ReAl EsTaTe ReNdEvOuS

It has taken a tremendous amount of time to get here. I am not certain what took me so long or why I have hestitated for so many years. I often come up with excuses to put off doing almost anything. Regardless of my skills or education regarding certain subjects, my confidence is often overbearing and riquochets thoughts through my brain, always doubting my true abilities.

Dating back as long as I can remember, most kids in elementary school were getting letters from the teachers sent home for passing notes or even riff raff taking place during recess. Neatly written (all elementary teachers have great penmanship. I always took notice of this. It's like one of the classes they have to pass in order to get the degree) and slipped into the backpack to warn parents that their children aren't living up to their end of the bargain.

I, on the other hand, didn't get letters for passing notes (I never got caught) however, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering. But in my mind: floorplans. I would come home with that note in my denim backpack with keychains and charms hanging from every possible corner of fabric and filled with Trapper Keepers (to store all my notes passed in class).

It all started with Mrs. Nelson. She was my absolute favorite white haired teacher with pearls adorning her neck and floral prints from head to toe. She usually smelled of gingerbread and I often fantasized that she worked with Santa Claus, if she was not in fact actually married to the jolly man himself. Growing up in a small town, we knew where everyone lived. Her house was white as snow, built of brick with a bright red door and black shutters. It just screamed North Pole.

She was a pleasant old lady and even after graduating from the 2nd grade and moving forward in my education, I often went there during the mornings to visit, apple in hand and a smile on my face. She knew all my secrets. Sunken great rooms, open atrium foyers filled with antique rosewood furniture upholstered with red velvet cushions and the greenest of plants that the owner of any house would be proud to brag about, hanging from vintage hooks by macrame in a rusty orange color that reminded me of my childhood.

I am not certain why this memory stuck with me. I wasn't born in the 70s, nor lived through any of the years that macrame was in fashion. I don't remember actually ever seeing it in my entire life. I just imagined this fabric, woven together and I could describe to you the texture and smell as though I was dressed in it from head to toe like some sort of a hippie flower child.

Not me (or of any relation)---but possibly could be :)

Granted, at this time of my life, I didn't know that actual names of such things ie: sunken living rooms, atrium foyers, macrame. This was the time of "Ice Ice Baby" and Barbie Dolls. I didn't know that such things had been thought up and created by masterminds decades (or even centuries) before. I was, by my own definition, an absolute genius.

My father, whom I assume I get this quality from, is also very interested in my same tastes. He differs in the aspect of his ruggedness, which I am not so much in tune with the wild within me. You can find him in some small quaint cottage made of cedar filled with treasures that he collected from his travels while scooting across the country on a motorcycle when the idea of wearing a helmet wouldn't possibly exist, when rebellious men had Pert Plus hair that waved in the wind while "Bad to the Bone" played in their heads down the open highway. He grows goatees, smokes from a wooden pipe that I am certain he received from Moses once upon a time on a fishing trip where they told jokes and laughed about the "good ol' days."

My style is eclectic. I love anything with good structure and form, solid bones. I find as I get older I take such pride in older things *cough* that some might refer to as antiques. Nah. I appreciate the quality, the time it took for the man carving the wood to complete. His rough hands smoothing over anything with sandpaper and then staining the masterpiece for what seems only my eyes to flicker with appreciation. Now: such said "furniture" and even "houses" are built with assembly lines. Just set the sides together and find something ANYTHING you can get your hands on to make those pieces stand up together. Doesn't matter how long, so long as it gets sold, then its the owners obligation. *wiping my hands, freeing them of the "hardwork" that I wish was actually done*

I live for arts & crafts. It's like a melody that floats through my blood stream and keeps a bit of a skip in my step. Battered columns, beveled glass in built-in bookcases, ceramic tile fireplaces and hearths with built-in banquets that you could just imagine a family playing games or reading books around on cold winter nights. And possibly my favorite: amber laterns. I think that amber glow that reflects off the warm wood and fills the home with a romantic ambiance is just so special and lacking in todays flourescent filled boxes we call rooms.



Seriously?!?! Need I say more?!?! Why don't we build like this anymore? Why not take PRIDE in the things that are being manufactured for our lifestyles? I mean, c'mon. Nowadays while instructing friends on the exact location of your new place, the one you took a small fortune loan out on to help finance, the one you imagine your kids growing up in, thinking back years and years later when they have children of their own, collaborating all their memories into a photo album or slideshow playing images of their childhood in this spectacular house they were so lucky to call home for so long.

The house you want to move into while still young enough to chase the kids up and down the stairs and move out of when arthritis has set in as empty nesters and you can't barely get out of bed without some sort of support. The house you took time to plant the trees on Arbor Day with the kids and you have progressively watched as they turned into massive maples that shades the entire yard, making dinners in the hot summer sun relaxing and pleasant while enjoying the breeze that whistles through the leaves like an old train making its way down the track and onto its next destination.

We are building memories, lasting memories here. And yet: "Come over for dinner friends. We are the 12th beige house on the left. You might want to pay attention to the number hanging outside our door. Its like a corn maze in this place."

No distinctive oak tree or rose bush yet, no trees or shrubbery at all for that matter. Pshh...greenery?! Who needs it. Our house is beige for crying out loud! What more could you ask for? And no shutters or houses painted green or a mustard color with white trim. Here: we have convenants and they don't allow being original.

And again, 3 floorplans so you can you can be almost certain that you and your direct neighbor do not have the exact layout. Phew! Only you and the guy 2 houses down, and across the street, and behind you, and 2 doors down from him, and the guy 2 doors down from him.

And the insides? We take no bragging rights for these boxes that couldn't possibly be assembled better than the biggest Star Wars Lego apparatus known to man by our 7 year old spectacle wearing whiz kid that even has the brain to GLUE the pieces together to withstand the test of time. I shouldn't knock the homes (they might fall over) in all actuality. Given the economy today and the way Omaha builders are "building" nowadays, this is most likely where we will end up. Cracked foundation because they build them at such a fast pace they don't give the dirt the time to adjust or settle. Brand new house, cracked foundation. Sounds just lovely.

Anyhow...I have lots of ideas. I have images of greater times in the past and even stronger times in the future. A time when we didn't appreciate picking our houses out of a catalog like we are ordering an answering machine from the Finger Hut catalog.



Meanwhile, as I am enrolled in real estate school, I take a good look at the text I am to study and learn and get tested on. I do my work diligently and am so very excited to get out there and see what I can do. I want to place families, couples, singles, whoever into someplace that fits them as well as they fit there. Someplace that they can come after a long day at work, take off their shoes, pour themselves a drink to wash away the worries of the day, and kick their feet up and be proud to call the place home. (Even if it is the 9th beige house on the right) :) It's all in what you make it anyhow.

A house is not a home until it is filled with happiness and love.

So? In conclusion, I am so extremely excited about this new endeavor. Although the economy is not where it once was, I have total faith that with compassion and a little hard work, anything is possible. I look forward to making a living doing what I love.