Really, this change thing is just getting on my nerves now.

So, John the Realtor came over yesterday to look at the house. We talk on the phone from time to time and we get a postcard from him every quarter, but I have not actually laid eyes on him since we bought the house in 2002.

Before he arrived, Finn asked, "What's a realtor? What does he look like? "

"A realtor is a guy who sells real estate. He's a guy who sells houses. He is tall and he has white hair and he wears glasses. His name is John, too. Just like dad."

"Is he old?"

"No, he's not old at all."


Back in 2002, John was a trim white-haired fellow who drove a snazzy car and wore snazzy summer suits. (Aren't summer suits are the bee's knees?) I never got the impression he was much impressed with me. Perhaps because he witnessed a big yelling fit in his conference room when my John, let's call him Sweetie, decided (as we were putting in our offer) that he did not really like the house we were about to put a bid on. A house I had already fallen in love with.

John the Realtor did arrange a meeting between me and his friend Dr. Tong, the dean of students of the University of Arizona College of Pharmacy. I don't think it helped me get in or anything, since I didn't get in the first time I applied, but it was a nice way to use your community connections.

I was surprised and horrified when John called that morning. When the company handling our relocation said it would take care of everything, I didn't realize that included contacting John. When we talked, I told him, flat out, our house has not been cleaned since I got sick--which is three going on four years. And that I really don't have the energy to clean. Or the will. And, yes, he could come over and have a look at what we've done, but he had to promise not to call Child Protective Services on us.

So, I got to work. Sweat was dripping off my chin and the dogs were hiding in the front bedroom, but  you couldn't even tell I'd done anything. And I had to stop in the middle to go get the boy because Finn gets out at noon all week so teachers can have parent conferences. 

At 3 p.m., there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find a slouching, skinny old man with a pot belly standing on my porch wearing a blue golf shirt and Sans-A-Belt pants. His eyes were hooded and he spoke very quietly. "Hello, Julia!"

John the Realtor had aged. And lost his style. He shuffled into the house. Now I really felt terrible about the house because I couldn't offer him a seat. Finn was dominating the couch and I worried that he couldn't make it into or out of one of our low easy chairs. And...wait, was he trembling? The heat here sometimes makes me quiver, but it wasn't that hot.

Because I'm Southern and not yet old enough to speak my mind, I did not say, "My God John. What the hell is the matter with you?" I said, "John! Thanks for coming!" And I started showing him the various improvements we'd made to the house--air conditioning, hardwood floors, tile in the bathrooms--and the various...non-improvements--chipped paint on the woodwork, a vent cover duct-taped to the wall, a DIY kitchen floor that is coming up.

Every step he took make me feel worse about the house. He seemed unable to step over or around the piles of laundry that the dogs use as beds. I wanted to take him by the elbow. Finally, we stopped the tour and chatted.

"I have Parkinson's now," he said. "That's why my voice gets quiet, and I can't walk very easily and sometimes I forget stuff."

Well, that beats the hell out of heart failure. He's still getting out every day working his tail off the way most realtors do. And, it's another example of change knocking me for loop.