Strange Estates... Part II

We talked last week about my experiences with the nouveau riche, let's talk a little about the other class. The real people, beset by real problems but a whole lot more interesting than their "monied" cousins.

We responded to a couple of other estate calls last week. After we had settled down from our lecture by the trophy wife with the priceless silver collection we arrived at a low-key tract home in the East Bay area. Although it had none of the pretense of the "gated" household, this place too was a total wreck.

At least half of it was.

Throughout the home's six rooms a line had been painted. At some times imaginary, in some parts of the house - an actual white line. On one side of the room, the mess I mentioned and a decidedly male collection of guns, deer heads, tools and other items. The other side had a distinctly feminine feeling to it.

My host was in his early 40s. He was watching me take it all in.

"My parent's house," he said with a shrug. "They were divorced for the last 15 years of their marriage but continued to live together anyway. Probably didn't know any other way."

It was a strange feeling being inside that house, but it had a quirky sensibility to it I liked.

"Dad stayed on his side of the place, mom on hers," the son told me. "The strange thing of it was they both seemed happier that way."

It was a cool story and a great housecall. I ended up buying several things. But I can't seem to shake the memories of those two people, and wonder if they have a line drawn between them up in heaven.

Strange Estate Sites I Have Seen... Part I

Definitely quieter out there these last two weeks as folks appear to be waiting for someone to write a more optimistic headline about the economy. I've had a few strange estate calls in recent weeks, with people feeling the effects of this meltdown and civility in short supply.

It's always dicey, going into someone's home to look at their things. We try to do it with respect, returning things they may have overlooked and of no obvious value but to their family, but sometimes there's just no pleasing people.

We were at one of the so-called "gated" communities in our area recently, to look at "some really good silver" and other "antiques" the lady of the house had called about. We've been to this development before, but this one stood out for some reason, not for the "his and her" Range Rover and Lexus (Lexi, plural?) in the driveway, but for the hubris exhibited by the owner.

Now, the house was probably $1.7 million by last year's realtor's listing and was certainly built to impress, as was the lady of the house. She motioned me inside, cell phone plastered to one ear, and made me take my shoes off - which was fine, as the whole house was white as a snowstorm.

But then I noticed something else.

"Sorry about the mess," she said. "The kids have been playing." I took a good look and saw that the walls bore an unfamiliar scrawl - crayon. The floors were marble but uncomfortably - tacky - from some spilled substance. There was a hole next to the mega-TV that looked like someone, probably upset over the Super Bowl results, put there with a fist.

"Uh..." I started.

"The silver's in here," Mrs. Maven says, waving me into the kitchen. There's more granite in there than in Half Dome, the refrigerater big as some morgues. Her kids, mercifully, blow past my ankles on their way outside to torture the family dog.

"Uh..."

"This was my mother's," she starts. "We've had it all looked at and we know what it's worth. We're not looking for lowball offers...and we'll only take cash."

It was all plate, nothing older than the kitten back at our house. Not only that but it was in abysmal condition. If it was indeed her mother's, the poor woman must have had a palsy because she dropped everything she owned.

"Is there anything else you want me to look at?" asks I. Her face falls.

"You don't want to make a bid for the silver?"

"It's not for me," I say. "Anything else?"

She couldn't have gotten me out of there any faster, pausing to lecture me at the door: "You could have let us know before we made the appointment that you're not serious."

"Sorry," I says. And sometimes that's all that's left to say to some people.