It really started before New Year's 2005, probably as far back as October 2004. That's when I noticed that something was up with the foundation on the property behind the Housetruck. For ten years, the property's owner had been fiddling around, putting in a pipe here, a foundation extension there, doing some backfill, etc. Never more than he needed to accomplish to keep his ancient building permit from expiring. While having a dumpy concrete foundation so close wasn't a feature that I desired, it also wasn't all that bad. Aside from having a few day's construction noise every six months or so, it was better than actually having a house with neighbors living in it next door.
That October, the owner came in and removed the big stack of concrete forms that had been stored under corrugated tin on the property since the big foundation construction eight or nine years prior. Then surveyors with transits and tape measures made frequent visits, measuring everything, taking elevation readings, and spending a lot of time pouring over drawings. Something was up.
When I saw the local porta-can company deliver a portable shitter, I knew I was in deep doo-doo. This wasn't going to be any typical weekend patch-it-up-for-the-inspector construction project.
All through December 2004, I had crews working just on the other side of the flimsy fence that surrounds my Housetruck for privacy. Crews hammer drilling concrete, running big skilsaws with masonry blades, hammering on solid aggregate and dumping the rubble right on the property line.
They were finally building the damned house that I had dreaded all along.
I've lived in this neighborhood for the past 23 years, dwelling in my Housetruck first as the caretaker of the two acres to the south next door, and then as owner of this 1.3 acres. Never had I had a neighbor closer than 400-500 feet, and certainly none who could see anywhere into my very private and secluded yard. That was going to change. The house that they would be building was obviously going to be multiple stories, very large and very, very close to my Housetruck.
Damn.
Double Damn.
Early in the new year, I contacted a friend's son who had just gotten his realtor's license, and invited him to come over and discuss my options as far as selling this property.
The concept of selling was not all that new to me. I had attempted to sell this place in 1998 to a developer who was getting ready to build on the property that I formerly caretook. He tried to screw me, and never built the development.
I talked to several other realtors over the next few years, but never felt that any of them had my best interests at heart. I fact, all I ever got from them was the feeling that they wanted to use me to make a fat commission and then move on to the next "client".
Miles (friend's realtor son), at least knew me (since his birth), knew that I was content living in my Housetruck, understood my lifestyle, had an idea what kind of property I might be willing to purchase to replace this one, and most of all, was willing to work with me regardless of whether or not I listed the property with him. A family friend.
We explored similar properties that were listed or for sale in this area (not many), talked to builders and developers (all ~very~ interested in hillside view property close to downtown), and generally got an idea about the marketability of my land. I had a price in mind, and by the end of his research, Miles came back with the opinion that I could probably get my asking price.
Also at this time, I had made the determination that no matter what happened, having the Crown finished, or at least closer to completion was a priority. I began working on the electrical wiring of the living space in the bus, work that is documented elsewhere in this forum.
The long nights of winter gave time for introspective thoughts, and I contemplated the upcoming 30 year anniversary of my moving into my Housetruck and moving away from Los Angeles, twin events that changed my life.
"I had so much more energy back then. Everything seemed so easy and seemed to happen by itself" I thought. I kind of went on a nostalgia trip, working on the bus like I had worked on the Housetruck 30 years before, preparing it for my escape from LA. I dug out dozens of old cassette tapes from storage, listening to them in the bus as I worked. Old 1960's stuff like Cream, Joplin, Zepplin, Youngbloods, Santana, moving through time to the early 1970's, Ten Years After, Crobsy, Stills, Nash, Spirit. The music energized me. I felt that my reality was shifting. I could feel things changing in subtle ways.
Roger Beck's Housetruck anthem, The Who's "Goin' Mobile", something that I also adopted as the theme song and played every time the Housetruck moved. One of the lyrics is:
This one pranged my brain quite hard. I had always regarded the "over 50" lyric to be Miles-per-Hour. Jeezuz!!! Now it meant something completely different!!! What it meant now was "Over 50 years old"!!!!Roger Daltry wrote:Keep me movin'
Over 50
Keep me groovin'
Just a hippie gypsy
I was doing it. I was building the energy that I needed to build the bus! I called Miles and begged off listing the property, at least for now. My reasoning was that building the bus didn't hurt my ability to sell the property, but selling the property would definitely interfere with finishing the bus. Miles was gracious, reiterated that he was willing to help and serve me in the future, and noted that he was actually getting ready to move to Portland, so he would be busy settling into a new broker's office and getting set up. We parted on very good terms, and each promised to keep in touch about any developments in the future.
