A home, and home inspector, full of surprises

The location was perfect. The house had history, charm, and space. It even had a tin-roof–like an Old West saloon! Giddy up! We took one look at the place, fell in love, and made an offer.

Built in 1910, this vintage home was old. Very old. Like historical-plaque-on-the-doorpost -old . Yes, we were in love with the ancient dwelling but not blind to its potential problems.

We hired a home inspector, whom we hoped had x-ray eyes like Superman. The guy who showed up, however, wasn’t wearing a red cape and he didn’t have an “anything is possible” attitude. His first words to me were: “I’m Stuart, and I am a pessimist. Your real-estate agent might not end up liking me by the time I am through here.” 

Stuart had me follow him downstairs and informed me that old houses can be wonderful or disastrous. At the fuse box, Stuart asked what I did for a living. I didn’t know how to answer. To tell him that I am a rabbi would be to reveal that I am Jewish, and who knows how that could affect his inspection. 

Before I could answer the question, Stuart made a disgruntled scowl. The electrical wires in the fuse box were wrapped in cloth. Not good. There was more bad news to come. At the water heater, Stuart found a leak and pipes that were the wrong size. The furnace proved to be decades old, too small for the house, and improperly installed.

Most worrisome was the visible hole in the furnace pumping out deadly CO2. Stuart ran upstairs and advised the agent and her young child to evacuate the house. Before we ourselves walked out, Stuart noticed a toolshed and remarked: “Oh great: a do-it-your-self-er.” I asked, optimistically: “Someone with talent!?” “Yeah, he replied dryly, “he’s good at almost getting us all killed!”

As we exited the house, I disclosed my profession to Stuart. “A rabbi!?” he remarked incredulously. Before I could answer, he blurted out: “My wife and I used to belong to B’nai Torah!” Now I was the one in shock. It never occurred to me that he was Jewish.

Outside, Stuart asked me to hold a ladder as he fiddled his way up onto the roof. At the roofline, Stuart spotted a gaping hole near a skylight and noted that the chimney was “kaput.” He then balanced himself on the sloping roof. It was a strange and curious sight. Though I worried that an unexpected breeze could blow him to the ground, Stuart was sure-footed.

He called down to me and started telling me his favorite Jewish jokes and Midrashic stories. He also told me that his parents were Holocaust survivors. In a life full of uncertainty and imbalance, they had managed to carry on their traditions and find joy. So, too, had he. 

Back on the ground, Stuart summed up his findings: “Listen, Taron, I could keep searching for flaws in this house. I could charge you for hours more of work, but I think we already know all we need to know. I love the house, but it has huge problems. This house would be death by a thousand cuts. If someone gave it to me, it would take 18 months to fix and tons of money.”

And then he said two things that have stuck with me to this day. “When I inspect a house, I always ask myself: Would I feel comfortable having my mishpacha living in it? And here I have to say NO.” And then he said: “My goal in life is to one day be remembered as an honorable man who helped people. That for me, is the game plan for the rest of my life.”

I replied: “That sounds like a good plan for all of us!”

In the end, we didn’t buy that house. And we are grateful–not to a superman, but to a super mensch who saved the day.

Taron Tachman is the Rabbi at Beth Tikvah Congregation in Hoffman Estates. He happily lives in Palatine with his wife and two daughters in a house that passed inspection without incident.