Finding Joy in Snarkville

Have you ever watched that BBC show, Cash in the Attic?  Basically these couples would like to have some cash to do something (so often it is a vacation) and they call and appraisers look for stuff in their homes to sell for at auction.  I’ve seen beautiful homes that they find these amazing things in and then others that they find squat.  I am also a fan of Antiques Roadshow because of the great reactions about the real value of people’s stuff.

This past week, we had our own version of Cash in the Attic — or more honestly — BOXES in the attic.

When we bought this house (a year ago), we were told that one of the attic spaces was not suitable for storage (truthfully they both are — as the other attic space if filled to brimming with insulation).  I’ve never really been one to want to store things in an attic and frankly if it doesn’t have pull down stairs, I’m not going up there anyway.  So, we pretty much forgot about the access hole and moved right along with our life.  Until we decided that it would improve Prince’s life if he had a network cable in his office.  In thinking about how to run this cable, in which various solutions were offered like “use the laundry chute”; “you will not run a cable up my stairs”; “what if we just traded offices”; and the ever popular, “why is it you want a cable again?”, we decided to check out the possibility of using the attic as a way to run the cable between floors.

I need to digress and explain one thing about when we moved into this house — the people who lived here before us left a TON of stuff.  They had lived here for 25+ years and were downsizing to a condo.  Despite having every kid, spouse, grandchild, and perhaps great-grandchild helping, they were still rushing to be out on time.  Beyond the stuff they left per the contract (which all quickly became Craigslist fodder), they left everything from half-used cleaning supplies; towels; pictures on the walls; food in the fridge….you get the picture.  We spent the first few days cleaning out after them and selling stuff online.  To say I was annoyed is an understatement.

Back to accessing the attic.  Prince dutifully pulls out the ladder and opens the access point and I hear a string of cussing.  I look up to see boxes just inside the attic.  There was this wave of “What the…I thought I’d finally gotten rid of those people….”  And I hear… “There’s about 10 boxes up here.”  Ok, in my mind, 10 boxes to the street isn’t huge, then we know we are done.  Prince comes down the ladder to reposition it to start hauling the crap (and we knew it couldn’t be more than old Christmas decorations or such) out.  Off-hand he says, “There better be money up there. I’m so sick of this.”

Well, there was no actual cash, nor was there any sort of antique coin collection, but what we found was 10 boxes of late-70’s comic books.  Most of them were Marvel (I’ve done a full inventory and they number about 1075, give or take a few).  Most of them in decent condition (certainly given that they were in an attic for a bunch of years).  There were a few other odd things in there too, the front page of the newspaper from when Reagan was shot (headline: Gunman Wounds Reagan); a 1975 PSAT Student handbook; a note from a teacher that their daughter had not been bringing her homework folder back and forth to school; a year’s subscription to Pro (some sort of football magazine that appears to be team specific as these are the “Brown” editions); a few beat-up copies of Hawthorn and other required high school reading; and a few copies of National Lampoon’s Magazine.

I’ve done the inventory, I’ve checked price guides, I’ve read and re-read the various grading guides and I’m still hoping I’m getting it right.  I have two or three that are in the “wow, that’s shocking” price range; I have a few more that are in the “not too bad” range; and I have a bunch in the “well, they’ve held their list price — at least we have a LOT of them” range.  From what I read, that’s totally normal.  I’ve contacted a couple of dealers to attempt to sell the lot — frankly, I want them gone and don’t want to sell them of in little bits.  I hope to know more in the upcoming week as to how much money we just found in our attic — right now I consider it a gift from the old homeowners for forcing us to clean up so much in the beginning.

I’ve been giggling to myself all morning as I’ve been pulling this post together.  You see, I grew up in the South — the part of this country where we capitalize the name and we know the joys of mild winters, humid summers, and the most Perfect Spring(tm).

