bought hose.  I  first asked Kate to go to Belk and buy the hosiery now deemed necessary by her mom.  Kate's response, "Momma, what are hose?"  With that, I quickly knew this one would be on me.  I honestly had to ask someone where in the department store I might find hose.  And, after searching and searching for what I was looking for, even though I had no idea what in fact I was looking for, I found a seemingly lovely toeless pair of almost nude stockings.  (Interesting how I wanted to cover up, but didn't want it to look like I was covering up.  Again, welcome to aging, Dee.)  Proud of my shopping prowess, I bought two pairs.

Now, and perhaps this too is a symptom of the many years that have passed since I last bought hosiery,  I interpreted toeless to mean no reinforced toe.  Wouldn't anyone?  Imagine my surprise when upon opening the packaging, I learned toeless meant absolutely no toes...notta....nothing.....big holes in the 'foot ends' of the hose! 

As I told Diane in one of those conversations you can only appropriately have with a sister.... or in a blog.... I could think of absolutely no use for hose with no toes that did not involve a decided measure of kink.  I mean seriously, other than having those suckers available for....pardon me, sucking.....why would anyone want hose with no toes?  I will be the first to admit, this world is changing, and I am not always at the very forefront of the change continuum.  But, Ladies, if you want to show off that new pedicure, legs, feet, and toes must be bare.  Not just toes.  If, on the other hand.....or should I say other foot....you choose to wear stockings, the classic pump with toes demurely hidden is the choice for you.

I LOVE .....oh who is the band with the Toes song.....oh yes, Zac Brown.  And I think Kenny Chesney also had a "toe" hit a while back.  But, I can't imagine that either was envisioning the lingerie anomaly that is toeless hosiery when he crooned about toes in the sand or wherever. 

I cannot  fathom hosiery covered legs and feet and naked toes.  If you are willing to bare your toes,  you must be willing to bare your legs.  This toeless hose contraption undoubtedly was invented by a man.

Today, when I journeyed back to the store to return the one unopened pair of toeless hosiery, I just had to ask the sales associate, "Who buys these things, and why?"  She just  looked at me with an all-knowing smile and nod.....and that was it. 

A Lunar Valentine

(Photo Credit to Frank Mottek.....)


A very young Drew always called her Luna....that especially beautiful, most brilliant  moon that always captured his imagination, as she always has mine.  And, yes, I saw her the other night....the if not full then almost full Luna rising in majestic glory amongst our tall backyard trees.  She has become and forever will be Uncle Check's Moon.....Uncle Check's Moon thanks to a story his beloved wife told me. 

My Dear Aunt Teeny recently 'wrote' with her words a Valentine....a Valentine with imagery so beautiful I could not possibly hope to match.  For she told a story of intimacy....a story of love.....a story of friendship.....a story of what marriage should be.  It was a story of a moment and of a gorgeous moon that rose on one of Uncle Check's last evenings.  As this wife of sixty plus years sat carefully, quietly on the edge of her ailing husband's bed, she chatted softly, not sure what he heard and what he did not.  She soaked up each remaining moment with her very best friend, trying to remember everything said and done in those precious minutes, minutes she, in her own word, held sacred.

Suddenly, rising outside the window, there she was.....the breathtaking, almost magical Luna.....perfectly framed in the glass beside my uncle's bed....Luna.....bright beyond belief.  My aunt blinked.....then breathed a quiet sigh.  She prompted Uncle Check to lean or turn or at least look up as he could to see the spectacular moon in the window, so he could just once more share one of nature's most spectacular shows with her.  He declined at first and again....weak and tired, eyes almost closed.  But, his wife and soul mate persisted and continued to prompt until.... finally.... her weary husband looked out the window and upward.  His eyes lit up with the wonder of this moon.  A near twinkle.  A weak smile.  A momentary peace.  A moment in time......

Years before when his beloved grandsons were young, Blake and Louis had astounded us all by recognizing and identifying a waxing from a waning moon. Even earlier, Andi declares that Louis' first word was not Mama, not Dada, but moon.  I suppose Luna had already cast her spell on this next generation of young Blakeneys, these boys so adored by their doting granddad.

Many years later, in the weeks after losing this special man, I see a television commercial.  I am not even sure what is being advertised....a car I suppose.  But a quiet Dad and his very young perhaps sleepless son ride along a winding road, Dad driving,  boy behind in his car seat.  Suddenly through the vehicle's front window, a massive moon rises on the horizon ahead.  The wide-eyed wonder in the little boy's eye....the enormity of this creation of lunar marketing, but more originally of God, well it is simply stunning.....

And now, for now and forever, each and every time I see that stunning moon, waxing or waning, a lover's moon or a harvest moon,  even the much beloved Goodnight Moon ......whether in print, on screen, or in person, I will think of my Uncle Check, and I will know beyond any doubt that my precious aunt will be doing the same.  This special woman with whom I share so many memories and so many bonds will share yet another with a niece she taught French, albeit French with a 'dee-cided' Southern twang on my part, and Advanced Composition and, much more importantly, lessons about intimacy and love, and friendship and what marriage should  be.  This aunt and her niece will now share this precious Valentine moment....our moment in time.

I know my Uncle Check is out there sharing the singular magic of the moon....just from the other side.  To my beautiful aunt and my amazing cousins, Happy Valentine's Day.......