 |
|
|
Birth of a Mortgage By Teresa Marie Davis The whole ordeal of buying a house as single woman likened to a relationship, marriage and giving birth. I was drawn to the danger and excitement by Alan Greenspan. Like an aphrodisiac he whispered in my ear, "Interest rates are as low as they are going to go." The lure of cheap money from the bank for a home loan was as intoxicating as two glasses of chardonnay to a teenage Catholic school girl. How would I know? I was once a teenage Catholic school girl. To meet with the loan officer of the bank, I put on my Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit, just like I would for a first date. I showered, shaved and primped until I was late for the meeting. Making a boy wait makes them think you are in charge, my Momma once said. That gave me the false heir that I was in charge. I arrived purposely breathless. With confidence I stuck out my hand, thinking I was in control of the meeting, "Hi, I'm Teresa Davis. I'm here to get my loan." "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Davis, we'll get you that loan in no time flat, no problem." He said it in a way that I was expecting a "and you look nice today Mrs. Cleaver," as well. The kabuki dance then began. He was probing, I was ducking. He was pursuing long terms, and I was playing hard to get. He was questioning, I was answering in details that only can be shared over coffee with girlfriends why my car payment was late in November 1998. A full swing back to the terms, conditions and percentages and I felt flushed from the dance. The documents in front of me were a merry-go-round blur, as I signed, my head or the room kept spinning. Limp-wristed, I said my good-byes to the bank man, and had to go lay down, after a cigarette. I was spent, and no one had bought me dinner. I woke the next morning knowing he didn?t respect me. A few phone calls for support of the deed I had committed and it was pure comfort and joy. I had taken the big step and it was time to celebrate. The church women threw me a lawn and garden shower, I made a list, checked it twice for wants and needs for the new house, and friends were bringing lawn mowers, helping with boxes, keeping my head on straight before the big day. The day came when I had to say, "I do." With a room full of witnesses, a friend video-taping the whole thing, I went through closing. After the 125 pages of papers that required my signature, I asked for the one between me and the bank that stated, "Until death do us part." Bank officials, like many reverends performing ceremonies, have no sense of humor. I wanted to kiss someone, but the previous owners of my newly purchased cape cod, were an older couple, not open to swinging. A receiving line was formed for my departure out of the bank. I shook hands, with tears in my eyes, and went to the reception waiting for me at a nearby coffee where my friends and I toasted, "L'chaim!" The air was pregnant with possibilities the morning of the move, the house packed into tiny bundles and nesting was on my mind. The laborers were to arrive at 9 am. At 9 am, 10 am, and 10:30 nothing had moved. The moving men were late. I called the company and I was told I had been taken off the list for that day, and if I was patient, maybe they could send a spare crew later in the afternoon. I have been through the end of a pregnancy with a girlfriend and her husband. When contractions are expected and don?t happen, things can get ugly. I did my breathing excercises though and kept my head about me. At 6 pm that night a motley crew started with our contractions. It was slow going, and time consuming, because they had been involved in 5 deliveries so far that day. No one wants a tired medical professional or mover on their watch, and that?s all I had. It took two hours for three men to pack up a four room apartment into a 3 block-long truck, but at least we were ready to go. As with scheduling a natural birth, I had a prescription for getting this move done by strangers who held my treasures in their hands. Don?t go the highway, do go through town, make sure you don?t stop to eat, I'll feed you later. Just like in anticipating a natural birth for so many, all of that went out the window. It was a 25 minute drive to our new house. At 9:15pm they had not arrived, and I began to call their office, just as one would call the nurse in a hospital setting. There was no answer, but a wonderful reply of we?ll get to you as soon as we can. I began pressing the redial every fifteen minutes, nothing was happening and nothing had arrived. At 11:15 pm my dear friend sent her dear husband over with a cot for my Moma, blankets, pillows for us to at least get some rest. Often times when contractions are terribly slow and not consistent, but true contractions, hospital staff will slow them down, give you something to sleep and hopefully start again in the morning. Our moving progression had slowed, stopped. We laid down in our make-shift beds and tried to sleep. Ten minutes after the new day began, 12:10 am, the moving truck pulled up. I met them on my lawn, screaming in hushed tones so my new neighbors would not hear me. "Where the hell have you been?" According to Darryl, Darryl and Darryl, the truck broke down on the highway, and they had to call at tow truck. They called in another specialists as proof, for there was a tow truck pulling the moving van, parked in front of my new home. With that I went into a diatribe about the truck, the moving company, and used one of the three men's mother name for each in a way, I am sure she never intended. I've seen a few women in labor and it is in a frenzied anticipatitory painful state that they loose all control and everyone's name is taking in vain. I was no less graceful. The ordeal continued after a fitful sleep at 7 a.m. with calls from supervisors trying to start the contractions again. Apologizing for the night crew, explaining equipment failure, yadda, yadda.. I stopped listening and felt the pain of an empty house, with no food, no clothes, and not even a bar of soap to wash up. The supervisor promised the moving would begin again within minutes. You cannot eat once contractions begin and you are monitored, so I flew down to the bakery at the corner to stuff our faces before they truck re-arrived. Coffee, doughnuts and a visit from a friend calmed us and lifted our spirits. This was a new day, and this would be our delivery day. We looked forward to making it our home. Time passed, and the anticipation began. Nothing. Another call to the supervisor and his answer was, "Anytime now, Ms. Davis. Be patient and keep breathing." Two more calls, a repeat of the same, and this mother blew. With one loud scream and threat into the supervisors ear involving a television crew filming a 78-year old in two day old clothes, sleeping on a cot because a moving van couldn?t make it 10 miles, along with the sheriff's department was my final push. The truck was there within 10 minutes. The doors of the moving van screeched open and it was my C-section delivery. A more than water was broken during the move, and it left scars and dings on my beautiful, baby house that will be there for life. Now as sit underneath my umbrella in my backyard and look upon my beautiful house, a labor of love, indeed, I cannot remember the pain of giving birth to it. But, I do know this--it will be an only child. About the author: I am a prolific writer, locally and parishionally published. To pay for the above mortgage I telecommute as an employee trainer for an insurance company. My passion is to be a teacher, but until the world turns upside down, the payscale for teachers who wish to have more than a shed and running water dictates I keep my day job. I am the owner of two dogs, and an 82 year old mother. | | | |
First Person Archive Most recent: 2008 November October September August July June May April March February January 2007 December November October September August July June May April March February January 2006 December September Submit Your First Person Story A while back, we invited listeners to send us a short story or a poem about their homes for a feature called "Stories from Home." We're resurrecting this feature, but we're calling it "First Person" a place for you to give us your stories, poems, or short fiction. | |
 |
|
|
