One of the problems about having a house over five hundred miles away is the constant worry that something might happen to it. How would we know? The property is well off the road and behind woodland, so, short of a massive fire and loads of smoke, no-one in the ‘neighborhood’ would be aware of any mishap: vandals, or a burglar, or even a local black bear somehow gaining access and smashing up the inside, would pass totally unnoticed.
Can you tell I’m the worrier?
Trish takes the situation in her stride. “It’s stood for nearly seventy-five years,” she says, “I’m sure it’ll last another nine months, till we get there.”
“Yes,” I think to myself, “but there’s always been someone living there until now.”
The lady at the plumbing shop was equally blasé about my concerns. I’d telephoned to arrange for the house to be winterized. “Oh, goodness, we do lots of them at this time of year. People start moving out in September or October and head for warmer parts. Most of them have winter places in Florida.” She laughed, a trifle bitterly I thought, “They won’t put up with U.P. winters.”
I quickly pointed out that we certainly wouldn’t be hiking to Florida every winter. Once we arrived next May, it would be permanent, and we were looking forward to the yearly two hundred and forty inches of snow.
I could tell she thought I was utterly mad.
I agreed to drop off a key when we visited in October. In return, she assured me her “team of technicians” would ensure the house was protected from everything an Upper Peninsular winter could throw at it. For a price.
No, I didn’t ask. It was all becoming too much to take in in one phone conversation. There was no point in being more depressed than I had to be. The work must be done, so however high the bill, it had to be paid.
I’d asked the building inspector about winterization, while he was inspecting the property prior to us signing the contract. He recounted the tale of one house in the area, left without attention all winter, that turned to ice inside when the water pipes had burst.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “solid block – floor to ceiling in every room. There was nothing anyone could do but let it thaw. The place was wrecked.”
Apparently, on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, winterization of one’s second home is not a matter to be taken lightly.
Back in the early summer it had seemed a good idea to buy a property and have it ready for our retirement. God knows, we both hated central Illinois, with its vilely hot and humid summers, tornado-threatening springs, and cold, dismal, winters. We’d no wish to hang around twiddling our thumbs for months while trawling the internet for possible houses, when we could be quickly ensconced in a new home.
It was the right thing to do. The only misjudgment was how difficult the intervening time would prove to be, as we wish away our lives yearning for next spring.
