Work Wednesday « Robin Writes

It’s no secret that I’d like to have more land; who wouldn’t? Even another 25 acres or so. And I’ve been wondering about the parcel next to us . . .

Finally, I looked up the owners to see if they’d be interested in selling. The answer was apparently yes, as the taxes were delinquent and, indeed, it had been sold two years ago but the new owner never filed the deed or paid taxes since. That meant that the property had reverted back to the original owners.

Who were deceased.

I’d like to thank Google and the Internet for their invaluable help in this matter. Ha.

Since when are the Whitepages NOT free?? I was going nuts trying to find phone numbers. Seems those don’t exist any longer, unless you want to get an account and pay a fee. No, thanks.

First, I searched for the name of the couple, which is when I found out he was a rather famous literary agent—how weird is that—and that he’d died in 1993. His wife, too, had passed away in 2006 or 2007. Since Mr. M was very well-known, his obit was still available online with only a cursory search. And they had two children . . .

So I emailed the agency, which still exists. Surprisingly, they answered right away but had no information to contact the family.

No, they did not offer me representation or a contract.

Next, I looked for the last known address. It had been sold in 2007.

But, the children’s names and addresses were on the deed transfer documents—bingo! However, people do move; we’ve done so several times since 2007. Four, to be exact.

So far, this search had spanned the eastern half of the country: New York, New Jersey, Missouri, and Illinois.

I went on Facebook (duh) and found someone who may have been the daughter; she hadn’t posted since 2009. I found several possibilities for the son, too, but hardly any of them had posted in years either. I mean, come on—once in a blue moon I’ll see something on TimeHop that tells me I didn’t post on Facebook THAT DAY. DAY, not years!

Finally, I found someone that I thought was a match for the son—so I emailed him and asked.

And he wrote back and said yes, he was, and he noticed I was a writer so, he asked, is that how I knew his father?

I WISH! This guy repped Arthur C. Clark and Philip K. Dick, among others. Holy smoke. I WISH.

But no, I told him I was interested in buying the property in Missouri. We exchanged a few emails. He’ll actually be in the state in a month or so, and he wants to come see it.

Keep your fingers crossed!

No, no. We are not “flipping” rocks, although we certainly have enough that we could apply almost any meaning to that term and still have plenty of leftover rocks; we ordered gravel for our driveway.

Talk about a fiasco.

My insurance agent recommended we call this guy, so we did. He was supposed to come out Tuesday around five o’clock, but never showed. The next night, his DAD came over around 8:00 p.m. when it was getting dark.

So far, so good. Sorta.

My husband went out to talk to the dad; we’d already discussed what we needed, which was gravel to top off the road. Period.

The two of them walked the driveway and my husband came in and asked me what color I wanted . . .

Um, gravel-colored? I didn’t care. Really. Brown or white, what was the difference?

The next night, the dad showed up around 4, not 5 as he’d said, and I was down in the woods when I heard the truck start dumping. They left shortly after spreading the entire drive, and I went to take a closer look.

O. M. G.

Repeat. Several times.

Throw in a few cuss words.

Repeat again.

They had dumped road-bed sized rocks—boulders, compared to gravel—all over the driveway. ALL the way down.

I was furious. FURIOUS.

I paced. I bitched. I moaned.

Okay, actually, when I came back inside and my husband said, “What do you think?” I replied with “fine.”

And we all know what THAT means . . .

So I expanded on that. A lot. Several times.

Honestly, I thought I would cry—and I never cry—and why? Because it’s a done deed. The solution? Use the blade and then—oh, Lord—use rakes.

Because we don’t have enough to do around here, right?

So I called “the guy” and naturally had to a leave a message. Okay, I left two. I was pissed.

The next day, the guy shows up around 5:00 with a load of gravel, even though I’d told him to CALL ME. My husband was at the barn and called me down there to meet the guy and talk to him.

I was loaded for bear.

And then—

Then I saw the guy. Close to seven feet tall, yes, really, and probably 300 pounds. I’m guessing. Holy crap. Maybe I should have tempered those messages a little, right? Yikes!

Of course, turns out he’s a really, really nice guy and we finally determined that my husband was confused or clueless and that his dad is blind or clueless.

Long story short—oh, wait, maybe I should have started here? Anyway, the guy brought gravel, now in two piles until we finish RAKING the damn drive and mashing it down into the existing roadbed.

I figure it’ll be September before we can lay the gravel.

Good grief.