In the city I was a child in, when spring sprung, literally the whole city was afire with color.  I can vividly remember feeling like overnight we’d go from dead and lifeless to SPRING!!!  The azealas would bloom, all the bulbs would bloom at the same time affording you the joy of watching the daffodils and tulips compete for glory.  You would see the Magnolia’s in full color along side the Bradford Pears and Apple and Cherry blossoms.

I grew up convinced there could be nothing more beautiful.

I moved to the tropic south (note the lack of capital letter) for about 14 years and learned more about heat, humidity, and tropical thunder storms.  There was little color outside other than green.  And because outside was generally always available (and the number of bugs), there was never any joy in actually going outside.  I joke with my friends here that I never understood why anyone would want to actually eat outside — eating outside was like the children’s table to me — the place you were forced to eat when eating would be a mess.

Then Winter happened here.  Months of gray. Months of snow. Months of stark.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jaded yet.  I thrilled over the simple and small changes that winter holds, how water melts even in sub-zero weather; how the white snow makes the cardinal families pop red; and how quiet everything is.

More slowly than when I was a child and the world warmed seemingly over night, the ground warmed.  The sun shone again, all bright and yellow.  I’d peek outside and see greens and living things popping up like “Look at me, I survived the winter.”  We didn’t live in this house last spring, so I’ve been marveling at what is coming up and perhaps what the squirrels have relocated.

Slowly here, color is unfurling.  The bulbs bloom in stages, and right now the color is all yellow.  The daffodils are in full bloom, but the tulips are slowly coming up behind them.  And just like those bulbs who are uncurling their leaves, I’ve been shedding my winter skin and heading outside to warm up in the sun too.  I may be longing to lay on a blanket in the grass (something, I assured I’ve never wanted to do in my life); I’m spending more hours outside than in these days — just soaking up spring.  I’ve marveled at the noise of it all.  My birds are nesting and talking in their ways.  Some of my favorite birds are returning.  Today alone, I’ve watched the bunny population frolic (for there is no other word for it) in our yards.  I’ve heard the call of kids long silent in the snow calling to play to run and jump and get dirty as kids ought to do.  I’ve felt the soil in my fingers as I’ve planted new plants — little glimmers of hope that winter really is behind us and the warmth of summer is ahead.

I’ve fallen in love with this spring process, the slowness of its beginning, the glory of its splendor, the delight in how there is literally hope in every corner of nature.

I may be a transplanted Southern girl — who will always be Southern no matter how far above the Mason/Dixon I live.  But I could seriously embrace this kind of spring.  This spring isn’t Southern Belles with flashy bonnets and hoop skirts — this spring is liking watching a baby wake up in the sun light; at first she’s scrunchy and a little fussy at being woken, but the sun warms the face and the smile begins and you can hear the giggles at the sheer joy of not missing the fun— that is truly Yankee Spring.

Oh, did you want photos?

First off, there is more snow heading my way.  I woke this morning to more snow falling (though at the time of this writing it has slacked off) and predictions of a 12″ to 18″ of snow heading my way.  When I was a kid, snow days meant sitting by the fire with hot chocolate with brief moments of bundling up with ziploc bags on my feet (what — it didn’t snow much and I never owned snow boots until I was over 30) to go play or build the world’s most pathetic snowman.  As a grown up, snow days mean only one thing to me — WORK.

I work to clear the driveway (and the sidewalk). I work to entertain my child. I work to keep the fire going (I never knew how much work that was). I’m so tired at the end of a snowday that I want to crawl up into a ball and beg for summer.  Only, I don’t really.  Summer is a fine season, just isn’t my season.  I really do enjoy the starkness of leafless trees and white covered lawns.  I like it when the world turns to black and white and even the palest of colors seem bright and vibrant.

