This is your dream to be realized, I used to tell would-be buyers back in the days before I started snarling and spitting at them. OK, your dream with a lot of time, money, and effort. But, when all's said and done, yours. Get friezes from Italy for the dining room walls. Put Mexican tile in the kitchen. But buyers took a look at all that character and ran screaming the other way.

In some ways, I don't mind because in many ways, I don't really want to sell. By now all I want to do is take the house in my arms and console it. Don't lose heart, I want to say. You are a beautiful, beautiful house. Those people don't deserve you.

I don't know that my house would believe me. It probably thinks it's shabby. It could use some new clothes, for one thing, if by clothes we're talking paint. The paint is peeling so badly on some of the trim that you can see clear to the bare wood. The veins, too, aren't what they used to be; veins in this case being plumbing. Flushing the toilet while running the shower causes the shower to turn scalding hot, which in turn causes the person in the shower to yell at the person who flushed the toilet, which makes the house feel it's its fault, which doesn't help its self-esteem one iota.

But this is a great house, whether it knows it or not. I'm not just saying that because we raised our son here or because it is filled with my memories of loud parties with friends, quiet moments with my wife, stimulating conversations, great meals, and the everyday experiences of living. I'm also saying it because it's a great house. I love its wide porch. The immense oak tree in the yard. The way the winter light falls in braids and ripples and sheets on the walls.

Maybe the only thing worse than not selling a house is selling it.

But, then, the way things are going I'm not going to have to worry
about that.