She never liked me.
I knew this.
Somehow I needed to talk her into selling me her house.
I had tried several times over the last three years to buy it from her. No luck with that.
I was tired of the constant traffic that stopped in front of the house. The cars would slowly approach the house – then suddenly someone would jump out of the car and run up the front porch and hand cash through the missing screen window.
It wasn’t uncommon to see two police squad cars out in front of the house. We had been warned at our annual block party that that house was under surveillance for drug activity.
Imagine our surprise finding this out.
It was only a few months ago that right behind us, one of the largest teenage prostitution busts in recent years, had just occurred.
So much for the “stable, friendly, safe neighborhood” that the realtor who sold us our home had promised was the case.
I was always curious why there were different teenage girls mowing the lawn in mini skirts and stiletto high heels.
Now I know.
A murder, kidnapping, domestic assault, and numerous police visits to this house was all part of its history. Not to mention the Pit Bull that was staked out in the front yard.
Yet, I still dreamed of the day I could buy this house.
Besides overcoming all of these problems and the shortcomings that seemed to be in the way – there was one other major problem.
The city was trying to condemn it. This was confirmed with phone calls.
I couldn’t let that happen. Something told me and tugged at me to prevent that happening.
In retrospect maybe the city should have just condemned it. There were many days I felt like this.
The next several blog entries’ I hope to tell this story with pictures and in my own words, using my personal experiences to form the story that I am going to call, “This Old Crack House”.
If you choose to read the story there will be a firsthand account of my struggles, setbacks, challenges, and a complete emotional breakdown following the death of my best shop Buddy -Spike lee – my male basset hound. Affectionately known as’ “Bull”.
It is in memory of him and my gratitude to many friends who stood by me every day -even when I wanted to quit – throw in the towel in and give up, that I write this story.
The reason I want to tell this story is simple.
With hindsight, there were times when I felt so overwhelmed –had I known better, maybe I should of just walked away and called it quits. However, it’s my hope that if I can inspire even one person to follow their heart -dare them to chase an impossible dream – and do what they have been told they couldn’t do but never thought they could, the story will have served its purpose.
I hope that you will at least be patience with me while telling my story. I feel like I need to tell it to begin my healing. I’m not a writer, just a simple humble man who loves woodworking.
It’s been a long three years.
(Protected by copy write, all rights reserved ,D.Jerzak 2-20-2007)