Boots

 

If what I’m about to say makes perfect sense, then I will have failed miserably. 

 

On Friday, January 3nd, Becca had gone home for the night, leaving Stick and Toodles with their mother, Boots. Beginning around midnight, both girls heard a voice in the room. Both of them initially thought the other had spoken. The voice said only one word: "Mama." It repeated this word four times. To Toodles, it sounded like Stick. To Stick, it sounded like Toodles. Both daughters denied having spoken. Both seemed unsettled by the voice. At that moment, a paranormal thought crossed their minds—was this Barbara? 

 

Barbara, another daughter, more affectionately known as "Chigger," had passed away many years ago. Yet, her name was one Boots mentioned frequently; especially when speaking of her transition: "I want to see my Chigger," she would say.

 

Martha “Boots” Nelle Sloan was born on August 6, 1937, to Benjamin and Elise Sloan in Cassville, Georgia.

 

But right now, I want to focus on Boots and the abrupt way in which she began her exit from this stage of life. In considering her transition, I will tell you upfront: I believe she will carry on. If this thought brings you comfort, then perhaps no further explanation is needed. But if you wish to hear my reasoning, I will try to provide that as well.

 

When we speak of a loved one, attempting to tell their story, we often begin by outlining their origins—where they were born, what day it was, who their parents were, where they fit into the larger fabric of society. But can a birthday truly capture a person’s beginning? Imagine, instead, that we knew more about the day Boots' parents met, long before her birth. Perhaps we could uncover the precise moment their paths crossed, setting the stage for her arrival. The story of Boots could begin long before August 6, 1937, or it could start when she, as a young girl, supposedly told a tall, young stranger to "shut up"—a memory that Wade, her husband, often recalled. Or maybe, the story could begin even earlier, with her ancestors—the Sloan and Griffin families.

 

If this makes it harder for you to find a starting point, then I’ve achieved what I intended.

 

The brand-new baby breathed in the warm August air for the very first time 87 years ago. She cried, missing the comfort of the quiet womb where she had been moments earlier. At that instant, she had not yet received the name Martha. She was simply a bundle of energy—a being with potential, just beginning its journey in the world. In those early moments, it is most likely that her mother, Elise, welcomed her into the world, holding her in her arms, as every newborn deserves to be held.

 

The moment of birth has often been called a miracle. It is difficult to explain the miracle, yet it remains remarkable and special, even when we understand the biological processes that bring a child into the world. In the case of Martha Sloan, that miracle was a tiny bundle of energy—an infant who would come to be known as Boots.

 

Let’s talk about that bundle

 

With two eyes, this bundle of energy began to see the world. She grew, matured, and eventually married that tall stranger on January 4, 1958. With arms and hands, she held her own children—her own miracles. And, in the last few decades, those children had children of their own. Boots, the bundle, would hold the next generation, and she even held two, great-grandsons, welcoming new miracles into the world.

 

Boots, the bundle, was once small, weighing only six pounds herself, but it would grow. It had flowing black hair, dark eyes, and a wonderful personality. Time inevitably brought change. Boots, like all of us, grew older and wiser, though not without slowing down. Her body was no longer as charged with energy as it once had been. However, her mind and imagination remained intact—until just a few days ago.

 

Now, back to the mysterious voice

 

The philosopher Ferdinand Canning Scott Schiller once said that 1+1=2—unless you’re talking about drops of water. This idea helps me make sense of the voice that Stick and Toodles heard. In this instance, imagine the drops of water as a helpful metaphor. Just as a drop is part of the ocean, Boots, in her passing, is a part of something far greater. Alan Watts once said, "You are a function of what the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is a function of what the whole ocean is doing." In this way, I believe Boots has become a part of the vast ocean of experience that surrounds us.

 

In that room, within the four walls of the facility, there were chairs, beds—furniture that grounded them in the physical world. But there was something else at play in that space. Boots lay on her bed, but her creative energy was already showing up in new ways. Like a wave crashing, her soul was expanding beyond the confines of her body.

