I immediately noticed the grass, which was almost completely dead. The lush green lawn with the rainbow of pansies that surrounded the home that Grandma once owned were replaced with a sea of yellow despondency. The shingles on the roof were worn, faded and broken- much like my father, who moved in immediately after Grandma passed away in 2014. Adding to the low vibe energy of the place, is the fact that Dad died of a heart attack here. Though no one knows for sure, it’s estimated that he lay dead on the kitchen floor of this house for three days before being found.
It’s important to note that my cousin repeatedly told me that he and Uncle Don had been looking after the lawn and had the house all but completely cleared out. My realtor, who was referred to me by my probate attorney, had looked at the property the week prior to my arrival and assured me it was in good condition. Imagine my surprise when Brett, myself and my realtor, whom I was meeting for the first time, went inside.
There were mountains of paperwork laying on the kitchen table. There was expired food in the pantry. Not surprisingly, the house was filthy and had likely never been cleaned. All of Dad’s belongings were still there, except everything had been rummaged through- clearly the family had cherry-picked what they wanted and left the rest. To be fair, I had encouraged them to take anything that could be of use to them- especially Cousin Mark and Uncle Don, because they were going to be emptying the place out anyway…or apparently, not.
I was in complete shock- I had been lied to for months! It didn’t help matters that my realtor felt it unnecessary to try and clean the place out before trying to sell it. He wanted to list it as is- with all Dad’s crap and sports memorabilia laying around. Though he did suggest that if I was serious about clearing things out I could contact the thrift store up the street and see if they’d be willing to take some items. If he was trying to earn my business, he was failing miserably. He also thought the roof was “Just fine,” so we couldn’t even agree on that. We walked the perimeter of the house and a lot of the siding was damaged, with holes in the boards. The old shed out back had creaky doors that didn’t shut all the way. But it got worse.
As we entered the detached garage, Brett immediately noticed bags of insulation that said vermiculite on them. “Holy shit! Is that asbestos?” he asked the realtor. “Well, it could be, but it’s only a problem if you make it one,” he said in a surprisingly calm tone. “So, what are the odds that the house has the same insulation?” Brett inquired. “I’d say they’re pretty good,” the realtor answered, shrugging his shoulders.
I should note that the house was built in 1948. During that time, asbestos contaminated insulation from Libby Montana was often used in residential buildings. Bans on asbestos insulation wouldn’t begin until decades later.
I immediately wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into. I was in over my head just seeing the condition of the yard/house, but this?! This was so much more than I’d bargained for. I decided that I needed time to process what I had just witnessed before making any more decisions regarding the house or my realtor.
Brett and I drove to Billings and stayed the night at a nice hotel called the Boot Hill Inn. I took a bath and also took comfort in being in a clean room where I felt safe. Afterwards, I lay in bed and proceeded to journal the happenings of the day until I fell asleep.
As we headed back to Fort Collins the next morning, I told Brett what I’d concluded thus far. “I expected to get emotional visiting Grandma’s old house for the last time. I thought I’d be overtaken by memories of her babysitting me and Cousin Mark. All the meals she prepared for us and all the deep conversations her and I had as I got older. Instead, I was angry; I felt robbed of my catharsis. Grandma’s house was always modest, at best, but it was well maintained. Dad inherited this house, and just like every house he’d ever owned, he ran it into the ground. I stood in the very kitchen he died in and was so overwhelmed that that fact didn’t even occur to me while I was there. From a psychological standpoint, it made sense though- Dad cared for his homes/vehicles the same way he cared for himself…in other words, with pure and utter neglect.”
As the miles wore on, however, I had an epiphany. It became apparent that this trip was meant to bring me clarity, and THAT is where the healing would eventually take place, not from revisiting Grandma’s old home. I now had a better idea where I stood with Cousin Mark and Uncle Don, and where they stood with me. It wasn’t what I had expected- in fact, it was a hard truth, but at least it was the truth. But the more profound message I received was that there was nothing left for me in Montana. There were Trump signs everywhere, which is understandable given that Montana is quite conservative and that Trump won the state in the 2020 election. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of conservative Trump backers where I live as well, but at least there I don’t feel like my thoughts and opinions aren’t welcome. Fort Collins is more of a melting pot of differing views and opinions. Sadly, it’s very vanilla valley in terms of ethnicity, but still more politically diverse.
It occurred to me that if I were to go back to Helmville, the small town in Montana where I grew up, I would be tolerated at best as I’m quite liberal. It was Brett who pointed out that in the event I should return to Helmville, my old friends and I would pretty much have to relive how things used to be, and avoid acknowledging our current beliefs in order to keep the peace. I had just learned that very lesson the hard way with my own cousin. This knowing was painful, but again, it was a dose of much needed truth.
In the next and final article about my trip to Montana, I’ll explain what became of Dad’s house. I’ll also divulge the disturbing bombshells Cousin Mark revealed to me upon my return home, which in turn would reveal his and Uncle Don’s ill-fated master plan…