Tag Archives: Washington

My Taxing Review: A Reality Post

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“The past is a source of knowledge, and the future is a source of hope. Love of the past implies faith in the future.”

–Stephen Ambrose (1936-2002; American historian and biographer. The quote is from his Undaunted Courage: Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West, 1996).

No doubt you’ve heard me own up to the sad reality that I am a packrat. I keep everything. Letters and all other forms of personal correspondence including holiday cards. (Scattered here and there; some loose, some bundled). Canceled checks. Remember ye olden days? (Scattered here and there; some loose, some bundled–the canceled checks, silly, not ye olden days, though they’re certainly scattered and shattered to smithereens, sometimes for the better.) Emails going back to forever. (Scattered on flash drives by and large; some printed; both courtesy of my good friend of longest standing with whom I have exchanged more than 23,000 emails since we first met. She’s hoping that if our virtual world disappears after our real world does, someone might be guilted into keeping the printed emails as proof that once upon a time we were.) Tax returns. (Organized by year, as I recall, in two filing cabinets–one in my office; the other, in a teeny-tiny space, with slanting ceiling parallel to the slant of the descending stairs above.)

I have held on to all of these treasures in the full belief that by now I’d be unrich and unfamous and that the tax returns, emails, canceled checks, and letters/correspondence/cards would be helpful to the unbiographer who isn’t with me working on the unbiography that they’re not writing.

Now, however, I confess that more than once, I’ve been tempted to toss it all into the fire as of no worth, but I dare not do so until I review it all carefully. Since I keep everything, who knows what other valuables I might have tossed into a folder knowing that the best way to hide anything is in plain sight, but over time, I forgot what I put where.

However, with Federal Tax Day upon us, what better time than now to scrutinize all of my tax returns going all the way back to 1969. My God! I must be deranged to have kept all those tax records, especially since the IRS has no such requirement. I don’t think it does, at any rate. Let me check. BRB. Okay. Here’s what the IRS says:

“1. Keep records for 3 years if situations (4), (5), and (6) below do not apply to you.
“2. Keep records for 3 years from the date you filed your original return or 2 years from the date you paid the tax, whichever is later, if you file a claim for credit or refund after you file your return.
“3. Keep records for 7 years if you file a claim for a loss from worthless securities or bad debt deduction.
“4. Keep records for 6 years if you do not report income that you should report, and it is more than 25% of the gross income shown on your return.
“5. Keep records indefinitely if you do not file a return.
“6. Keep records indefinitely if you file a fraudulent return.” [Emphasis supplied. Leave it to the IRS to take us from the ridiculous to the sublime. Let me make it perfectly clear right here, right now: I kept all of my returns and not one–no, not one–is fraudulent. Wouldn’t that be stupid. I mean to file a fraudulent return and keep a copy of it on file. “Excuse me, your honor. Right here in Exhibit A is proof that my tax return for 19– is fraudulent. I’m so glad that I kept a copy so that I could have my day in court and prove my point, your Honor. A fine plus five years? But, your Honor, I kept all of my records. Don’t they count for anything?]
“7. Keep employment tax records for at least 4 years after the date that the tax becomes due or is paid, whichever is later.”

OMG! I have no idea what any of the preceding means. Maybe I never did. Maybe that’s why I kept all these damned documents all these years.All I know is this. Right now, I’m so dizzy that I’m about to faint. Excuse me for a sec while I chant. You’re dizzy, too? I understand. Let’s do it together:

● Let’s close our eyes.
● Now, let’s take a handful of deep, calming breaths.
● Let each exhalation be a “letting go” of any tension or worry.
● Let’s take a slow, deep breath.
● On the out-breath, let’s chant the single word: “Ohhhhhhhmmmmmmm.”
● Let’s repeat again and again and again until we can no longer say IRS.

Ahhhh. I’m feeling much better now, and I’m enjoying my desired Ohhhhhhhhhhmmmmm outcome. In fact, my tongue is tingling so much that I couldn’t say IRS if all of my unfraudulent tax returns depended on it.

Thank you so much for chanting with me. To reward you, I’m going to give you a rare treat, probably never heard of before in all the annals of blogging. I’m going to review all of my tax records and treat this post exactly as a producer would treat a reality TV show. You know, where ordinary people do extraordinary things, like argue over who forgot to buy the milk or dramatically flip a pancake for the camera. My words will be my mic and my camera, and what you read will be me, live, unscripted, minute by minute, as I open tax folders that have not been opened in decades, and it all unfolds right here on my Mountain top in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley: ordinary me going through my ordinary,  real-life tax files, hoping for your sake and mine that I find something extraordinarily extraordinary, but whatever I find you’re going to get it: the good, the bad, and the whatever. (But not all. Some things must be left to the imagination. Just sayin’.)

Hot dayumm! Is this exciting or what? Shall we start? Are you ready? Yes? Me, too! Let us go then. You and I. A lifetime of tax returns awaits us.