 

Boots filled the room, still alive within the eternal soul. And in this moment, Chigger, her daughter Barbara, had returned. That voice that Toodles and Stick heard? It was Chigger’s. Not to frighten her sisters, but to welcome Boots back into the ocean of experience—the same ocean that once held the energy of all the people we know and love.

 

As Paul said near the end of his own life, "Even as I am being poured out, I am glad and I rejoice with you all; you should all be glad and rejoice with me."

 

Now, let’s return to Schiller’s words. His intention was to show how things don’t always reach the logical conclusion one might expect. In the case of water, a drop is part of the ocean, and the ocean is part of the drop. In the same way, Boots, whose soul has left her body, is now a part of the greater whole. She will rejoin the Ocean of existence, where the boundaries between individual souls blur, and all are interconnected.

 

On August 6, 1937, the birth of a new wave in the ocean appeared when Boots was born. But that same day, Ferdinand Schiller, the one who lent me these ideas, died in Los Angeles. One wave crashed, and another was formed. The Ocean, forever altered by Boots, continues on, as does the energy that once was her. 1+1 = 1. Boots is the Ocean. She has been poured out. If she could say anything to us in this time of grief, I believe she would quote Paul and say, "I am glad and I rejoice with you all; you should be glad and rejoice with me.”

In Memory of Boots  8/6/1937-1/5/2025

 

 

Joe The Dog

 

Only recently has old Joe lost his eyesight completely. His life story is untold, kept only in his little head. My sister, Myra, found him walking down the middle of a country road—beaten up, broken, missing part of one foot, with a broken jaw and most of his teeth gone. Even his tail was broken, and he was blind in one eye. At the time, I had a hard, somewhat cynical view of Joe. I thought he should be taken to a humane shelter, where they could care for him and do what they do for old dogs in such terrible shape. But Myra and my niece, Harper, opened the car door, scooped up the tiny, shaggy mess, and brought him home. They called my brother, Bill, and asked him if he could tend to Joe for the remainder of his life. Bill agreed, despite my skeptical attitude.

 

At first, Joe wasn’t sure about the new arrangement. He was given a bath and food, taken to a vet, and given a fluffy, warm bed. But Joe had been through so much cruelty in his life that he thought he was dreaming and would wake up in a trash heap as usual. Day after day, he found soft food to eat. He was carried over rocky paths—painful for Joe with only three decent feet. But still, he was treated like he’d won some kind of lottery. A sweater, a fluffy bed, toys, treats, meals, and clean water.

 

Finally, the broken tail began to wag. Joe started to realize he wasn’t dreaming. With his tongue dangling through his broken teeth, hanging to one side, he opened his one good eye wide and smiled the happiest, most grateful smile you could imagine. His response to every gift seemed to ask, “For me?”

 

He played games he’d never played before. He could bark, growl, and pretend to be a Rottweiler guarding a junkyard. Bill would go along with Joe’s adventures, pretending to be the thief or the robber. In every game, Bill let Joe win.

 

As I mentioned, Joe lost his sight in his good eye about three days ago. At first, he looked around and blinked, hoping that maybe the lights were just out. He bumped into obstacles, disoriented. But, like with his broken tail, lost foot, broken jaw, and missing teeth, Joe accepted it. This was just another thing to live with. I visited him last night. He barked when I walked in. I spoke, and his tail nearly wagged. “I guess you heard,” he seemed to say. “It’s no big deal. I can out-smell any bloodhound. Eyesight’s overrated.”

 

I held him and pet him for a few minutes, then took him outside. I let him brush against me as he walked in a small area. Every time he touched me, his broken tail wagged. He didn’t seem bitter. “Bear with me,” he seemed to say. “It takes me a little while to figure out where I am.” And then he wagged his tail and smiled, his tongue hanging out through the big gap between a few teeth in his lower jaw.

