Our house is officially on the market, and it never looked better. Even though we’ve always preferred a manicured look, we’ve outdone ourselves for the buying public. In doing so, we’ve made it a house rather than a home. It’s sad in some ways.
I have removed every single framed photo of any family member, so that our personal lives don’t distract visitors. We’ve rented a storage locker and filled it to capacity — thanks to Earl’s diligence — with things we don’t need but which appear as clutter to this all-important visitor. We are fastidious about keeping our clothes hung up, the bed made, the cocktail table clear of papers, the lawn mowed, the flowers dead-headed, the driveway and deck blown free of errant leaves.
I suspect no other owner will tender the loving care to this home that we have. Of course, if it doesn’t sell in a timely fashion, between the two of us we have privately reserved the option of taking it off the market and staying put. Of cancelling our reservation on the condo we hoped would be our next home. The one with less maintenance because the outside work would be done by others and paid for in the association fee.
If we did stay put, it would mean all the photos go back up and the storage locker is vacated and I could skip making the bed once in a while. It would also mean we’d continue paying a gardener, a tree trimmer, a lawn mower guy, and a sprinkler system guy. Come to think of it, one reason nobody else will keep the house and grounds the way we do is that nobody else wants to be a cottage industry.
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