OMG! I can’t believe it! I opened the file cabinet drawer in the closet beneath the stairs, and the folders are arranged in perfect alphabetical order, just as I knew they would be. I see a folder with a typed label: INCOME TAXES. I am surprised, doubly. First, this folder is thick, about an inch or so. Second, unlike the other tax folders, the label on this one does not specify a year. I am intrigued. I have no idea–absolutely no idea–what’s inside this generic, non-date-specific folder.

Good God! I know that I’m a packrat, but I didn’t know that I’m apparently a moron, too. It’s no wonder this folder is so thick. I kept not only my tax returns but also the instruction booklets. But hold on here just a minute. Maybe I’m not a moron after all. I wonder, Dear Reader, whether you have an original IRS instructional booklet from the 1960s? Do you? Be honest! I bet you don’t. I’ll bet the IRS doesn’t. I’ll bet that even the Library of Congress doesn’t. I just did a quick review of all of my tax folders. It appears that I have the original instruction booklet for each year since I first filed taxes. I have an entire “run.” I’m betting that these booklets are worth a fortune. I see a golden future ahead of me. Soon and very soon, I’ll be featured on Antiques Road Show.

Now, I’m really wired, but I can’t continue. For now, I must cease and desist. I have some shopping to do. It’s clear to me that these moronic tax folders of mine deserve the White Glove treatment.

I’m back from shopping. But here’s the thing. In reality, sometimes we don’t get what we think we deserve, and sometimes, historically significant tax folders don’t get what I’d like to think that they deserve, either. I couldn’t find any white cotton gloves that would fit me, and I’m not about to slip on latex.

So here I am, perusing these tax folders with my bare hands. Actually, I love being able to feel the texture of the paper. Papers do differ, you know. The instructional booklet paper is thin, lightweight, and porous. The tax return paper, on the other hand, is a little thicker, heavier, and smoother, intended to be kept, perhaps indefinitely for anyone who might have filed a fraudulent tax return.

At this point, I’m so glad that you’re reading me rather than watching me on reality TV.  I don’t think crimson is quite my color, and yet my blush right now is even deeper. This is so embarrassing, but since I promised to reveal all, I shall. Bear with me.

Down through the years, and even at the start of this post, I’ve told anyone and everyone–even rank strangers–that I had kept all of my tax returns going back to 1969. Looking back, I wonder why I thought those files started then. Undoubtedly, it’s because 1969 was when I began my 25-year career at the Library of Congress. But what I discovered in the one-inch folder that I’m exploring now is that I actually filed my first return in 1967, two years earlier than I remembered.

Guess what else I discovered? Apparently, I didn’t keep a copy of my 1967 tax return. I have to confess the same for my 1968, 1969, and 1970 returns. Goodness. This is far more embarrassing than I ever dreamt that it would be!

Oh. Don’t worry. I have copies of those returns that I had forgotten about! Here’s why and how I got them. For tax year 1971, I used the Five-Year Income Average method. However, since I hadn’t kept the prior four years, I had to write the IRS and request copies! I have a copy of my original request. It’s a handwritten, carbon copy on onion skin paper. A few months later, I sent the IRS a follow-up request. It’s a typed carbon copy, again on onion skin. I guess I thought that a typed letter might result in the requested action that my handwritten request had not achieved. It did. My copies arrived, I filed my return, and here I am, looking at them nearly six decades later.

No doubt, you’re wondering about my taxable income for those years. I promised bare reality, so here goes:

● 1967: $1,604 (Student)
● 1968: $404 (Student)
● 1969: $2,932 (MARC Editor)
● 1970: $7,838 (MARC Editor)
● 1971: $9,002 (Library Editor)

Now you know.

I have to say that as I looked at my tax records, I wasn’t focusing at all on income. Instead, I was focusing on the memories that washed over me as I looked.

Take, for example, my 1967 return. By today’s standard, $1,604 isn’t much, but it was a small fortune for me as a sophomore at Alderson-Broaddus University. The income, though, is totally eclipsed by the work experience that gave me my earning opportunity. As an undergraduate, I was required to have two off-campus experiences. I could have opted for the university’s educational programs in Switzerland or Mexico. Instead, for my first one, I decided to orchestrate my own internship experience that would let me live for a few months in our Nation’s Capital. Looking back, I’m not certain how that notion found its way into my head. Further, I’m not certain how I ever came up with the idea of an internship with Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV).

But I did both, and of this, I am certain. With unwavering determination, once I had lined up my internship with Senator Byrd, I knew that I’d be moving to DC and that I had to have somewhere to live. Looking back, I am surprised by my ingenuity and my boldness. Equipped only with DC Yellow Pages and a rotary telephone and undaunted by the challenge, I found myself an apartment at McClean Gardens in northwest DC, right off of Wisconsin Avenue and just a few blocks from the Washington Cathedral, St. Albans School for Boys, Sidwell Friends School, and the Washington Ballet. In my mind, an apartment near those landmarks meant one thing: I’d be discovering city life while living in a safe neighborhood. Then, armed with courage, I further surprised myself when I packed up my bags, got a one-way Greyhound ticket from Philippi (WV) to DC. When I arrived late at night, I took a metro bus from downtown out to my McClean Gardens apartment. For three glorious spring months, amidst the bloom of new beginnings, I enjoyed living in the shadow of the Washington Cathedral and working in the hallowed halls of Senate Office Buildings, House Office Buildings, and the U.S. Capitol.