 

Joe is old—probably between 12 and 15 years old. Joe is frail, and it takes so much just for him to get around and get comfortable. He has to gum his soft food, but Joe is happy. He has the assurance that Bill will be home, that he will have a good meal, a warm bed, a bath, and a big, fluffy towel. He may not see, but he has visions. He has peace.

 

Joe’s life, once marked by neglect and cruelty, is now full of kindness. He may not understand everything around him, but he knows love when he feels it. Joe would say what Fanny Crosby once said:

“The merciful God has put His hands over my eyes, and shut out from me the sight of many instances of cruelty, bitter unkindness, and misfortune.”

Fanny went on to write “Blessed Assurance”—perhaps Joe’s favorite song.

\

Thank You Bill

 

My Song, Thank You Bill

Bill? He is a rather complicated subject. Like all Coker’s, when mixed with Hillhouses, there is a tendency to be an a-hole. However, a-holes can be the best people as well. Bill falls into that category. He can be so incredibly concerned about an individual that he will get deeply emotional about their overall condition, but he also has the famous, Coker-switch. I’m afraid we all have this too; it is when you have finally had enough of someone’s BS and you completely cut them out of your life forever. Bill is really rather Zen-like. He can be happy regardless of his surroundings. He does not require any stimuli. He will indulge on occasion, but he can have just about as much fun with or without comfort. Of course, I love my brother. No human has ever tested me more than Bill. But, as one might expect, he has also put forth a tremendous effort to partner with me and make things happen as a team. The only way to deal with Bill is to get yourself a bull-rope and some rosin and pray your grip can keep you in the saddle. Being with Bill can be the wildest ride you’ve ever had and it can throw you further than you’ve ever been thrown. The term, “Never a dull moment,” had Bill in mind when it first came out. This is why he attracts fun people. Nearly everyone who is into having fun will be drawn to Bill. To people who want to have fun, Bill is the right kind of flame for their marshmallow. He projects the environment for comedic relief. He is not so much a deep thinker as he is a storer of thought. He doesn’t meditate or dwell on anything, but he photographically stores complete works in some sort of massive, vault-like unit in his brain. He can pull up information he stored in his library years ago. Therefore, do not – I repeat – do not get into an argument with Bill; you cannot win.

Bill has pretty much ran the family show and/or business, for his entire life. Mom calls him “The Boss” when she isn’t accusing him of being ill. Management always has this kind of reputation. However, upon reflection, our family could not have made it without his leadership. During our childhood, we faced some incredibly difficult situations. Dad had a really bad drinking problem and we somehow, almost ended up in a cult-like church-environment. Without having Bill around, steering us out of those situations, we may have ended up on Jerry Springer or as the subjects of a scary docudrama.

Bill had a Yoda growing up. Aunt Mable taught him “The Force”, and equipped him with all of the necessary weapons he’d need to get through life. If you want to know what Mable was like, see Bill. They were two peas in a pod. These details make his story interesting. Like all heroes (See Joseph Campbell), he was called away from his village. George Lucas borrowed from Campbell’s monomyth to tell the story of Luke Skywalker, and the reason it is called a monomyth is due to the fact that it is always the same for all heroes. When Bill was called away, he made Florida his home. Of course, there were other galaxies, like Corning, New York, but Luke – I mean Bill – had to go far, far away in order to become a Jedi. All heroes return to the village where they started; from Dorothy to Harry Potter, this is the part where the hero comes back to the village and brings the boon home. They renovate the old home-place and they renovate the entire neighborhood and they take care of their elders. Bill has been doing the most in this area lately. He has been good company and a lot of good support for mom.

Today, his age matches the traditional age of retirement in The US. This seems fitting as it coincides with Bill’s completion of the typical, hero’s journey. Of course, there is always a sequel.

Thank You Bill.

