Knowing (Or Not) When To Quit

The Saga of Elmer Snow's House

The mess was shocking.

Have you ever had the experience of searching so hard for what you believed you wanted that you’re willing to expend absurdly more and more effort to make it happen?

How do you know when to quit?

Sometimes you just have to ride it out to the logical conclusion.

Of the seven small books I wrote, printed, and bound as gifts to family and friends, this is the last in the first series of four; the end of an era. This story took place in 1996, as I approached the end of graduate school. After the disappointment on Potash Hill (see last week’s post) we rented a small house and continued our search for a home, spending much of the year entranced with a house on Trouble Street. I’m not kidding. I fantasized about having a therapy office at home, and my business card would say: Therapy on Trouble Street. (Was that funny? I’m still not sure.) It had a stream running through the basement, end to end, a trough worn through the dirt floor surrounded by the ancient hand built stone foundation. Everything in the house, including a vast collection of old books still carefully shelved, was covered with a fine coating of soft gray mold, matching the soft gray woodwork. My partner was sure he could restore it beautifully, but the lovely old lady who owned it couldn’t bring herself to actually sell it. 

Thus, we were prepared for moldy dishevelment as we explored back roads in the foothills of the Berkshires. We found Elmer Snow’s House. Here’s what it looked like on the dim day when we first saw it. You can probably guess the outcome for us, but for someone, someone with a remarkable vocabulary, this is a dream house.

Elmer Snow’s House, the collapsed barn, and presumably, his car.

Foreword:

House Hunting is fraught with drama and suspense, especially here in rural Massachusetts. Recently, laws governing septic systems have been fortified; what is underground matters as much as what is above. This is a Perk Test tale of hardpan and hubris, of glacial indifference and feline omniscience… While the main character of this story is imaginary, the outcome was quite real. 

Newton blinked slowly in the sunlight. He lay in a despotic sprawl on an upstairs windowsill, his striped bulk balanced precariously on the weathered wood. The old maples along the road shone bright orange, putting to shame Newton’s own dusty coat. The controlled lash of his tail was the only indication of his state of mind.

Newton was annoyed; his hegemony of Elmer Snow’s House was threatened. Naturally, he didn’t think of it as Elmer Snow’s House. Elmer had departed for parts unknown, driven off in a van with a couple of suitcases and a box of papers. Elmer had never been much competition anyway. Newton was disgusted by his habit of staring at that noisy box all day. He had once watched the box with Elmer, certain that Elmer, who moved slowly and wheezed, wouldn’t be able to pounce fast enough to catch whatever might sneak out of it. Nothing ever did. Newton had decided that Elmer was rather silly. Now that Elmer was gone, Newton thought of the house, whisker deep in mess and debris, as his very own Private Retreat and Hunting Preserve.    

Of course, Newton had another house where the people who fed him food from a can lived. But that house was infested with an annoying yappy sort of dog who is apt to pester one when one wishes to nap. So, Newton spent most of his days and some of his nights blissfully stalking the vast tumbled terrain of Elmer Snow’s House.

At first, after Elmer’s departure, there had been a few marauders in the house; big children who smashed the windows and scavenged amongst Elmer’s detritus, and little children who clambered in, looked around, and immediately frightened themselves away again. In the last few weeks however, Newton had been inconvenienced in the practice of his sport by two people, a man and a woman, who just walked right into the house through the door. These people had no obvious objective; they just hung around, gazing at the walls and floors and talking to each other. Newton was relieved when they failed to harvest the mouse whom they surprised while gnawing on an ammo box on the dresser. Apparently, they weren’t there to hunt. But they did not leave in a hurry and kept coming back. What would this passive invasion lead to?

This particular morning Newton brooded as he watched the couple get out of their truck and stand around looking at the apple trees and the east meadow.  To Newton’s disgust and alarm, two more trucks drove up and two men got out. They all just walked around, looking down at the ground, their hands in their pockets.

Then, from down the road, a roaring sound came and soon a huge yellow monster rolled into view. In the back of his throat, Newton matched the creature’s drone with a growl of his own. When the beast grunted and drove into the driveway, Newton hissed and hurled himself from the sill, scrambling among the old boots and tackle strewn on the floor to leap onto the east windowsill for a better view. Below him the yellow behemoth, farting plumes of black smoke, chugged out to where the people stood. Newton flattened his ears and sank his claws into the soft gray sill. What the hell was this? After a few moments of humming, the monster lifted a huge paw with fierce unsheathed claws and began to dig. Over and over again the massive yellow monster scooped up big pawfuls of dirt. Newton, even in his outraged state, could not help but be impressed. He was an accomplished digger himself in the performance of his sanitary activities. The people watching seemed fascinated as well. All of them picked up pawfuls of the dirt and one of them, bringing a shovel from his truck, joined in the digging, making a smaller hole in the big one. Then, to Newton’s puzzlement, the man brought a big jug of water and poured it into the hole. All the people stood around the hole and looked at the water. The digging monster moved a little distance away and began digging again.

