Two weeks ago, Kathe and I accepted the counterbid to buy one of the most beautiful houses I have ever seen. Following the initial offer, there was a counter offer, a counter to the counter offer, and a counter to the counter to the counter offer. (The last one, oddly enough, was an offer from the sellers to extend the amount of time needed to get a lead test of the paint.)
We agreed. We put down the earnest money. We ordered the inspection.
And the current owners went off to look for a new house to buy, in the new city they wanted to move to.
The house is beautiful. The sweeping staircases, the antique chandeliers, the beautiful plaster work, even the basement was a work of art.
And we loved it.
The inspector has a reputation for being a stickler. He notices EVERYTHING, and reports it out. Crack in the plaster? He talks about what it might mean - what issue it might be hiding.
Pete's report did exactly that. We now know that there is a significant need for tearing out all of the wiring in the house. We know that there is extensive plumbing requirements. We know that there is a furnace vent that is too close to a conduit (I am led to believe that that is a bad thing from the priests who know about such things), and that the black coloration on the mill finish of that conduit means it is getting burned by the furnace vent. We know that the 25-year-old water heater probably isn't going to last another 25 years.
The report detailed everything. From the vines on the side of the house (five minutes with pruning shears) to re-pointing the chimney (drop 10k on that one). Combine that initial capital outlay with the routine maintenance we already were fearing, and suddenly, the house is no longer a beautiful thing, but a monster with beautiful skin.
Can you mourn the loss of something you never had?