Thank You Bill

KISS

 

On August 29, 1976, Bill and I went to see Kiss at The Atlanta, Fulton County Stadium. Some guy named Bob Seger opened the show, early in the afternoon. It was a very hot day. The show was general admission and coolers and blankets were allowed. Apparently, nearly anything was allowed. The only thing I could compare it to would be Woodstock. We had 40,000, out-of-control fans and a handful of security guards who just tried to stay out of our way. Imagine having every rebellious teenager from Georgia, in one location, for one day.

Let me back up to the wait. Before the doors opened, the crowds gathered outside. We had a decent spot, near the gates. The midday heat was relentless. It was August in Atlanta; need I say more? People were passing around cold drinks of whatever they had in their coolers. At first, I thought to myself, “I’m not gonna drink after total strangers.” The heat was so unbearable; I finally took a sip of something as it passed by. I was only 12 and I probably should have inquired about the contents, but it was cold, so I continued to take sips as cold drinks came around.

When the crowd appeared to swirl, I started feeling nauseous. But the doors opened and it was time to run. Bill was carrying a huge, red cooler and we had blankets too. We ran and were followed by the crowd. In retrospect, it was a dangerous moment. But we made it. We ended up just to the right of the pitcher’s mound. Had there been actual rows, we might have been on the fifth or six row, just to the right of the stage. It was perfect. To our right, behind a row of four-foot-high, chain-link fences, was a massive tower of speakers. I’m going from memory, but the speakers were about 30 inches each and the tower must have been 30 feet high. Georgia State University has images of that day in their archives. The images were taken by an Atlanta Journal Photographer.

Bob Seger, and his newly assembled, Silver Bullet Band took the stage around 3:00 PM. Audience members who could not take the heat were excused. The mob would carry them overhead and dump them over the fence in a grassy area beside the massive speaker-tower. Several people took “naps” over there for the rest of the show.

38 Special took the stage. The crowd was rowdy for their entire set. I remember some parts of their set, but most of it was drowned out by the crowd noise. Johnny and Edgar Winter was just a little louder, but it was getting hotter and muggy. It was miserable by the time they got on stage.

Finally, Blue Oyster Cult took the stage and the sun started going down. Before the band started playing, Buck Dharma threw an entire six-pack of Bud into the crowd and told us to enjoy it and cool off. He immediately regretted it, saying, “I hope that didn’t hit anybody on the head.”

After they played their hit, The Reaper, the crowd was finally paying attention to the stage. The stage, meanwhile, was being prepared for Kiss.

Finally, after about thirty minutes of prep, the band emerged and walked on stage while flames and smoke lit the entire stadium. Lights were flashing and the gigantic speakers started buzzing loudly. When I say loudly, I mean it shook the ground. The vibration of the initial hum was the result of Ace Frehley’s Humbucking pickups and Gene Simmons’ low E, string, left open and vibrating for effect. I could see the speakers pulsing with the sounds. I was actually worried about our “seats”. We were very close to those speakers.

“You wanted the best, and you got the best, the hottest band in the world; KISS!”

As soon as those words shot out across Atlanta, Kiss went into Detroit Rock City and I don’t know how the entire stadium didn’t go up in flames. Explosions, fire, smoke, lights and drums! The music was so loud that when Bill tried to say something, I had to try to read his lips; but it was no use. After the first song, Paul Stanley came to the microphone and said, “They don’t call this Hotlanta for nothing.” And Peter Criss beat the drums for emphasis.  

Nevertheless, the show went on. It was, and remains, the best show I have ever witnessed. I was deaf for a few days afterwards, but it was worth it. Explosions, fire, smoke, lights, cables, drums, burning guitars, smoking guitars, elevating drums, sirens. I’ll never forget the beginning of Firehouse, when Paul Stanley came out, wearing a fireman’s helmet, with fire and smoke covering the stage’ sirens going off, red lights and flashing lights.

After that song, Gene Simmons breathed fire, shooting it all the way across the huge stage. Ace did a long solo. Peter Criss sat on a drum and sang Beth. There was everything a 12-year-old could ask for. There was blood, fire, smoke, loud guitars, loud drums and so much more.

