Commotion in the Pews

In the past few years I have extolled the joys of certain movies, television shows, books, restaurants, charities, and a host of personal stuff I’ve been involved in.

Today’s blog is presenting great real estate agents.

My recent move from the Blue Hell of Minnesota to the Red Utopia of Florida is case in point. I grew up one place, plan to die in the other, and have had great agents in both places. 

Let’s start with my Minnesota agent, Kevin Horan. Not many people have the guy next door as their agent. We did. It made it easy to wander over with a bottle of adult beverages and some snacks, sit around the center island in his kitchen, and plan the strategy. It made it easy to get the house ready to list, and for him to show it as well, since he just had to look out the window to see what was going on.

But the little things count massively. Example: he cleaned the joint out for us after we moved out. I hired a team of 800-GOT JUNK people to come in and make it all vanish. Kevin was there to let them in and supervise. Likewise with the cleaning crew (whom he recommended) that left the place far better looking than at any point when I lived there. Finally, it got warm before the new tenants moved in, and the snow melted. That meant that a winter’s worth of Chewy poop was visible. Kevin did poop patrol. I owe the man a steak at a minimum. 

He was in constant communication with us, got us a great price, and made it all happen painlessly. Not because he was my neighbor, but because he’s a rock star and a great agent. If you are in the Twin Cities and need to sell, or buy, a home, give him a call at:    (612) 910-3704 Mobile and email at: kevinhoran@kw.com 

As far as hobbies and whatnot goes, I know he tells a great story, loves his family, and is handy with a poop scoop.

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Now, on the other end of the country, we found our agent through my sister. She’d already been looking in Florida and knew Marybeth as a good agent. Good enough for me. We had put out calls to a couple of agents and she was the first to respond, cinching the deal.

She’s fast. Really fast. No phone call or email went unanswered. She asked us what we wanted in our new home. We gave her some precise goals, and she provided 21 homes within a couple of days. We checked the listings, and eliminated most, highlighting what we liked, the areas we liked, and changed our specs a bit. 

This went back and forth several times until we figured out what we really wanted. At that point, the market was turning fast in Florida. Marybeth drove all over to look at homes for us, and used her extensive network of people to find what we were looking for in our lives.

Simply stated, I never would have bought a house over the internet if she wasn’t my agent. We trusted her. We knew she would do right by us. And, with great confidence, we bought our house on Christmas Eve. She has little ones, and she was up late cinching the deal for us. 

She wasn’t done. She went to the closing walk-through on our behalf. She made sure it was all good. We met her for the first time at the closing.

But she wasn’t finished. She helped us find a good fencing contractor and water treatment company. She guided us through the steps needed to make our landing in Florida soft.

So, if you’re looking for a house anywhere around Naples, Florida, you’re wasting your time if you don’t call her at:    239-319-8464 or, you can email her at:  marybeth.alford@compass.com.

Hobbies:  She’s a runner, couple of marathons under her belt, and she hunts wild hogs. Let’s see…. yup, don’t mess with her, she’ll run you down and  – well, let’s just say she’s formidable.

If you need an agent in either market, start with these two. Fine people with great work ethics. They have our vote. 

 

 

 

 

Charles had always enjoyed that first day of summer with his family. Most years they headed “Up North” to the family’s cabin on Thursday and spent the next week putting the dock in the water, cleaning up the deadfall around the cabin, and cleaning. Mom always insisted on the cleaning before the water skis were loaded out of the shed and put in the boat.

His sisters were just enough older that he was ignored most of the time, and that left him with plenty of time to explore the area with an assortment of dogs over the years. Each dog had its season at the cabin, and one-by-one they passed on, clearing the way for the next dog. 

In his 19th year Charles dropped out of college. He had good grades, and he was learning a subject that he truly loved. But the guilt he felt with every casualty list coming from Vietnam put him in a bind: he loved his country and grew to believe that he needed to go himself or he wasn’t worth much as a man. 

So, at the end of spring quarter at the college, he quietly packed up his dorm room and brought his stuff home in boxes. He left it all in the attic, telling his parents he’d deal with it when they got back from the lake. And, as usual, the following Thursday they went north and stayed for a week. His sisters had been married off, and it was a quiet time where he could tell his parents about his enlistment in the Navy and his impending departure for San Diego and boot camp.

At the end of the week, he had them drop him off at the recruiter’s office on a Friday morning and by lunchtime he’d been processed at the large recruiting station downtown and put on a plane to California. He was a bit disappointed that they didn’t send him by train, but it wasn’t his choice to make.