Now, Newton was an intelligent animal with a cool head in an emergency and after a few moments’ consideration, he concluded that what these people, and nasty yellow monster, were up to had something to do with sanitary waste disposal. Priding himself on his appreciation of the finer things in life, Newton knew that one wants a light and loamy soil that is absorbent and drains well when one is choosing a spot to do one’s business. The grinding, grunting, and howling from the digging monster and the baleful looks on the faces of the people suggested to Newton that this soil was a disappointment. Still, they continued to excavate holes all over the meadow, pour water into them, waiting hopefully.

Suddenly, realization flooded Newton’s quivering self. These people must be planning to live here, and all this digging and fuss was to ascertain soil receptivity to long term waste absorption. They were going to appropriate his sanctuary! Appalling repercussions surged to mind; first they would demolish the sumptuous mouse habitation so beautifully cultivated over decades by Elmer Snow. Then they would probably re-fenestrate the wonderful bird snares with which most of the rooms were now provided. But worst of all, they would, no doubt, with rock and mortar, seal up the foundation of the house, Newton’s entrance to his domain. 

This was disaster of appalling magnitude that must be averted at once. Newton, like all cats, enjoys a kind of intuitive omniscience that allows him to penetrate to the core of an issue regardless of boundaries of space, time, and physics. He rarely made use of this endowment as it required a certain amount of effort, but at this moment he was galvanized to action. Dropping his eyelids and settling into the deceptively serene pose of a doorstop, Newton threw his consciousness down into the soil that was being so rudely scrutinized and found himself whizzing back millions of years. (Another of the drawbacks of this omniscience business is that as an intuitive process, the mechanics of it were somewhat beyond Newton’s control and therefore challenging to his dignity.)

Abruptly, Newton landed in a snowdrift. All around him was vast white stillness and he knew, somehow, that he had encountered the glacier that had slumbered on the site of Elmer Snow’s House. He took a few steps, chest deep in the snow, and decided against further exploration; his paws were quite wet and cold. He would just have a few words with this glacier, bring it to understand the gravity of the situation, and give instructions for expediting the problem. Drawing a deep breath, Newton addressed the glacier in his most august tones; “Hey! You there! Melt slowly and leave lots of heavy silt, won’t you? Some people want to put their litter box here and cut me out of my rightful territory.” The glacier, who had no idea what a litter box was, ignored the impertinent and anomalous creature and continued its primordial, relentless drip. Newton, however, felt that his mission had been accomplished. The glacier would see to it that the soil was too inhospitable for the invading couple to set up housekeeping. And so he threw himself back across the millennia to Elmer Snow’s House once again. Bathing his tingling toes with an efficient pink tongue, he smugly observed the scene of dashed hopes and dismay playing itself out below him.

In the Meadow, the yellow beast was pushing dirt back into the holes, covering each wet spot with an efficiency Newton might have admired, had he been burdened with more humility. The people had trudged back to the driveway and were standing in a small circle in the driveway under Newton’s window. One of the men gestured toward the house and shook his head. The other man looked sad and apologetic. The couple seemed to argue, and then to plead, but the men just shook their heads. At last they got into their trucks and drove away, leaving the two interlopers standing together. The man and woman put their arms around each other and stood there quietly for a long time. Finally, after the wiping of tears and a last look at the house, they walked slowly to their truck and drove away. 

The yellow behemoth, having covered up its holes, tucked up its paw and lumbered noisily off down the road. Soon the morning was still again, with only a fly buzzing in through the broken window, as if nothing had happened.

Newton stood up and stretched, feeling that all in all, he had accomplished quite a bit that morning. He hopped lightly off the windowsill to begin his morning rounds, master once again of all he surveyed.

Lending his countenance to Newton: Joshu.

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As I read over this story in 2025, it’s clear what was at stake for me with that partner at that time as we hunted for a home together. In our almost 7 years together we moved six times and made offers on three properties which we didn’t purchase. When we first met, I was just starting graduate school, and when we parted, I had a wonderful job as a licensed therapist in community mental health and two professional certifications. The moment for choosing a home and having children had passed. This is what my husband now, with whom I share three step-children and two step-grandchildren, calls “a revealed preference.”

One way or another, we know when to quit. What preferences have you discovered after the fact? Leave a comment…