The construction next door continued. Oh how it continued. The more noise they made, the longer hours they worked, the harder I threw myself at the Crown project. The night they poured the decorative concrete slab floors, they brought in a trailer with a loud generator and a crank-up 20 foot post with mercury lights at the top. They flooded the Housetruck with noise and light all night long. I gave up about 10PM and made a bed in the Crown. The first night I ever slept in it. Farther away and shielded from the obnoxious light, with a set of ear plugs, I slept fairly well. The next morning the yard around the Housetruck was littered with empty beer cans.
Pause
Deep Breath
My New Year's resolution for 2005 was to spend at least one day a week at the Oregon coast. A resolution that I pretty well kept. Maybe not one day each week, but as often as possible. Dreary Willamette Valley winter days filled with fog weren't so depressing when I spent them laying on a blanket in the sun at the beach. Up and away before the contractor's arrived, and back a tiny bit after dark, when they had gone home to their quiet, private homes.
<center>
</center>Since 1998, my favorite place at the coast has been a deserted section of shoreline in the Oregon Dunes Recreation Area. It's a 3/4 mile walk from where the cars park to the ocean, a natural stroll across a large sand dune, into the "deflation forest" between the foredune at the water's edge and the big dunes inland, then the sandy path deposits you at the shore. No roads, no power lines, no houses, no civilization whatsoever. Just you and the Pacific Ocean. Most days, I never saw another human on the beach.
My favorite spot is a place another .66 mile north up the beach. A little hollow in the beach grass a few feet from the high tide sheltered from the wind. A blanket, packed lunch, a Thermos of fruit juice. Reading material, mostly back issues of Wooden Boat magazine I bought a year back at the flea market and have been reserving for these outings. A hand-rolled cigarette savored slowly (I'm an occasional smoker, but not habituated), possibly a short nap if it's warm enough and if time permits.
On the way back to the car, picking up bits of flotsam and debris from the beach, plastic junk mostly. Styrofoam, plastic water bottles, disposable lighters, bait containers, the occasional light bulb, aluminum cans. All of it goes into the plastic grocery bags I keep in the day pack for this purpose. I'm not all that fanatical about beach clean-up, but it seems a fitting service to give something back in exchange for the day's relaxation.
Back on the road. A cup of coffee in Florence. Tension returns as I get closer to the big city and the first stoplights and dense traffic.
In 2006, my resolution will be to spend only one day a week in Eugene. I hope to not make it that often....
First Floor. Annoyance
Second Floor. Man, this thing is going to be big.
Third Floor. Goodbye privacy. there isn't anywhere in my yard that I can go to get out of the view of the workers on this building.
Scaffolding. Now the entire project has taken on the aspect of a huge spy platform. The construction noise in unbearable to me. To begin with, I have ~very~ sensitive hearing. Having crews thirty five feet in the air above my living quarters for ten and twelve hours a day hammering and sawing and hammering and yelling and hammering is causing me to become psychotic. Did I mention that they chained the gasoline powered air compressor to the tree that's three feet from the rear bumper of the Housetruck? It actually was a bit of a blessing, as it supplied a drone that helped cover up some of the more explicit noise and conversations on their side of the fence. It didn't smell all that great, and made opening windows in nice weather impossible.
OK, so you get the idea, Construction Hell. I tried to rationalize it all by thinking that once they were done building it would get quiet, and eventually I'd get accustomed to having a huge building towering over my humble dwelling.
At some point between the second and third floors, I met the building's owner. He was interested in knowing if I wanted to sell my property. I said possibly, and hinted at an asking price of about $450,000. He said he was interested, and that we'd talk more after the house was finished.
Then, in late June, the last straw was introduced to the camel's back.
Isn't it strange how a small thing can push you over the edge? In my case it was the heat pump. Heat pumps. Plural.
I've already mentioned that I have sensitive hearing. In fact, the base of my dissatisfaction about living in the city is all of the intolerable and constant noise. One Sunday (the contractors seldom worked Sundays), I was peeking through a knot hole in the fence, looking at the latest construction, when I noticed a pre-cast concrete pad. Two pre-cast concrete pads, each with a stub of refrigeration tubing exiting the wall above them. Damn. Heat Pumps. Heat pumps installed and running year 'round less than five feet from the rear bumper of my Housetruck. Heat pumps that would pump out excess BTU's in the summer, making the area between the house and the Housetruck even hotter. Heat pumps that I would have to listen to all night long because I don't have air conditioning, and have to sleep with the windows open to stay cool. Damn heat pumps.
Snap, damn, broken back (what kind of a sound do camels in pain make?). The email I sent Miles had only five words:
Now, I know what some of you are thinking, and several other people asked me the same thing: "If your Housetruck is portable, why don't you just move it farther away from the new house?" Good question, but not a good solution. For one thing, my property is on a hill, so there's not a lot of level ground. Secondly, as far as the privacy goes, there are now exactly two places where I can go to not be seen from the new house, the front porch of my shop and the enclosure around my hot tub. Finally, for every foot I move away from the big house, I move a foot closer to the young headbangers next door on the other side who stay up all night playing video games and sitting in their yard chain smoking and drinking beer. Not a big improvement in scenery.Sharkey wrote:Let's discuss listing my property.