I freely admit I’m a wee bit cranky.  My darling child is home from school today unexpectedly because apparently there is some rule that there needs to be heat in his classrooms.  Seriously, I think we need to toughen these kids up a bit more — or as the PE teacher said as we were leaving “I don’t understand it, I have a coat and I’d be happy to run these kids around a bit, that would keep them warm.”  (I like him.)  Anyway, the reason I’m cranky isn’t because my baby is home today, but because when I walked in to get him he says to me, “Mom, you FORGOT that there was no school today.”  “Um, no buddy, they just called me a minute ago and told me to come get you because there was no heat.” Then not 10 minutes later in the car on the way home, “There were 16 kids in my class who mom’s sent them to school when there was school.”  My head exploded.  Please, child of mine, tell me you understand the difference between sending to school when there is no school and the school closing WHILE you are at school.  PLEASE!!!!

So, the grump has gotten the best of me (and it may also be because of a lack of coffee and a 4:30am wake-up — no, I don’t know why, I was just done sleeping); so I give you my current open letter.

Dear Neighbors:

I love this neighborhood.  Really I do.  I love the lots and the sidewalks and the houses and even the deer.  However, have you seen all this white stuff that has recently fallen from the sky?  No, it wasn’t cotton candy, it was cold and wet and we call it snow.  I noticed that as the snow was ending many of you (including me) came outside with our snow blowers and shovels and cleared driveways.  I noticed that a few of you (including me) even cleared our sidewalks.  Here’s the thing — the three of you insensitive oafs who didn’t clear your sidewalk — well, you happen to be the three houses between me and my son’s bus stop.  One of you is a teacher!  You ought to know that little ones need to walk to the bus stop and have no business walking in the street.  Oh, but wait, it gets better.

Did you know that there was also a city ordinance that says you have to clear? Well, I didn’t either, until I did some research — yup, and just like Mrs. Kravits I reported you.  Oh, yes, I proudly can tell you that I was the one who called — know why?  Because my son is the ONLY person who consistently uses the bus stop and when the snow is as deep as it has been, it can take him 15 minutes to walk 5 houses to get home.  And it wouldn’t be like that if you’d take 1/2 second and run that snow blower down the sidewalk.

When I called again this morning, because one person who got the letter and cleared the FRONT of her house, but not the side (the side we have to walk on — which is now inches deep of ice skating rink), the person told me that she heard that some won’t clear because they think they are more liable if they clear and fail than if they never cleared at all.  Well, this rumor is bunk, but has a basis in a case in the UK (please note, NOT.OUR.COUNTRY = DIFFERENT.LAWS) where a business was sued for poorly clearing.  However, after MUCH research, I’ve found that despite the fact that yes you can sue for just about anything, you probably won’t win a case where you fell if the sidewalk was attempted to be cleared.  The exception to this is that if your method of clearing is pouring hot water on the sidewalk and leaving it.  AHEM.

So, here’s what I’m going to do — since obviously not sending my son to the bus stop or to school is not an option, and I’d like to do it safely.  I think there has to be a safe way to get to the bus stop ON A SIDEWALK, and since you don’t seem to want to clear it, I’m going to help you out.  I happen to have some rock salt (the concrete hating kind, that I purchased by mistake), that I will be using to treat your sidewalk on my walks to and from the bus stop.  I’m sure that 10 pounds of rock salt will help melt the ice rink you caused by not taking care of this when it was snow and will do next to no damage to the concrete sidewalk.

Oh, I checked with the city, they said that they will charge you to repair the sidewalk if the damage was caused by over use of rock salt (as they recommend chemicals for safer ice removal).  Just a thought.

Yours,

The Queen

PS — Citizens of Snarkville, this should go without saying — so don’t write me tell me that I shouldn’t purposefully damage someone’s property — I’m NOT going to damage their sidewalk.  That would be wrong.  However, I’m not above snowblowing it myself and sending them the bill.

As I was about to retire last night, Prince heard a heart stopping sound.  He heard scratching above the bathtub in the hall bath.  Instantly, I went into full alert — doing all that you do to protect your family from such things.  I totally suggested we sell the house, move to Peru (I don’t think there are wild animals there — after all Paddington came from darkest Peru and he seems rather polite), and cried.  There might have been fretting, paranoid ramblings, and screaming — but really, who can remember?

