They Don’t Live Here Anymore: Reflections on Home Staging

Posted by C.J.

My car is loaded up with a toaster, clothes, a boombox, an under-the-cabinet stereo, a laptop computer, yard games, and a number of garbage bags with unknown contents. Why? We’re trying to sell our home.

I forgot to move the tea kettle for this picture. It's gone now, though.

In order for someone to buy a home nowadays, you have to make it look like no one lives there. There should never be smudges on the hardwood floor, laundry in the laundry room, equipment or kids toys in the garage, trash in waste receptacles, appliances on counters, or paper on desks. Food in the pantry and clothes in closets should be limited to essentials so it appears that there is an abundance of storage space. But there should always be fresh flowers on the coffee table, a mound of green apples in the bowl on the kitchen table, and the aroma of scented candles in the air.

I could blame this seller’s nightmare on the economy and the buyers’ market. If we’re going to compete with other sellers in our neighborhood, including foreclosures and short sales, and the glut of new homes available in Madison, we have to make our house seem nearly perfect. Yet somehow focusing on the economy doesn’t seem quite right. It’s too complex. It brings in all kinds of larger issues, like shady lending practices of banks and bad city planning.

I need something easier.

I know…shows like The Stagers and Curb Appeal set the expectations of buyers way too high. I’ll blame HGTV.

Deeper Dimensions: Seeing Through the Eyes of a Child

Posted by C.J.

In his book Look Me in the Eye, John Elder Robison hypothesizes that as a person with Asberger’s syndrome, he has shifted his abilities from one area to another in order to adapt to the world’s expectations of him. As a child and young adult, he had an inordinate ability with machines and electrical equipment, but was lower functioning in social situations. As he grew older and improved socially, even to the point that he delivers keynote addresses at large conferences, he lost some of his mechanical ability. He does not lament the loss, but accepts it as a fair trade off. I believe that most adults experience a similar swap. As we mature and accept the challenges and responsibilities of adulthood, we give up the unique perspective of childhood. Nevertheless, we can regain some of what we used to see, but only if we listen to our children. 

Case in point–on July 3, the whole family went to see the fireworks at Elver Park. Although we’ve seen the fireworks from a distance–across the street from the park in the yard of the Lutheran church or from the top of the hill in our neighborhood–we’ve never attending the display at the park itself. It was the first time the kids had seen fireworks close-up.

May, even though she’s now 11-years old, sat on my lap for nearly the entire show and we shared with each other which of the pyrotechnics we liked best. 

“Look at that one, Daddy. It looks like a horse’s tail.”

“I like the ones that crackle.” 

“I’ve never seen a blue firework before. It’s pretty neat, but I like the red ones better.”

About ten minutes in, May pointed out that if you look closely, you can see the smoke trails of earlier fireworks in the light of the new ones that are exploding. Hiding in the shadows of the night were smokey squids and spiders, cascading waterfalls, and the petals of daisies–a reality that I’d never seen. I’ve always been too absorbed by the obvious to notice the subtle. There is a whole new dimension, a depth, to fireworks displays that I’ve missed for the first 40 years of my life. 

I wonder what else I’ve missed. If I listen, I’m sure my kids will tell me.

Author’s note: I tried to find an image on line of the smoke trails left behind by fireworks, but there is nothing that even slightly resembles the depth and mysterious beauty of the trails May and I watched. That seems right. Phantom squid should never be captured on film (or pixels).

Revisiting the Blog

Posted by C.J.

I’ve not posted to Rarely Clever in about five months, and my posts prior to February were few and far between. The motivation just wasn’t there–too many things on my mind.  Now, I think it’s time to write again.