A Case of Who-Done-It

I know for my seven or so die-hard readers that this here blog space doesn’t necessarily provide startling worldly insights.

I know that there is nothing particularly scintillating, prosaic or profound in this tiny corner of cyberspace.

But I do have a case of Who Done It that has me befuddled…and just a tad bit worried about my sanity.

Yes. Your eyes are not fooling you.

That’s St. Joseph…on my kitchen counter.

St. Joseph. Patron Saint of Home Sales among other things

I found him standing upright and headless, in a pile of leaves, on the back porch.  This was actually a few weeks back.  I’m just now able to talk about it.

Perhaps dear seven or so readers you’ll recall from a post over a year ago, while living in my sweet home Alabama house I got so fed up with St. Joseph that I dug him up from his backyard location and threw him into the hummingbird feeder.

“Take that,” I had said in a purple minion moment. I was none too pleased with his apparent inability to attract buyers for our middle-earth home.  Oddly enough, the real estate world has supreme confidence that planting a St. Joseph statue in the yard will make for a quick home sale.  Google it.

Needless-to-say when I told my sis what I had done she was shocked at my uncharacteristic burst of anger.

“You know it’s born out of total frustration,” I had said. “Besides, really…just maybe St. Joseph doesn’t want to be head first in the ground. Who made up that rule anyway!  Just maybe he’d much prefer standing upright with a clear view of the yard.”

And here we are today.

As God is my witness I am not sure how–or-by whom– this alleged act of violence took place.

Could it have been at my very own hands?  I’m wracking my brain here….

Perhaps I was sleepwalking?

I had an encounter many years back with a sleepwalker. Let’s just say it was mighty freaky to be startled awake in the wee hours of the morning by someone standing at the foot of the bed, still as a statue, staring at me.

Nope.  I can’t possibly have that unfortunate affliction.

Perhaps I had a severe purple minion moment in which I committed this dreadful decapitation, the act being so traumatic to my psyche that I blocked it from memory?

Hmm.  That’s a distinct possibility. There is much from my childhood that has been wiped-out.

Let’s point fingers at The Poodle.

Aha!  It had to have been my four-legged love.  Sorry old boy to throw you under the bus.

Nah. On close inspection it is a decisive clean cut.  This seems to have been a professional hit?  (I’m half-Italian after all;  I’m sure there is a Guido who carries a violin case in the family tree somewhere)…

So, it could not have been The Poodle.  There, there my boy.  I was only teasing when I accused you.

Rocket-man? you ask. I shudder to think I’m in bed with an axe-murderer.

But here’s the thing folks….

Apparently it takes an off-with-the-head method to get things done when it comes to selling one’s home.  Who knew?

I’m ashamed to admit this but….

It matters not how St. Joseph lost his head.

It’s been two years, 15 days, 10 hours and some number of minutes.


I will state that again, just because…..


No…It’s not pretty. We’re losing our shirts on this one. But we have a contract. Now it’s prayers that things proceed without nary a hiccup.

Two mortgages be gone!

So, for those of you wanting to plant St. Joseph in the backyard according to the instructions provided in the nice little pamphlet in the box he arrived in, you may want to consider the off-with-the-head approach, but only as a last resort.  It’s traumatic….but it works.

Cartwheels of joy in Northern Virginia.

Time for Plan C?

Most of you know that in September of last year I wrote about moving from this here middle-earth land, Alabama. In fact, as soon as I heard the news from Rocket-man that his transfer to a new position had been approved I was on the computer ordering moving boxes. Within the week I had packed most of the books in the house and lots of my various tchotchkes—or rather, Objects d’Art. In a rush of excitement I even posted a photo of moving boxes I had packed. Mighty sure was I that I’d be moving out-of-state to a new place well before pumpkins decorated doorsteps in the neighborhood.

Hmm. Apparently I was wrong.

You guessed it. We are STILL here. My packed boxes still sit in a spare room awaiting a moving van.  And, the way things are progressing (or, more appropriately not progressing) It looks like I’ll be seeing another Halloween in middle-earth land. Honestly folks, I cannot wrap my head around that!

Don’t get me wrong. There are some mighty nice folks here in middle-earth land. And, absolutely, I’m going to miss their certain southern charm. And my lovely house? Yes, I’m going to miss that too. But folks, I am ready to move. Let me be clear:


I thought of adding an expletive to that statement but I’m striving to be a better woman in the inappropriate language department.

I’ve never lived in a place where I have had this much trouble selling a house. What makes it even more mind-boggling is the fact that this is absolutely the loveliest house I have ever been lucky enough to live in. Our previous real estate agent wasn’t helping our cause (I say this as diplomatically as possible) and therefore, after the six-month listing agreement was up we signed with a new agent. Fingers crossed–and toes too–we are now twenty-five days into our new listing agreement. 

So far….

Nothing is happening.

So, To help things along I went into Plan B mode.   I ordered another Saint Joseph statue on Amazon. Saint Joseph is the patron saint of a happy home. He was, of course, the foster-father of Jesus.  His connection to THE ONE up above is thought to aide those who need to sell their homes.

I'm counting on you St. Joseph!

I’m counting on you St. Joseph!

The pamphlet that is included in the package states the following:

The tradition of burying a statue of Saint Joseph has its roots in the ancient Catholic custom of burying blessed medals in the ground and invoking God’s blessing on the area.  Now, in modern times, homeowners of all denominations pray to Saint Joseph asking for assistance in buying and selling homes. Apparently, there are many documented cases of “his powerful intercession.”

Point in fact, brokerage firms often have Saint Joseph statues on hand. Who knew?

Naturally, Rocket-man chimed in on my purchase (which was a whopping $8.95).  “As I recall, you did the same with your mother’s house,” he noted some days ago. “You ordered the little fellow on Amazon, planted it in your mother’s front yard and then SHA-ZAM! It took nearly a year for that house to sell! So, my sweetwhat on earth makes you think Saint Joseph is going to help us here in Alabama?  Did I not advise you to not pack anything until we had a contract in hand.”

Well…OKAY.  Rocket-man indeed makes a valid point. 

Pish-posh!  It matters not.  Still, I will not….I repeat, emphatically, I WILL NOT…unpack any of those boxes sitting in the spare room!  I’m not giving up….even though I know the hat that I want to take on an upcoming trip is packed in one of those boxes…..

So, at this writing I am ready to try anything.   In fact, acquiring eye-of-newt for a bewitching potion—which I’m sure to find through an internet search—may be my next step.

You can see that I’m reaching a level of desperation here.

“You’re right,” I reply.  “However, ye of so little faith….with my mother’s house I planted Saint Joseph literally on the day we put it on the market, and it was in the front yard. This time, things are a wee-bit different (I stupidly reasoned): I’ve given things a good six months to work out. And besides, I’m planting him in the back yard this go round, directly in front of the Saint Francis statute. The two of them–together–should do the trick, don’t you think?”

Rocket-man rolled his eyes at my thinly veiled logic.

Rocket-man does have a Ph.D.  Could he be right?  Hmm.  I’d never admit it!  Could it be time for Plan C?


Excuse me now as I embark on my eye-of-newt search.  Wish me luck.

eye of newt