So, I suggested that we relocate to somewhere that did not involve what is surely a raccoon in our attic.  Prince was unimpressed.  He shrugged, because he knows that every relationship is allowed one hysterical person at a time — and at that moment, I scored random hysterics, and kindly suggested that we in fact just call ‘a guy’ to relocate said beast.

(Let’s remember that it was merely yesterday when I praised my neighbors for being able to live in a house they once shared with a racoon mommy and five of her darling, disease carrying infants.  Because I was cocky and I have been smooten, ok?)

I do not sleep.  That’s not true.  I jump at every sound, like the dog breathing or a bug hitting the window outside for about 5 minutes — then I fall incredibly, totally, deeply asleep.  I do not move, stir, or merely breathe until this morning, when I sit bolt upright remembering that I have slumbered in a house which also has become home to a RODENT — probably a ROUS (Rodent of Unusual Size).

I log into my new favorite referral site for home repair (www.angieslist.com) and search for “Large deadly animal removal and killing service.”  I so wish I was kidding.  That yielded me nothing.  I tried again with “Rodent might kill me in my sleep.”  Shockingly, that also was without help.  So I settled on “Pest: Get it out NOW.”  I found the top rated pest company in my area that deals with everything from bugs to ROUSes — this was important because I have no idea what we actually have living in our attic, so I wanted ‘a guy’ to be able to do it all.

I call.  I speak to a nice man on the phone who tried to make me feel better and say, “Mam’ it is probably a mouse.  I know they are small but they can SOUND so big.”  I thought, through my haze, “What a nice man trying to explain to me that somehow a mouse is preferred to what is SURELY a very large, probably rabid raccoon.  Delusional, but nice.”

I waited.  I counted down the hours of my waiting until the heat of the day, when my door might right.  I was hoping for some strong, strapping exterminator guy who would say, “Step back, little lady, I’ve got this rabid beast under control.”  What I got at my door was “Harvard Hottie” from the Nanny Diaries.  Um, hi.  (Let’s take a small note that I was un-showered because there was NO way I was standing naked under the ‘Raccoon that is about to eat my house.’)

Well, HH was wearing nice khakis, a polo and um, are those dress shoes?  And he was here to take care of my raccoon?  It made no sense.  Perhaps they got my request wrong.  He insists that no, he is in fact there to figure out the animal and dispose/kill it for me.  Alrighty then, let me show you my closet.

HH climbs into the sauna feature of the house and climbs around.  Now, I sort of wanted to close HH into my closet so that when he was attacked by the raccoon, the animal would not descend into my house.  HH just laughed and said he’d be ok.  He went up into the attic with a winding flashlight and NO gloves.  I had to offer him my maglight just because I felt sorry for him not to have protection against the living beast in my attic.

While HH was inspecting the attic, Duke and I were discussing what might be up in our attic.  Raccoon?  No.  Squirrel? No.  Mouse? No.  Duke decided that we must have aliens in the attic — because he’d just seen the movie about it.  HH thought it was a mouse or squirrel and I was feeling a little faint when he PROMISED me that there was no way it was a raccoon.

We baited for mice, just in case.  Apparently, like this mythical snow people keep obsessing over here — squirrels and mice come and go from houses often.  OK.  We baited, we will have the only entrance that HH found that is possible fixed and we will attempt to sleep at night.

HH told Duke right before he left on his white horse — I meaning Ford Pick-up– “Dude, I think it is a mouse.  Let’s hope it is a mouse.  I can bait for a mouse — we haven’t perfected the bait for aliens yet.”

In another life, when we lived in Frankenhouse, we thought we had wildlife around.  We lived next door to chickens (who visited), we had birds a plenty in our yard (including a nesting hummingbird), we saw wild turkeys strut down the street, we saw deer so often that Prince ceased to share my joy in seeing deer (my thrill never ended). And of course we had our own zoo too.

Then we moved to Mid-Snark.  I don’t think that when Wild Kingdom was filmed they ever considered coming to Mid-Snark.  I know that this is not at all like New York City where the only wild life exists on the Upper East Side and in the Meat Packing District.  But I digress.  This is just not an area I thought I’d be seeing a ton of wild life.

