This Old House, Hawaiian Style

By Kelli Lundgren

Quite frankly it takes time to plow through muck.  Decayed cabinets. Sinks more brown than white. Landscaping that once was. Saplings here and there desperately trying to find water.  Items previously thought salvageable we throw into the trash heap.  As far as we can see the roof adequately protects from rain, the walls are solid.  Nothing a good double cleaning of detergent with bleach cannot revive.

"Phase Two" of Before, stripped out, ready for tile, kitchen

In the stricken yard, I collect Red Bull cans, screws, and food wrappers, and discover five squishy dog toys buried in overgrown weeds.  Discarded cigarette butts, glass and bottle caps are rammed flat into red soil, objects futilely trying to decompose. 

And this is only the physical mess.  The emotional mess, the “how do people live like this” reflection churns in my mind as I uproot weeds, clean walls, collect dirt, and clear feces left by past inhabitants, including people. 

Someone in the neighborhood asked if we got a good deal on the home.  No.  We bought a shell of a home at a price only a visionary could appreciate.

I could worry, but I don’t, at least in the sense that this place will be beautiful when Tom and I finish creating.  I have oodles of confidence.  I’ve done it before.  This does not scare me. 

What scares me is when I reflect on the fact I am coming here to live.  It’s one thing to take a structure and create a piece of art, it’s quite another to know that this place will be where Tom and I enjoy a glass of wine, entertain grandkids for the summer, and sleep through nights within its walls. 

Too, every experience now on Maui is looked at much differently than that of a tourist. To explain, when we turn right on Piilani Highway and see an expansive, gorgeous ocean view for the umpteenth time, the tourist I once was would look at this panorama as paradise.  I now look at it as: this is it.  This is our new rock in the Pacific for months and years to come.  We come here for another phase in life’s cycle, one where Tom has retired, we are scaling back, and where we will grow "older."

And the people in our new neighborhood?  Rick next door has given us carte blanche access to his garage, including use of an impressive array of tools and access to a well stocked fridge. Jay rides by on his bike with kids in tow.  He tries to warn us about the previous owners of our home.  We do not flinch.  He tells us nothing we do not know.  We have looked into the walls.  We have pulled up floors. The home tells a hundred more tales than those coming from Jay's lips. 

Before: We're expanding the living room, changing the door

On Friday evening Tom and I took a break and attended the Kihei town festival.  We shared a table with retired educators from Oregon State University, and another couple formerly with the U.S. Forest Service.  Twelve years they’ve been on Maui.  We memorized every word they used to describe what they think and love about Maui.  We clung to any knowledge validating our life-altering decision to move here.

Last evening our real estate agent texted me with unexpected news.  We have an offer on our Utah home.  We listed it for sale seven days ago. The offer is reasonable and the prospective couple we hear fell in love in one visit and offered within two hours.  They want to move in in three weeks.  What happened to the forever-trying-to-decide potential buyers from the Great Recession who could slowly ease us off of the mainland and onto this mid-ocean island?  

Someone wants our home.  Reality pummels me, more than I had anticipated. 

I designed our Cottonwood Heights home and its community.  This is my pride.  But more importantly, this has been my comfort since 2007. 

Someone wants our home.   Dammit, that’s why we listed it for sale.  That’s the plan.  Now fear strikes.

I search for thoughts and find so many memories when I have closed the garage door behind my car to then choose from many beautiful luxuries in our expansive Utah urban oasis.  My favorite certainly is the back deck in May--this time of year--when the scrub oak has freshly bloomed, with birds visiting our feeder; red, blue, yellow and gray feathered friends perched high, with doves and quails eating fallen feed below. The creek sings its soothing masterpiece against the back edge of our yard.  Memories in time cannot be more euphoric than this. 

Back on Maui’s Piilani Highway, Tom now drives with the ocean in the rear view mirror.  We head back to the stripped down walls of our Kihei fixer-upper. Tears well in my eyes as I look out the passenger window thinking of this past era of my life, of the home we are now selling, of what I created, of what I have loved. 

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Any time a friend is looking to purchase a new home and the offer falls through, so many times I see rejection, dismay.  And I tell her, I know you do not think it possible to find another home equally as perfect, but I guarantee you will.  It always happens. You have to remove yourself emotionally from the last home. I know you "moved into it" in your mind.  We all do.  But move on so you are ready to invest in the next home, which will be better. You just don't know it yet.  And in my years of experience, every time, the next new home is the right new home for my friend.  Every time. 

I need to give a friend some advice right now.  My friend is me. Our next new home is the right new home.  I guarantee it.