After moving my mother South, the next item of business was preparing the old house for sale. It’s construction was a family affair back between 1969 – 1970. I’ve faint memories of swinging a hammer at wall studs, mashing my thumb. The property was owned by my Uncle Ted, adjacent to the old family farm on Bigalow Hill. They measured off an 1/3 acre parcel and started to dig the daylight cellar. Concrete blocks were the material of choice at the time, and probably not the ideal, since the North Country suffers some fairly deep freezes and dramatic thaws.
Today the address is 5 Bigelow Road. The county renamed the road from whatever it was sometime in the 1990s. Many grumbled that it should have been named Bigalow Road, after the Bigalow Hill clan, but as they say, the winners (or survivors) write history, so Bigelow Hill it is.
My very first showing of the still-jam-packed house happened during my second trip up in late Fall 2018. Under one of the beds I had found a large piggy bank full to the top with coins. After walking into the bank in Port Henry I learned they had no change-sorting machine. Piggy weighted about 60 lbs. and would be too heavy to pack and fly back to Atlanta. Likely cost more to transport than it contained. So I asked the bank teller if there were any charities where I could donate it’s contents. She suggested the Chamber of Commerce which was literally across the street.
Mrs. Sprague of the Chamber was delighted with the donation, which went to paying for hot chocolate and cookies in my father’s memory at the upcoming Christmas parade. I told her my story, about my dad’s passing and my mom’s relocation South to my home and that I was up preparing, cleaning, and clearing out their old house for sale. I mentioned that it was small, old, in need of some repairs with zero curb appeal.
I had been back at the house for two hours when there was a knock on the front door. I was waiting for a real estate agent from Lake George Village so I assumed she was a little early for our meeting. No, surprise! It was a friend of Mrs. Sprague of the Chamber, who had stopped by after I had left. Sprague told her my story. She and her husband were in the market for a starter home for their recently divorced daughter and could she come inside and take a look around?
After a brief cell phone call, her husband drives up 10 minutes later and does a quick inspection. I point out the less obvious areas in need of repair or replacement. They do a quick pow wow in his truck and come back into the house. “Would you take an earnest money check for $5,000?”
“Why yes!” I said, startled by my good luck. “Great. My checkbook is in the truck. I will be right back,” he said, leaving the missus to chat further with me.
Moments later we hear him running back up the basement stairs. “Tom! Tom! Come quick!”
The 4″ copper U-joint connecting the septic system to the bathroom had split and was vomiting sewage into the carport.
“What did you do?!?” I said.
Well, that wasn’t appreciated. They left. I spent two more days cleaning up, arraigned for the repairs, and flew back home empty handed. Additionally, the real estate agent was a no show. House: one. Me: zero.
Fast forward 9 months later. I had gotten most of the repairs completed, with the exception of the unsightly bulging berm in the front of the house, partially blocking the garage door. But there’s a contract on the house! Not anywhere near our asking price, but I just didn’t want to spend another Adirondack winter paying for heating fuel to keep the place intact.
Then the closing is delayed. And then delayed some more. But finally a date is agreed too. The dead of Winter is quickly approaching, so the timing couldn’t be more critical.
Then the weekend before the closing my real estate agent calls. “Tom, the carpeting throughout the house is soaked and there’s water everywhere in the basement.” “Shit,” I am certain was my response. A couple hours later the local plumber calls to tell me that the boiler failed, the subzero temperatures froze the system, and the flood was a result of the thaw.
I call my go-to handy man and he cuts the carpets out and hauled them to the dump. My real estate agent’s husband placed an 8 foot electric heater in the basement next to the water pump to prevent any further damage. My other go-to handy man placed a dehumidifier upstairs to keep mold and mildew from forming.
The closing is called off. The house wins round two. This place just doesn’t want to be sold.
Galen Edward Bigelow 