When we moved in, we saw a single chipmunk in the yard.  I’ve not seen him again (though I think he relocated to my neighbor’s yard).  When my neighbors moved in, I met them as they were having a FAMILY of raccoons removed from their chimney.  (Yes, I’m serious — I don’t know how they sleep at night — but they had a mom racoon and her brood of 5 babies in their house — ICK.  I am glad they are made of stronger stuff than me — because I like them.

I saw deer from my window and took a photo of it.  I’ve seen them often but my neighbor has not — which I find funny and she thinks I’m making deer up.

So, finally, about a week or two ago, we hung up a bird feeder.  I had been driving through the neighborhood and saw American Goldfinches flying about — they are a sight.  So, we decided to feed them.  It took two days and the feeders were found and we took delights in the wildlife coming by to visit.  (No, I still have no idea what I’m looking at — but I’m slowly figuring it out.)  Then on Saturday, we noticed that there were a pair of squirels who found the feeders too.

These two absolutely PIGGED out.  I glanced out at one point and saw one swinging from the big feeder with his head completely in the feeder.  So, Prince and I decided it was off to find a solution to feed birds not squirrels.  I do have a strict no rodent policy in my feedings.

We went to a bird feeding store and got a ton of advice.  I do mean a ton!  We picked up the right things to make the squirrels mad and move along and the right food to attract the right birds.  We were also told to move our feeder from the tree — which I did.

Twenty minutes of work we loaded a total of four feeders (feeding different things), put together a new pole, and we waited.  Then…then… we began to see something.  (Can you find it?)

Then *MY* finches visited — they have been back a few times and I just KNOW that they are mine.

But, while protecting our seed from rodent, we weren’t ready for this little problem.

The good news is (Mum, take note) this animal is *NOT* mine.  The bad news is that he ran off before I could explain to him that I was not baiting traps of birds for HIM.  He will need to know the rules of this yard — perhaps the deer can explain it.

Why yes, I’ve started blogging regularly — what are you trying to say.  I think I just unpacked my muse again.

So, as some of you are aware we are no longer living in Frankenhouse or in Snark State. I’m thinking we shall where I am now mid-Snark.  And I’m so amazed at how the locals here are different than other places I’ve lived.

For the record, I’ve lived in 7 states thus far.  I’ve lived in 5 homes since I got married (10 years ago).  So, I think I’m going to get some life experience credits for observing locals in their habitats.

I bring you a list of my first impressions:

• People here appear to be moved by baked goods.  Apparently, warm brownies are of particular interest.  My next door neighbor moved in recently and going to my Southern roots, I baked and brought over food.  It seems that the wife (whom I like and have informed her that we will be friends) ran back to her old neighborhood and told her old neighbor about how awesome her new neighbor is who brought her WARM brownies.  Then she told old neighbor, “You might want to step up your game — I didn’t get baked goods when *I* moved into that house.”  Go me for showing up the old neighbors.
• People here don’t seem to be moved by the giant truck unloading furniture.  For the first time in all my moves, no one came out to say hello while we were unloading.  At first we thought, “How unfriendly of this crowd.”  Then about a month later, more neighbors keep stopping by to say hello and all of them say, “We saw you move in, but wanted to give you a chance to settle in before coming over.”  I think they might want us to remember their names.
• Twice since I’ve been here, I’ve heard locals refer to themselves as “Yankees.”  Since I’m from the South, I always thought that only Southerns called them ‘Yankees’ — I guess I thought that word had gone the way of ‘Ye Olde Times’ And in all my years of knowing the very Yankee Prince, I’ve never heard him call himself a Yankee.  Maybe it is because he is a New Yorker and somehow that trumps Yankee, but I have no idea.  It does seem slightly odd to be living amongst the Yankees.  I sort of feel I either should be MORE Southern (as if that is possible) or I should report my findings to someone — I just don’t know who.  (Well, I guess you — cause you are reading this.)
• Following that point, I’ve not been reminded that the North won the War of Northern Aggession.  Oh, what, you don’t call it that here?  Shocking. I’m teasing actually.  For the first time in all my moves, people seem unmoved by my answer to “Where are you from?”  I get no raised eyebrows that I’m from the Deep South nor snark-tastic comments about my accent or lack thereof.
• Also, it has been my experience thus far that I’ve offended no one by correcting them if they chose to give me the wrong nickname.  This shocks me to no end – it is like they totally get it and want to get my name right, not insist that I must be called something else.  Can we all say wow?
• There is an obsession with snow here.  I’ve started to believe that the locals only think in terms of snow or not snow.  I’ve joked that the funniest thing the locals like to do is remind us that it snows here.  They say this like they know some secret that I don’t know.  When I say, “I thought it might, I looked at the map before moving here.”  They say, “Well, you’ll see.”  Do you think they really do know something I don’t?

