Memorial Day Weekend

Memorial Day Weekend

Memorial Day Weekend

During any year, we celebrate this weekend. We celebrate in our remembrance, but we do not confuse meaningful reflection with the absence of celebration. This is a weekend that matters, in a lifetime of weekends that matter. We spend the winter and we tolerate the spring and when the spending and the tolerating is over we are rewarded with this: A Holiday Weekend. Whether this is a summer weekend as some mistakenly consider it, or whether it is nothing more than a precursor to real summer, a practice round, as I see it, this weekend matters.

This year, things have been different, this much is obvious. The virus is miserable and I hate it. I’m sure you hate it, too. I miss sports, terribly so. I miss dinners out. I miss everything about the way our lives have always been before now. I cannot lie to you and pretend that this hasn’t bothered me. It’s bothered me immensely. Will the year be terrible? Who knows. Will it be incredible? Who knows. The practice of not knowing is exhausting, and if some people feel that they are charging hard into Memorial Day Weekend I will admit now that I’m limping into mine.

That isn’t to say that there aren’t things to be excited about, but it is to recognize that this isn’t a normal weekend. I drove through town today and found joy in the busy streets. The restaurants are bustling, but now we’re supposed to be worried about the bustle. The streets are crowded, but now crowds are the enemy. Or are they? The confusion is tedious, the proclamation of “science”, as rapidly changing as it is, as being some infallible constant that lacks nothing and knows all is as loathsome as another wet and clingy spring.

My magazine has been printed, and tomorrow I’ll race around town delivering as many issues as I can. The CDC mentioned something about hand to material (paper, plastic, etc) contact not being a very effective vector for virus transmission, and just in time for my magazine to be on display. The advice comes too late for my finger tips, those previously sensitive bits of my fingers that have now been bleached into submission. Still, Summer Homes For City People is out again and I do hope you like it. I hope you don’t take it too seriously. If there’s something in it that you don’t like, don’t sweat it. I probably don’t like it either.

This week has been remarkable. The market is absolutely, entirely, unavoidably on fire. Everything is selling. What just sold? All of it. I’ll fill you in on the details this coming week. The market is active and brokers are capitalizing on the rush. I like the idea of capitalizing on things as well, but no matter the activity in the market I want things to make sense. Houses make sense, most of the time. The market makes sense, most of the time. How valuable it is during times like these to work with an agent who doesn’t abandon the desire to see things make sense just because that sentiment has been doused in gasoline, set aflame, and pushed out to sea? I can’t abandon the need to see deals make sense, so I guess on this Memorial Day Weekend my promise to you is nothing more than that. I won’t lose sight of the fundamentals, even if the market has decided that it’s time to move on. Time to put the virus and the remaining shreds of market sanity in our rear view mirror.

I can feel the excitement in the air tonight. It’s Thursday, and the streets are busying themselves with the cars of the vacation owners. The grills will be lit and the porches will be occupied. The lights at night will glow from each shore, and I’ll find so much comfort in the normalcy of this place. This weekend might be nice. It might be sunny. It might be cold, and it might be rainy. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you remember what the weekend is about, and remember those who made all of this commotion possible. I’ll be here working all weekend, ready to help steer you straight. Here’s to us. To our summer. To better things. Lord knows we deserve it.

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