Things I've Learned: Part 2

"How bad can it be?" is the second dumbest rhetorical question in English. The only question that is more asinine would be, "What's the worst that could happen?" How bad can it be? It can be so terrible that you can't even imagine it. You could be thinking of "bad" in one light, and have it totally redefined. You may be completely lacking the frame of reference or world knowledge to understand "bad." Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating slightly - but the point is I learned not to ask stupid questions.

"It" refers to a really cheap house in Iowa. My frame of reference, as many people have heard, was that "bad" meant how disgusting my condo was when I purchased it in February of 2005. Four chihuahuas, two cats, and a bird never let outside bad. Owned by a disabled couple visited frequently on domestic violence calls bad. The guys at the local dump said the eight truck loads of house-guts we removed were "stinky" bad. Extra walls, pictures of the Pope inside the drywall, blood on the shower curtain bad. Following a Realtor with my nose plugged and breathing through my sleeve, my uncle vomited on the inspection day, my brother Nate hit a can of air freshener with a sledge hammer in the middle of the bedroom floor when escrow closed bad. That experience is now reframed in my mind as not "bad," just "moderately disgusting." This is because I experienced a whole new bad.

"How bad could it be?" was what my husband and I asked each other when we found a four bedroom house built in the 1800s on 3.57 acres outside of Kiron, Iowa. It was listed for $55,000 - and hey, our moderately disgusting one bedroom condo cost $260,000 in California. The house looked nice in the pictures of the outside, plus there were several outbuildings. One was built in 2007 and was huge - perfect for Josh's machine shop. We said, "At that price, who cares what the inside looks like? We can renovate the house or just build a new house on the land." We discussed making an offer at full price without even seeing the property. But we were already in Iowa, so we decided to go out and have a look. The property was vacant but there was a lock on the gate. We stood on the road in awe, taking in the fixer-upper house of our dreams, half a dozen cars that could be repaired to bring some cash (mostly 1960s - a Ford truck, an El Camino, and more), nice shop building, and beautiful lay of the land. The drive was lined with trees on both sides that grew toward the center creating an arch - one of my favorite designs in architectural landscaping, and reminiscent of my year at San Jose State University. I was in love, and we could fix it. We could make it ours. But just for fun, I decided to call the number on the realty sign.

The next day the Realtor, Jim, called me back and agreed to meet us at the property. Wow, I didn't expect a tour on short notice and was already sold anyway. A walk-through was an added bonus, just to assure that nothing was beyond repair. Around 3:30 we drove up the dirt road (Level A, hard-surfaced gravel). Clouds were forming and there was a breeze, so 30 degrees felt brisk and chilly. I put on a jacket and hopped out of the Sequoia. I excitedly breathed in the fresh country air and told the puppy to stay in the truck.

My first inkling of disaster was the front porch. There were huge gaps in the slats and I felt like I could fall through at any moment and be consumed by termites (Do they have termites in Iowa?). Definitely not ADA compliant. From there it got worse. Jim removed a piece of wood holding up the screen door and then picked up the screen door and set it to the side. We walked into an enclosed porch (Mud room? I'm new to this.) that was absolutely disgusting. But hey, that is sort of outside and people don't live like that. Oh, they live worse than that. We entered the living room and started with the oh-my-God-oh-my-Gods. There was a giant garbage pile consuming the living room. The dining room was cleared, and the carpet was that pre-shag, textured stuff that bunches up everywhere. It may have been gold or avocado at one time. We walked into the kitchen and started gasping. Some of the cabinets and appliances were just...gone. To the right, there was a mound of single sheets of newspaper, as if they had been removed, slightly crumpled, then piled one after another for hours on end. Jim opened the back door to another enclosed porch. This is when the what-the-#^@*s started. Because it is so rare to hear Josh utter, "Whoooooaaaaa...that's weird," I was too afraid to look. He said to Jim, "That's like the torture room. That is not right." I turned around and left the kitchen.

At this point it did strike me that the house was really stinky. I was so visually overwhelmed that my olfactory perception may have been delayed - but it smelled semi-rancid. Not surprising when you keep your compost pile in the "living" room. It also struck me, ever rooting for the underdog, that this house had a ton of potential. I could picture it as a beautiful, classic farm house. There was original wood trim around all the doorways that brought me a brief feeling of whimsy. Very brief. Well, we were already there, and like passing a train wreck, our imaginations longed for more abuse. After passing a Pepto-pink bedroom, we ventured upstairs.

The stairs were almost unmanageable to me. They were narrow, steep, and creepy. Instantly an image of falling down them with an infant in my arms came to mind. We would both surely die. Upstairs we entered a few disgusting bedrooms, stacked high with trash, broken belongings, and those thin, blue vinyl-covered mattresses. In the hallway I nearly tripped over a neatly arranged box of eight tracks. At this point we were laughing and joking, though Jim remained solemn. I asked, "Is the house as-is, or are they going to clear out this garbage?" Jim responded, "Oh no, they're coming back for their stuff." STUFF? That sent me into hysterics. A broken and battered trash-pile mess of a poor, rural 1970s life was not stuff to me. Down the hall was the "new" bathroom. There was half of a toilet anchored to a piece of plywood. Someone had started replastering a wall without removing a medicine cabinet. There was an old, junky vanity with a sink that wasn't connected to anything. And the kicker? The new sewage line was plumbed DOWN THE STAIR WAY. What the #^@*? I headed out of the bathroom to check out a bedroom. I entered and almost stepped on something black in the "dead" (cheesy pun, huh?) center of the room. It was a big, dead bird. Oooookay. I'm done now.

Or am I? We still had to see the basement. These stairs were worse than the first suicide stairs. They were wet, rotting wood. They were steeper and narrower. Jim shared, "We don't know when in the 1800s the house was built because it was moved from town to the country at some point." I said, "It sure smells like the 1800s." And I meant it. A fan of visiting ghost towns, I was serious: this place smelled like a wet version of Bodie. Josh, who used to be employed by an auction company and work in deplorable abandoned buildings, said, "Yep. That's some serious mold. I know mold when I smell it." I envisioned "spores" rushing into each of my bronchioles. I turned and saw the shape of a water heater, topped with a rust-mildew concoction and piled with dirty dishes atop it. Behind the stairs I noticed quite a large pile of used PVC pipe elbows. I looked up and saw some seriously crazy electrical wiring - crazy because it was new and yet someone had staple-gunned a serious of six thick wires all along the basement ceiling. Holy $#*%-#^@*er, time to crawl up and out.

Although the disgusting and creepy is burned into my memory, I cannot forget the crazy, either. The weirdest thing about this house was that someone (someone who needed a slew of DSM-IV diagnoses) had attempted to remodel it. There was a potentially beautiful new roof, done in a dark-green colored steel, that wasn't complete. When I peered out a window, I noticed that the bolts in the roof, though lined and spaced well, were all just a tad crooked. Part of the house had fresh Tyvex wrap, and part of it had new siding. A pile of siding and roofing laid in the yard. This wasn't a "bad" house. This was pure mental illness gone unchecked for decades.

How bad can it be? Open-ended questions leave room for unfathomable answers.


Copyright Rachel Burns 2009