Or what about my 1969 return. Again, the taxable income of $2,932 is anything but impressive. But I will always remember that summer, that fall, and the opportunities that allowed me to earn that income.

The summer months found me immersed in my second internship in DC, at the former Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, Division of the Two-Year College. It was an extraordinary transformative opportunity that shaped my perspective on education and the world, but amidst the whirlwind of learning, one moment stands out above all others: the historic July 20 Moon Landing. I vividly recall the anticipation and excitement as my fraternity brother and I, sharing a modest apartment in Capitol Heights, MD–just across the DC line–resolved to witness this monumental event. Strapped for cash and lacking a television, Tim and I scrounged together enough change to afford a single beer each at a local bar on nearby Marlboro Pike, nursing it patiently through the evening until American astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin made history by setting foot on the lunar surface. Armstrong’s immortal words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” reverberated through the air, etching themselves into the annals of human achievement and forever echoing in my mind.

The fall months, starting in September, found me beaming with pride when I was my appointed to a position at the Library of Congress as a MARC Editor. (Yes. I was appointed, not hired. Yes. It was a position, not a job.) I gave up my apartment in Capitol Heights, I sold my Chevrolet Bel Air, and I moved into an apartment at 200 C Street, SE–now Capitol Hill Hotel–a block away from the Library of Congress. Days found me as an Editor in the John Adams Building, at that time known as the Library Annex. Evenings found me as a Reader/Researcher in the Library’s Main Reading Room of the Thomas Jefferson Building, where the grandeur of its architecture served as a backdrop to my dreams. As I immersed myself in the serene ambiance of the Main Reading Room, I couldn’t help but be captivated by the intricate architectural details. The soaring ceiling, adorned with elaborate frescoes and intricate carvings, seemed to reach towards the heavens, instilling within me a sense of awe and wonder. As I wandered through the upper-level alcoves, tracing my fingers along the spines of ancient tomes, I found solace in timeless beauty.

I could continue looking at my 1971 Five-Year Income Average tax return, and I could share with you other memories from those early years. Then, I could keep right on going with all of the subsequent tax returns that I have held on to down through the years, along with their counterparts: the emails, the canceled checks, and the various forms of personal correspondence.

However, just by examining one small section of one thick tax folder, I’ve unearthed a treasure trove of significance. These tax files, meticulously kept over my lifetime, hold a value far beyond what I initially anticipated. They serve as far more than just financial records; they are windows into the chapters of my life. Each line item, each deduction, anchors me to specific moments and places, serving as poignant reminders of my journey—where I’ve been, who I’ve become, and the person I continue to evolve into.

As I reflect on the journey through my tax records, I realize that these seemingly mundane documents hold far more than financial data. Through the haze of numbers and figures, I glimpse moments of triumph, of uncertainty, and of growth. In these records, I unearth not just financial transactions but the very essence of my existence, woven into the fabric of time itself.

In preserving these records, I’ve safeguarded not just financial history, but personal narratives. They serve as markers of my evolution, from the eager college student navigating the halls of power in Washington, D.C., to the budding professional finding my footing in the corridors of the Library of Congress.

Each tax year returns a story, not just of income earned or taxes paid, but of experiences, challenges, and aspirations that shaped me. They are reminders of the resilience and resourcefulness that carried me through moments of courage, doubt, and uncertainty.

Taxing though we may be, let’s give a shoutout to the packrats, the keepers of memories, the custodians of personal history. May we never underestimate the value of our archives, for within them lies the essence of who we are, where we’ve been, and the dreams that propel us forward.

As I close these tax folders–Just for now, mind you; I will open them again moving forward–I do so with a newfound appreciation for the richness they contain. In the end, it’s not just about the numbers, but the stories they tell, and the legacy they leave behind. I’ve discovered treasures far beyond what I ever imagined. I am grateful for the journey they’ve allowed me to relive and the memories they’ve helped me preserve and hold tight.

Dear Reader–whoever you are and wherever you are–may your own archives be a source of inspiration and reflection to you, too, reminding you of the moments that define you and the dreams that fuel your journey. May your own journey through personal records echo the profound discovery and appreciation that mine has evoked, reminding you of the richness of your own narrative.

Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.

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“The best journey takes you home.”

–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)

Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.

The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.

In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.

When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:

“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”

I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.

Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.

“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”

I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.

I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.

§   §   §

Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.

Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:

“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”

Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.

Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.

Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?

Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:

“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.

But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:

“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)

This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.

My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?

Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.

As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.

Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.

Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.

Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.

Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.

Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?

§   §   §

Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:

“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”

Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.

But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.

The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)

The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.

The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.

The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.

The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!

Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.

Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.

§   §   §

I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.

“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”

I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.

Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.

Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.

Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.

Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.

Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.

Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.

As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!

Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.

But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.

Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).