Thinking of this snow thing — can it really be *THAT* bad?  I mean — this isn’t Buffalo, right?

I’m not sure anyone is unaware that one of the greatest hates of Frankenhouse was its overgrown yard.  It appears that the owners thought if a little green was good — a LOT was so much better.  There were a metric ton of plants in the yard (most of them rose bushes) and everything grew BIG.  I hated it.  I much prefer clean open spaces in my landscaping (my desk is a whole ‘nother story).  I like to SEE the individual plants.  I like knowing what is a weed and what is a plant.  Simple is my motto.

(On a sidenote:  I ought to mention that Frankenhouse is on the market.  It is horribly overpriced and already had one price drop.  In prepping the house to sell, the owners ripped up much landscaping; painted the front door; and painted the walls inside; and finally put the inserts in the cabinet doors that hadn’t been there when we rented so many years ago.)

So, when we looked at homes here, we basically had reactions to Frankenhouse.  We wanted larger (enough room for our stuff).  We wanted AC (because really — Frankenhouse gets 100 degree days — here not so many and people have AC here).  We wanted a real yard with grass (Duke told his kindergarten teacher about the new house and the ONLY thing he noted was the grass).  We wanted a usable kitchen (One of my friends once picked a house out because of the counter tops — I think she or her husband laid down on them when measuring them — I totally see their point).  We wanted a non-overgrown yard.

Um, we got it.  In fact, it appears that to the opposite of the Frankenpeople (great name for owners of Frankenhouse); the previous owners (we shall call them the Hermits*) thought that bushes of evergreens was all that was needed.  Not pretty evergreens mind you — the kind that are dead inside and only green on the outside.  There are about 6 that are currently marked for death.

A few days ago, we learned of a sale of my favorite shrub (hydrangeas) at the garden center.  So, we decided to re-do ONE bed of plants.  This bed only had one of the evergreens and a few smaller plants and a TON of weeds.  I weeded and pulled all the ugly small plants.  Prince was to dig up the evergreen and plant the bushes.  He stuck his shovel in the ground and promptly BROKE our shovel.  There was cussing and running to post the photo on Facebook.  Prince goes to buy a new shovel.

He continues to try to remove this evergreen thing.  He BENDS this shovel in the process.  More cussing.  I start to giggle.  He threatens me with the bent shovel — which was far funnier than it looks in print.  Finally, with the aid of clippers we get this plant out of our yard.  The sun shone.  The birds sung.  There were happy chipmunks and squirrels knitting dresses for me — it was a moment.  Up until Prince began to dig the hole for my new shrubs.

Prince: “Wow, I was under the mistaken impression that there was DIRT in these beds.”

Me: “Really, is it all mulch or bad dirt — should I go pick-up some top soil or something.” (See me, being helpful and apparently stupid.)

Prince: “No — there’s nothing but ROOTS in these beds.”

I’m guessing why those ugly evergreens stayed.

Next call — a landscaper for ugly shrub removal AND stump grinding.

*We will call them the Hermits, because as I’m meeting my neighbors, I’m learning that despite living her for 25+ years — no one knew them.  How that is possible baffles me.