So, further investigation by Miles (realtor) revealed that my property might actually be worth as much as an additional 50% above what we had discussed earlier. After much reflection and soul-searching, I decided to list the property at the end of July. The timing of this event was designed to coincide with the 2005 "Tour of Homes", which is a showcase of new construction in the city. The new monolith of a house next door was to be a featured house on the tour, and I couldn't think of a better way to have builders, realtors, and high-end home buyers seeing my listing sign and flyer kiosk. No amount of money could buy publicity like this!
The property was listed.
As the deadline of the beginning of the Tour drew near, the pace of work on the house next door became a fever pitch as the contractors attempted to get it finished in time for the opening. Bark dust was blown all over the yard around the house, and lots of it ended up on and in everything I owned, as the wind picked it up and spread it around the neighborhood.
At the opening of the nine-day tour, I went over to see the "finished" house. I had been inside it several times during the construction, mostly to bitch at the foreman about loud radios. I must say I was not impressed. The construction and finish was sloppy and looked rushed. The general design was cold and uninviting. There was not one cozy place in the entire house that looked like a place I would settle to read a book quietly or drink a cup of warming coffee. Most rooms have 12 to 16 foot high ceilings, and the windows are mostly all up about 7 feet on the walls. Even the doors are huge, about 8 feet tall. The entire thing made me feel like I was 4 years old again, and everything in the world was designed and made by and for someone twice my height.
During my tour, I met up with the building's owner again, who told me to "keep him posted" about the listing of my property. I knew that he was disappointed about my not selling it to him, but I wasn't sure what he meant by the remark. Did he mean that when I didn't sell it for the higher price, he would still offer me what he had offered before, or was he saying that he would be a bidder against any other potential buyers at this new price?
During the Tour, I saw a fairly steady 15-25 flyers move through the kiosk at the base of the large, post mounted "for sale" sign with my realtors name and brokerage information. Miles said that he had a few inquires, but no one asked for an appointment to view the property.
A month passed, then two. Since I had pretty much taken most of the year off from any big jobs to bring in cash, money was getting tight. In mid-September, I was contacted by a person who wanted a new radio station constructed in town. I reluctantly took the job, as I didn’t want to have to spend my savings to pay bills and buy food.
Two weeks into the job, guess what happens? Right, I get a call from Miles telling me that we have an offer on the property. We agree to meet on the premises the next day so that he can meet with the potential buyer and negotiate and counter-offer. I asked Miles if I should contact the owner of the new house next door and advise him that I have an offer. "Absolutely" was Miles' response. A call to the guy next door had him on the phone to Miles within minutes.
The next morning, I met Miles, set him up inside my shop with a fast internet connection and a printer for his laptop, and then went to work. At noon, I came home to find that the first offer had been topped by the next door neighbor, then resubmitted at a higher offer. As the suspense was too much to handle, I went back to work.
By evening, I had two offers within a thousand dollars of one another, each for more than the asking price. The first buyer offered cash, while the next door neighbor offered a substantial down payment and a note for the remainder. The cash offer was tempting, but the down/note offer meant a substantial amount of interest money over the two year period I would carry it. We had a meeting with the next door neighbor, and beat him up for more interest ("hey, I'm not a prime interest lender, you can get money for that rate at the bank"), and worked out some other details. At the end of the meeting, I said I wanted to sleep on it before signing. What I really wanted to do was let the other buyer have a chance to meet the total sum this deal would net me, plus a little.
We offered the other buyer a cash price approximately equal to the offer I had struck with the neighbor, but he declined, telling us that we should call him if anything went wrong on the deal, that he was still interested.
After a few minor adjustments to the agreement, on October 2, 2005, at 4PM in the afternoon, I signed a contract to sell my property, with the deal to close in six months and a few days.
About an hour after signing, as Miles was preparing to leave, his cell phone rang. It was the other buyer, telling us that he was back in at the higher price. Too late!
Anyhow, the excitement is over, life settled back into routine, and I still had a radio station to build, although I now didn't need the money.
So, Here it is, New Year's Eve. I have 119 days to find a new place to live, sort and pack 23 year's worth of crap, then move it all to an as-of-now unknown destination. Talk about security...
The radio station job ended on Christmas, so I've been putting some time into getting caught up with household chores (it's amazing how little time there is for necessities when you work full time), and spending the last few days working on the Crown bus project. The farther along it is when I move, the better, and the more materials I put into it, the fewer I have to pack and move.
Still, the thought of being homeless at the end of April is a bit unnerving...