I’ve lost count of how many Kiss shows I have been to since that show in 1976. I have never been disappointed at a Kiss Show.

In fact, 45 years later, Bill and I returned to the scene of the crime and saw them one last time on October 10, 2021. Believe it or not, it was better than the show in 1976.

Kiss hasn’t just been my favorite show; it has been a part of my life. I’m grateful for having had the experience of Kiss. Bill took me to my first and last Kiss show; he gets it.

As I write, the very last stage is being set for the final Kiss show. They play at Madison Square Garden at 7:30 PM tonight. The band has been doing these shows for 50 years and it is time.

Gene, Paul, Peter and Ace, thank you for these years of rocking all night long and partying every day!!

 

May The Force Be With You

 

Jennifer and I made our way to Piedmont Hospital and the usual prep began. Eventually, I was rolled into the operating room where I met the Da Vinci Robot, who was going to partner with the doctor during the surgery.

 

Being sedated, I think I asked the robot how it was doing.

I dozed off, opened my eyes and learned that six hours had passed.

At the time, I remember some discomfort, but it was somewhat manageable with the help of Sister Morphine.

Here I lie in my hospital bed

Tell me, Sister Morphine, when are you coming round again?

Oh, I don't think I can wait that long

Oh, you see that I'm not that strong ~ The Rolling Stones

 

 

 

And I rested.

When I would awaken, a nurse, or Jennifer, would usually be standing by my bed, trying to get me up and walking. I wanted no part of that.

On the second day of this surgical journey, I met a nurse named Joel Bond. I will never forget him, or the mystical experience his visit became. I only connected with Joel for that brief stay at Piedmont, but his effect on me completely changed my life.

Joel was often very busy when he’d drop by to check on me, but he’d still take a moment and pull a chair up beside my bed and chat for a couple of minutes. He’d joke and he’d give me some encouraging words before he rushed away again; always promising to check on me in a while and always keeping his promise.

I had some minor complications that kept me in the hospital for a few days, but Joel was there every day. And on the third day after my visit to the cave (Hero’s Journey), Joel came in smiling. He pulled his chair up and said, “I’m so happy.”

I had no idea what he was referring to. “About?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve seen your path,” he said, “You are going to live a long time.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. But I did not have time to ask him to clarify; my doctor walked in.

“We’ve got your pathology report back Mark.” Said Dr. Wong.

Joel put his hand over his mouth, “I thought you knew. I let it slip.” He said.

Oh… Okay, path is short for pathology. Right.

“We got it all and we won’t need to do anything more.” Said Dr. Wong, “We are just going to monitor your PSA a while. You’ll die of something one day, but not prostate cancer.”

With that, Dr. Wong walked out and Joel said, “I am so sorry. I thought you already knew.”

I told Joel I had no idea that “path” meant “pathology” and we had a laugh about that.

“I may not see you anymore.” Said Joel, “This is not my floor. I’m upstairs if you need me. After I met you, I asked them if I could stay on this floor until I knew you were going to be okay, but I’ve got to get back now.”

Joel gave me a pat on the arm and said, “It has been fun. You are going to be fine.”

I’ve not seen him since.

As soon as Joel walked out, it was easy for me to believe I’d just had a mystical experience, based on a true story.

The name Joel comes from the same source that gives us the word “jewel” It means: The Lord is God.

The word “Bond”, Joel’s last name, means: uniting power or influence; or a method of laying bricks.

The path? It is not really short of pathology in this story. It is Joseph Campbell’s path of a hero; which we are all called to travel on from time to time. It is the journey which every life-story is based on, for every individual. George Lucas wrote Star Wars based on The Hero’s Journey. To me, it seems clear that Lucas uses Luke to tell of his own journeys. Whether you see it or not, you’ll be called out on a journey. You won’t want to go. You’ll meet others, the way I met Joel Bond, and you’ll find yourself in a cave, where you have to deal with your fears. Your Joel, or your Yoda or your mentor, will help you to discover your strength.

