Feb. 2, 1995

Dear David,

Ran into your father and mother the other day at DC's office. She was in for a little repair. He told me all about the search for red irises. Seems nobody's been able to hybridize one that's truly red, but they have some ideas about how to do it. Even if they're right, though, the odds of getting a red one are one in 50 million. There was something about the way he laughed when he said it that made me think your dad sort of likes those odds.

We also talked about the settling of Bollinger County, and Indians and the days when the Mississippi River dried up and the Mississippi River Valley became a dust bowl. The topsoil in Southeast Missouri was all blown here, he said. Imagine that. I did.

He said you're working on the company budget and sympathized. It's that belt-tightening time of year. My company sent employees copies of a newspaper article about huge increases in the cost of newsprint, and how newspapers across the country are downsizing their pages and staffs to compensate.

Downsizing for excellence, reporters joke when this happens. Sotto voce, of course. No time to rock the boat.

Sometimes I feel like "The Meathead" in "All in the Family," still futilely arguing against capitalism, and after all these years of dining at the businessmen's table.

DC and I have been fidgeting with our own budget lately in hopes of finding a permanent abode. Since we're already downsized to a three-room house and a 25-year-old second car, there's not much to do.

But I didn't know buying a house would be fraught with so much anxiety. Sure, you're mortgaging your future, your mobility, giving your Hawaiian vacation money to house painters, but those are givens.

It's the other stuff that gets you. Looking for time bombs: Asbestos in the basement and a long-forgotten oil tank buried in the yard. Parental disapproval: Ours don't think the neighborhood is safe. Buyer remorse: Couldn't we have found something a little cheaper with a little bit newer roof in a little less tricky neighborhood?

In the end, I try to reassure DC and myself, the choice isn't a logical one. It's a leap of faith, just like love and marriage. If it feels right, do it. If it doesn't do something else.

I'm not sure this is having the desired effect. She has been on the phone all week with the Department of Natural Resources (environmental division), and talking to esteemed family friends who think we must be crazed even to consider moving into this area of town.

One said, "That fence won't stop bullets."

Neither will the Clintons'.

All in all it's been a roller coaster of do we-don't we, and a merry-go-round of roofers and radiator men and house inspectors and Realtors and bankers and rising interest rates. DC even called the chief of police.

A few days ago, standing in the yard with the owner, doing my best to uphold DC's belief in the male as negotiator, I asked him about that fence. He said he and his wife built it, and momentarily seemed lost in a reverie of nails and boards and bygone dream-building.

One reason I like this house is that it has been well-loved. And it has a great bathtub.

After all this, the odds of making the right decision probably are about 50 million to one. I like 'em.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.