Love's Real Stories

“You got the job, son!” said old Mr. Voss. He had a strong, calloused grip. But I was unsure of my job description. I was visiting the Voss home with the intent to list the house for sale. When I found Mr. Voss in his back-yard shop, I was immediately put to work by the man, taking his orders like an apprentice, helping him re-build an old redwood trellis. He called me Rob despite my corrections, and I realized as we worked, that he wasn’t completely tied in mentally with this world. Physically, at 85 or 90, he was in command, and worked his antique tools like a master carpenter.

“Wipe these tools down, Rob, and let’s go check on the other guys.”

There were no other guys. As I hurried to keep up with his long strides, I said, “Mr. Voss, I’m a Realtor, and I am here because you called my office about selling your house.” I handed him my card. He seemed to take new notice of me and our surroundings. His tall, wiry frame and wide shoulders that he had held erect while we worked now slouched and stooped.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, right…… Sissy says we’re selling and moving. I’ll show you around the place.” A fat orange cat rubbed against Mr. Voss’ legs and accompanied his every step. The place was in perfect shape, improved by Mr. Voss with well-crafted wood trim and finish. I was excited at the prospect of listing it.

At one point on our tour, Mr. Voss stood beside me on the strip of grass bordering the busy street in front of his house, and so help me, proceeded to relieve himself, splattering the roadside curb as well as the tops of our shoes. He maintained a stream of conversation as though we were standing alone in the woods.

I herded Mr. Voss back into the house, where Mrs. Voss sat in her rocker. She regarded us silently and incoherently. I locked the doors. This was a scary situation. These people were not lucid.

On the kitchen wall, “Sissy” was scrawled in black ink under the phone. I dialed the long-distance number beside the name.

“Hi, I’m a Realtor and I’m here with Mr. and Mrs. Voss. He called me to sell the house, and I’m a little concerned……”

“What?” screamed Sissy. “You’re in my parents’ house? Where’s my niece!?” I told her I saw no niece.

“Listen, Buster,” she said evenly and menacingly, “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but you will never sell my parents’ house. I’m calling the police.”

A week later, someone else’s Real Estate sign stood in the front yard of the vacant Voss home. There was no sign of life except for the fat orange cat on a ledge of the brick chimney.

Sissy was right. I never did sell her parents’ home.

I stood outside the front door and waited while someone inside opened a series of locks from top to bottom, painstakingly and slowly.

I checked my “While You Were Out” note. The message said, “Man says needs to sell house now- Mr. Voss.”

The house looked solid. Natural lap-siding gleamed with an oil coating like a good old baseball glove. A fat orange cat crouched and glared at me from a ledge on the brick chimney. This would be a nice listing.

I heard metallic clunking, clanking, and rattling from the other side of the door. Deadbolts opened, chains slid out of slots, and padlocks unhooked. At last, the door slowly opened and I was greeted by an ancient, silent woman with long white hair and otherworldly blue eyes. She didn’t respond to my introduction, and after a long gaze into my eyes, she smiled calmly, and waved me in.

She led me through the living room to the kitchen. As we slowly made our way, I admired rich paneling and hardwood floors. “HENRY!” she shrieked to no one. My heart jumped. She wandered back into the living room and sank into a straight-back rocker and stared out the window.

The kitchen wall-mounted phone was surrounded by a confetti-like spray of sticky notes covered with phone numbers, names, and indiscriminate scrawl.

I peered outside and saw a tall stooped man in overalls disappearing into a stout little shop building.

I slipped out back, and leaned in the shop doorway. “Mr. Voss?”

“You know it, son!” he said, grabbing a handsaw off a workbench. “Bring that drill, will ya?” The drill was an old brace-and-bit with big wood-knob handles. It lay among a neat display of chisels, hand planes, and antique tools in perfect condition.

“Let’s go!” he said. “Hang on to this two-by-two, Rob.”

He called me Rob for the next two hours, despite my protests, and we rebuilt the upper part of his redwood trellis. He ordered me around like an apprentice.

“Nice work, Ron!” he said when I drilled through a two-by-two, holding the wood-knob handle of the brace-and-bit against my chest, spinning the bit churn-like.

The man was 85 or 90 years old, with questionable mental lucidity, but a master carpenter, and in complete control of his physical abilities.

“Congratulations, Rob,” he said and shook my hand. “You got the job!”

“But I’m here to list your house for sale.”

“Did you hear me, boy? You got the job. You want it or not?”

I was unsure of my job description, Realtor, laborer, or both.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

(To be continued………)