“My ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us, binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.” ~ Yoda

 

The Journey's End

 

Today would have been my 40^th anniversary if Lori. I miss Lori on some strange level. I suppose I remember the shy little creature I dated 40-44 years ago, predating the beginning of the end. In that smaller window of my story, I can still see a rather cheerful period; an experience I enjoyed very much. In those years, I was in need of a miraculous rescue. From ages 0-14, I was developing and living in a story of complete anxiety. I was a wild Mustang of a horse. I hid behind hills and drank from streams and foraged in that wilderness of unhappy isolation. I could not really fit in anywhere. I would go to school and I was an outcast, making friends with the unruliest students I could find. I only made such friends because I could not identify with anyone who fit in socially. When The Universe introduced Lori as a supporting actress in my story, I found myself playing parts I had never played. I found out that dating would require a trip to a restaurant; something I had only done once or twice in my life. I did not know about these buildings where food was offered and servers would ask me difficult questions like, “Would you like some fresh grated parmesan cheese?”

It may sound like a simple question, but questions like that produced such uncomfortable feelings within me. “If I say no, will I offend this person? Does the cheese cost more? Does the server really have time to bother with such a selfish request?”

These imponderables would cause my heart to race and a bead of sweat would appear on my forehead. I stammered and sent the friendly server away, wishing I could have enjoyed the cheese I just refused.

To say that I was an awkward teenager is as much of an understatement as saying the ocean is wet.

Lori was not my girlfriend or a permanent fixture in my life; that was never the intention. Of course, my desire was to keep her on as my mate, but a Greater Mind knew that she had a limited role. Lori was a door into an adventure. When I was 19, and finally stepping through that door, I saw Lori and I as joint-protagonists. But later that day – this day, 40 years ago – I was given the clue of a lifetime and it was a literal sign, with two words on it and those two words captured the essence of the entire story of Lori. I did not realize this then, but the two words on that sign were there to reveal the title of the play in which Lori and I were costars. The two words? Journey’s End. That night, the epilogue was printed and the hardcover edition of the very first book of The Chronicles of My Life was bound.

It seemed unusual to begin a series of books with the first one being referred to as The Journey’s End, but it was the end; not of my life’s story, but of the story a complete adventure, where I was as wild as a Mustang and broken by a little, redheaded girl.

So today still marks an anniversary for me; it’s the anniversary of the end of book one. Without the first book, The Journey’s End, I would not have been prepared to accept the call we read about in the second book. Lori appeared in the first few chapters of the second book, but only to set up the characters who would help me over the threshold and back into the special world. Every Hero’s Journey begins in a mundane, ordinary world. Shortly after I stepped through the door of perception, which was introduced in the first episode of my life, I found myself in a very ordinary state. At that point, I could ask for parmesan cheese without the slightest delay. I was in this ordinary state for eight years into the second book, but the phone rang, and it was Lori. “Meet me,” She said, “and let’s say, ‘goodbye.’”

I agreed and we met at a middle school, located almost exactly in the middle of where we began and where we ended up. From that meeting, I watched her drive away and then I turned and answered the call back into the special world.

 

They Call Us Flippers

 

You would not believe how often we uncover a patch that completely shocks us; and I don’t know why it still shocks us. In so many cases, a floor is just one bounce from falling through, a wire is just one jiggle away from burning down the house, a wall is just one good push away from falling in or out and this list goes on forever.

Some real examples:

1.     1. In one house, the add-on laundry room was leaking and the drywall had fallen in, and the renter was behind on rent so they did not even call the landlord; instead, they tried to patch the ceiling from the inside. I kid you not. They took a bucket of tar and slathered it to the exposed decking; INSIDE THE LAUNDRY ROOM. This probably would not have even worked if they’d gotten a ladder and tried to patch it from the roof side, but the odds would have been significantly better.