Nine months later he reported to a riverine unit in South Vietnam. He’d been through the training as a gunner in the Navy’s schooling system, and since he was in his second year of college they offered him a chance at a degree and a commission. He declined, and said he’d best go where his friends were: Vietnam.

Just a month after that, his boat was obliterated during a gun-duel with Viet Cong forces on a small canal that nobody remembers the name of any longer. His boat was doing well in the firefight until a mortar lucked out and hit them while they were exchanging fire with a machine gun nest on shore. It was a direct hit, and it took the boat out with a strike in the fuel tanks. No survivors.

That spring, on Memorial Day, his parents were going to leave the cabin unopened, and wait until the Fourth of July to go up and open the place. But Charlie’s sister June insisted, saying that “Charlie wouldn’t want you moping around. He loved that place. Do it for him.”

And, reluctantly they did, heading up on Thursday and planning to return Thursday following, just like always. 

The dust seemed thicker this year, and his parents struggled to keep the emotions under control while they got everything in order. It was a lot tougher without any help from the kids. But they managed.

Monday morning Charlie’s father got up at dawn and made himself a cup of coffee. He was a combat vet of Korea, and had lost a number of friends during that war. A war not unlike his son’s war. He put a shot of brandy in his coffee, and wandered down to the dock. Time to reflect.

When he arrived, he saw that the water skis were bobbing in the shallows near the dock. He touched the engine of the old boat and realized it was very warm; someone had been out on the lake in it in the last hour.

Walking down the dock, he hopped into the shallow water to grab the skis. Damned inconsiderate for a boat thief to go joy-riding in his beloved boat.

He stopped and looked past the skis, up to the beach. There were footprints coming out of the water that ended six feet up the beach. Ended, as in nothing more. Just unblemished sand.  And in the hollow of the last footprint was a single dogtag that read:

Veninbilt, Charles. 

They’d never gotten Charlie’s dogtags. His body was recovered, but not the tags. The explosion had left little behind.

Dad dropped his cup of coffee and picked up the tag. It was charred and bent, but all the information on it was correct. It was Charlie’s.

Staring out at the lake, he heard music, it sounded like The Rolling Stones “Under My Thumb,” and then the deep growl of a  big marine engine. A moment later he blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend that he saw a riverine unit come around the point near the resort at full throttle. Bow wave held in its teeth, the boat turned toward shore and the dock, holding course until it was fifty yards out. She wheeled hard to starboard at that point and the crew waved. From the rear .50 mount a blond kid with no shirt waved and threw a salute. As fast as it had come, it turned toward the center of the lake and faded into vapors. The sound of the engine, and Mick Jagger‘s voice, rapidly faded. The surface of the lake returned to a mirror finish.

Charlie had come back for one more Memorial Day at the lake.

To all my readers, spend the day honoring all the men and women who went forth in our place and gave us the peace we enjoy today. 

When one lives with an Australian Shepherd, one becomes accustomed to the most mundane thing becoming a matter of joy and wonder.

For the last several weeks we’ve had lizards on our lanai. They make noises, as do the frogs and whatnot that lurk out there. But some of the noises really grab your attention.

My wife, who loves me but is also full of it, tried to convince me that the noises were coming from birds in our trees and echoing in the lanai. I have almost no directional hearing with the hearing aids, and so I bought into it at about 0.44 percent. But I quit asking about it, knowing she’d just make up something about robots from the moon landing in the yard. 

Chewy, on the other hand, never cared. He’d not even look up when the racket started. He’s so used to all the noises around here that he ceased to care.

Until “The Lizard” showed up and started parading around on the new sectional on the lanai. The thing had the audacity to walk back and forth in front of the sliding doors and taunt him.

It was like watching a drunk sailor watching “Top Gun” on the day room television. God only knows what all was going on in his mind, but if you changed the channel (opened the door) and made the picture go away, he was all kinds of upset. He’d zoom out, around, and over the sectional looking for the lizard. But it was fast and he never got it.

Fast forward to the screen going up on the lanai. The installer swears that if the dog runs full speed into it he’ll break his neck. He’s never met Chewy. I give the screen about 1 minute of him trying to poke his face through it before it pops out of the track.

Now the lizard is back, but outside. Chewy still watches intently, but it’s like the television is in another room. He only stops when something catches his eye, and watches for just a few minutes. I guess he’s got reading to do or something.

In any event, this is a picture of him pre-screen on the lanai. It’s cut way down on the bugs we have to deal with, but it’s cut the season short for his favorite show.

I guess he can always hope for reruns.