One of those "feelings"

We had a chance to look at a house for sale in our neighborhood last week. We certainly don't need another house. The one we've got now needs quite a bit more work, but with spring here, we've been doing more things outside, like gardening and sunning. And the yard we've got now is certainly minuscule. So that's what prompted us to look at a house with a big yard about half a block away. The yard was certainly something. You could have had patios and gazebos and even a deck with a lap pool on both sides and the end of the lot. It even had a huge two car garage. But the house itself? Incredibly tiny, and boxy and...sad.

What do I mean by sad? Well, when you entered, you were gripped by a heavy feeling of depression and hopelessness. It might have been just the dark paneled walls. Hey, I've spent thirty-five years in a wood paneled home and yes, it is depressing! But this feeling went beyond the walls. Trust me. The living room was big-gish, for an eight hundred square foot home, I'd guess it was maybe twelve by twenty feet. A hallway divided the house in half, with a small bedroom on either side. Then it entered into a long kitchen at the back of the house with a smallish bathroom located off the kitchen. That was it. Yes, it was built back in the twenties, when one wasn't expected to have so much room to do one's living in. So it certainly wasn't just the dinkiness that caused the sadness, was it?

It was more. Evidence lay in the hallway and the bathroom indicated a person with disabilities had dwelt here, by the hand holds and wide doorways. Yes, the real estate agent said, the widow who lived here was confined to a wheelchair. I got the feeling that there had been a husband but he'd been gone for several years, ten years to be exact. I asked if that were so. It appeared I was.

We stepped outside and continued looking and the oppressive feeling subsided. Yes, the lot was certainly big enough. Yes, you could really fix up the yard and have a humdinger party up here. But, oh yes, you still had to get past the unbearable sadness in that house. Oh my! After looking around, we took our leave and went back to our house. I sat down and started thinking about that house and promptly burst into tears. "We can't buy it!" I told Bill, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. "It's just too sad a place."

We called the agent and told her we'd changed our minds. She asked why and I told her how sad it made me feel. She agreed. (I was surprised by this.) She said when she'd entered the house to open it up for us, she too, had burst into tears. The lady with the disability had to enter a rest home and the house was to be sold for her care in the rest home. That was certainly depressing news.

But the next day, I got a feeling. I wasn't meditating exactly, but I might as well have been. The husband was protecting the house. He's been gone for ten years, sure. But he's been right there protecting his investment and keeping watch over his wife in all that time. He thought his house would take care of her until she passed and came on to join him. But it wasn't enough. And he's grown incessantly sadder watching her grow weaker and sicker until she had to enter a rest home. Now his precious home, that he and his wife had lived in since the mid-Forties is up for sale. It just shouldn't be happening and the sadness he feels has permeated the house.

I hope the house sells soon so that the lady's medical expenses can be paid for. I hope the people who buy it aren't super sensitive to the feeling coming from the house. I hope the lady gets to join her husband soon and this pervasive sadness will lighten up. But for now, we're going to concentrate on getting our own small yard in order and not go searching out other troubled stories in our neighborhood.