2.      2.  On one house, some siding had rotted and fallen away from the house. No problem: the homeowner found some decent cardboard, cut it out bigger than the hole, attached it with duct tape, and actually painted his patch to match the house. I swear, someone should make videos of repairs like that. It is sad and funny. The sad part is that the person who makes such repairs spends a lot of time doing so and they actually think it will work.

3.      3. We bought one house and it was actually a decent house; except the homeowner was a “handyman”. He had a lot of silicone and several boxes of drywall screws in assorted sizes. This demo was the hardest one we’ve done. For decades, the homeowner had been squeezing silicone and screwing anything he added or repaired. Nothing was level or cut properly, but it was securely in place; FOREVER. Pipes were literally all coated in a half-inch layer of silicone. I’m still not clear on what he was thinking here. It may be that he was thinking the silicone would insulate the pipes, or maybe he thought the outer-layer of silicone would prevent leaks? I am not sure, but the pipes had to be rescued from the silicone before they could be removed.

I could go on. But don’t get me wrong; this is why I have a job and I love it.

During the boom we’ve been experiencing, we’ve been watching our competition. There are some flippers out there who know what they are doing. I usually go and check out their work whenever I can. Some people just go in and renew everything. Those are usually the best examples of a renovation, but they often cover up beautiful hardwoods and they’ll just throw old, wavy-glass windows in the dumpster and replace them with off-the-shelf, vinyl windows. While I agree that the house will often function even better, giving up the charm to achieve that goal is not always the best idea.

There was one house we really wanted. We made an offer but were outbid by another company. The house was absolutely gorgeous. It was old and neglected and it needed a lot of work, but we dreamed of bringing it back the way it was designed. It was filled with old-world character you just cannot find anymore. Naturally, we watched the renovation. We were hoping the flippers would have the same vision we had and that they’d bring it back to its original, stunning character. Everyone was talking about this particular house; and they still are. It’s all done now, and if you like the modern version of an old, farmhouse, you’d like this renovation. But it’s as if the old, Victorian charmer was never even there. So far, everyone I’ve talked to wishes that we’d gotten it. In my opinion, taking an antebellum-style home and making it look like the houses you’ll find in every new subdivision is kind of backwards.

Bill and I are presently renovating a village home in The Goodyear Village in Rockmart. We are basing everything we do on maintaining the character of the old village. Sure, we could make the cottage stand out by creating a farm-house there on the corner; but it would be as out of place as I was, when I wore a brown suit to a Harry Norman Christmas party.

The last house we did was one that our aunt built in 1955. So what did we do? We found pictures of homes built in 1955 and we redesigned it to fit the original style. Bill furnished it with midcentury-modern furniture. If you go there now, it’s like stepping back in time, to 1955, and walking around in a new house from that period. Where the floor needed patching, we found old wood. Everything we did, we tried to keep the original charm in mind.

Flipping is hard work sometimes. This is why you’ll find plenty of houses where the demo is either underway or complete. I can almost understand why these houses are often offered for sale at that point. This is when we look around and feel overwhelmed. To be honest, this stage can be difficult for anyone. You’ll always find something you weren’t expecting. This is the only thing we seem to have in common with the popular HGTV shows; someone is always going to say, “You may want to come in here and have a look at this.”

Only we don’t get to cut to a commercial. And this will happen almost daily. We’ve learned to deal with it. You cannot let these things get to you; putting a sign up at this point will result in a loss.

Speaking of dealing with it, Bill has learned how to estimate any job and his method is the most accurate method there is. We’ll look at a project and Bill will ask me to come in and give him my estimate on the total costs. He nods and says, “Okay, I got it.” He doubles my guestimate and that has proven to be almost exact in every case. This is where having a good ol’ boy and a business major from UGA works out great.

I wish I had known to do this when Susan and I built our own home. It ended up costing almost exactly twice what I said it would; I didn’t know to double it back then.