Tag: portland

I will admit to you that I expressed false interest in a For Sale property down off 99W, somewhere beyond Tualatin. I’m bad with names after the fact. What I can tell you is the day I showed up was a hot and humid day, so hot that the fabric of my t-shirt’s underarms and the space between my scapulae was significantly perspired upon. I parked my jeep in a gritty driveway that crooned when I drove along it. The foliage of the lone tree in the front yard should have been on its last summer legs, ready to give in to the coming fall, but it was bare, likely dead.

The man’s name was Greg. He was an older white gentleman, clean-shaven and sagging around the jowls. Greg let me into the farm house where several other people were already walking the halls. The paint was on the verge of collapse, swelled in some places and stained a curry yellow in others.

“You’re free to take a look,” said Greg. “Let me know it you have any questions.” I thought to ask about the tree, but given I had no real interest in purchasing the property I went on my way. I wandered the halls, weaving through an empty living room, kitchen, dining room, and bathroom. The toilet was immaculate, which made me wonder about the severity of its state for it to require replacement.

There was a smell of wood that became stronger in the foyer, nearest to the stairs. I lingered there for a minute, feigning interest in this wall and that, then wandered up the surprisingly noiseless steps. They were warped, scraped, and would take much work to repair, but as I would not be living there I put it out of my mind and moved up to the top floor. There were several open doors. I could see cardboard boxes stacked inside one of the rooms, what must have been the room above the front entrance. I sidled in, again as interested in the strength and state of the walls and ceiling as I was in eating okra, until I was beside the cardboard boxes. I looked back out into the hall and saw or heard no one. When I lifted one of the flaps I noted that it was a box full of colorful clothing. The box beside it contained the same. I thought of further intruding upon the privacy of the boxes. My senses expressed that it seemed in poor taste.

It was time to leave. I approached the West-facing window. I could see out across the yard, past the dead branches of the lone tree, and toward the vineyard that stretched along the rolling hills on the other side of the road. I could see a small tool shed beside the vineyard, and beyond it a large white building. I considered living in a house near a vineyard and the endeavor became fruitless to me. I thought of fields in Greece, razed and trampled. I turned back inside and thought about sitting down for a while, but I had absolutely no intent to purchase the place, and so I walked back down to the jeep and departed.

I will admit to you that I expressed false interest in a For Sale property down off 99W, somewhere beyond Tualatin. I’m bad with names after the fact. What I can tell you is the day I showed up was a hot and humid day, so hot that the fabric of my t-shirt’s underarms and the space between my scapulae was significantly perspired upon. I parked my jeep in a gritty driveway that crooned when I drove along it. The foliage of the lone tree in the front yard should have been on its last summer legs, ready to give in to the coming fall, but it was bare, likely dead.

The man’s name was Greg. He was an older white gentleman, clean-shaven and sagging around the jowls. Greg let me into the farm house where several other people were already walking the halls. The paint was on the verge of collapse, swelled in some places and stained a curry yellow in others.

“You’re free to take a look,” said Greg. “Let me know it you have any questions.” I thought to ask about the tree, but given I had no real interest in purchasing the property I went on my way. I wandered the halls, weaving through an empty living room, kitchen, dining room, and bathroom. The toilet was immaculate, which made me wonder about the severity of its state for it to require replacement.

There was a smell of wood that became stronger in the foyer, nearest to the stairs. I lingered there for a minute, feigning interest in this wall and that, then wandered up the surprisingly noiseless steps. They were warped, scraped, and would take much work to repair, but as I would not be living there I put it out of my mind and moved up to the top floor. There were several open doors. I could see cardboard boxes stacked inside one of the rooms, what must have been the room above the front entrance. I sidled in, again as interested in the strength and state of the walls and ceiling as I was in eating okra, until I was beside the cardboard boxes. I looked back out into the hall and saw or heard no one. When I lifted one of the flaps I noted that it was a box full of colorful clothing. The box beside it contained the same. I thought of further intruding upon the privacy of the boxes. My senses expressed that it seemed in poor taste.

It was time to leave. I approached the West-facing window. I could see out across the yard, past the dead branches of the lone tree, and toward the vineyard that stretched along the rolling hills on the other side of the road. I could see a small tool shed beside the vineyard, and beyond it a large white building. I considered living in a house near a vineyard and the endeavor became fruitless to me. I thought of fields in Greece, razed and trampled. I turned back inside and thought about sitting down for a while, but I had absolutely no intent to purchase the place, and so I walked back down to the jeep and departed.