It’s finally here! The day they said would never happen; ok, there’s no “they,” but I was skeptical for awhile. My mom, the pioneer who made rehabbing affordable to most, has never taken much interest in her own house aesthetics. Believe it or not, our family house is the last thing on my mom’s extensive to-do list. But now, she’s finally taking on a Murco project of her own: the upstairs bath. This bathroom was out-of-date when she first bought the house 25 years ago. Now, it’s finally on a path to rightfully earn the distinction of “master bath.”
I’ve written before about how I grew up in a Murco mayhem house. Our downstairs- the basic battlefield of the home- was decked out in recycled goodies. We had the kitchen appliances, the curtains, the mantel, the guest bath- all derived from auctions and salvage. But the upstairs bathroom, somehow, someway, was woefully ignored. Perhaps it was because the bath was on the second floor, and we only spent time up there to pout, sleep, or write moody poetry. Early on, we grew blind to the shiny, imitation wood laminate and the horrifying apron tub the color of old gravy. Or maybe it was because that bathroom was never empty enough to notice how truly ridiculous it was. After all, it was shared by four girls, and there was a never ending rotation of showers to be showered, washes to be washed, make-ups to be made up. With all of the towels and tissues and nail polish stains, I don’t think the counter of that vanity saw the light of day for ten years.
So when I, the last Murphy gal, packed up my bags for school and moved out, Jodi thought nothing of the master bath that was far from masterful. It was same old, same old. And besides, she was busy! Why focus on her perfectly functional bath when she could be focusing on other people’s stuff?
I get it. The reasoning is there. But I didn’t accept it. Once I realized the master bath had to go, my campaign began. It’s been a long process. My agenda for total bathroom redo was born about two years ago, when I started working for the family biz. Being a part of Murco does an odd thing to the brain. Maybe it’s kind of like a permanent concussion, where your poor gray matter gets jiggled around a little and your vision changes. When I used to walk into a room, I would take in the furniture, the size and scope of the telly, what kind of food was around for nibbling (charming, right?) Two weeks as a Murco employee and suddenly I’m zeroing in on the crown moulding like an eagle finding a mouse in a field (too epic of a simile? Well, I’m keeping it!) What TV? There’s were snacks in there? I wouldn’t know anymore. But I could tell you if your window latches are worth recycling, or how many fins your radiators have per unit. Anyhoo, one day on an innocuous visit to mama’s house I went to use the bathroom, and it was like suddenly ripping the blindfold off. Gah, the cracked tile! Wood grained formica makes me itch! As you know, Murco grants us access to amazing materials for a fraction of the cost, and we know all of the local contractors who can handle the handiness necessary for installation. Jodi was perfectly queued for a bath renovation; she just wasn’t used to diverting materials to her own home. I pushed, and I yammered, and I whispered sweet nothings… and the day has come, people! Jodi and her contractor broke ground- or better yet, tile- today. True to Jodi form, the bathroom will be gutted and completely done in 1 week (and that’s taking the weekend off). All she needed to spur her to action was my foot firmly planted on her fanny… sorry for the pressure, Mama. But just think of the bathroom coming your way!
Stay tuned for more updates!
We here at Murco are strict. We play by a hard policy. ‘Hard’ as in, “work hard, play hard.” In this internet-driven world, there is no work week. When there are materials to move and deadlines looming, weekdays blend into weekends with barely a second glance. Since our hours aren’t regulated by a conventional office setting and our services are tailored to the schedules of our clients and buyers (not our own), we don’t know the meaning of “set labor hours.” Maybe it’s genetic, maybe it’s madness, but we Murphy gals operate at full speed at all times. We run around like a kid on Christmas morning who just discovered the power of sugar.
The good news is that our proclivity for high-energy hard work is matched only by our proclivity for play. To put it simply, this is why our work ethic works. It also helps that it’s a family-owned business. When your business crony shares half of your cellular makeup, you tend to agree with each other on when to take a break.
This break came in the form of cat-sitting… on a Hawaiian mountaintop. Relatives live in Maui, and they needed someone to watch their kitty while they skied in Canada. Being the utterly selfless family members that we are, we flew in and promptly dropped off the face of the earth. Our one mantra: “keep the cat alive!” Our one goal: “relax!” Now, for women whose resting phase is a sprint, it might seem like it was a difficult transition from going hard core 24/7 to suddenly finding ourselves in a remote tropical town. I’ve never taken a two-week vacation; neither has Madelyn. I was secretly worried about what we were going to do for fourteen days without work or a to-do list. And then I realized that we did have a to-do list. Indeed, it was a very important and demanding list of tasks to tackle:
- Plan a new adventure every day— check!
- Learn to surf — check! (we have the sunburned asses to prove it!)
- Go on an epic hike— check! (although I almost quit when we reached the cliff face “ladder,” and all we found was a rickety tangle of rotted wood and equally rotted rope)
- Eat seafood and anything else that we wanted— check!
- Drink fruity drinks — check! (we do like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain)
- Feel immensely grateful and blessed to be on this trip— check, check, check!
We approached the vacation with the same zeal that we reserve for Murco. This was equally as satisfying from an achievement point of view, but much, much more fun!
And now we’re back! As our cell batteries died, our soul batteries recharged. The cold snap of Chicago is a refreshing snap into action. OK, so referring to wind chills of 20 below may be a sign of brain damage… but we are going to claim it as concrete evidence that vacations are necessary for our well-being. We played hard, and now we are ready to once again work hard. Bring it, recycling enthusiasts! Come at us, Murco warriors! We are rested, we are tan, and we are ready for 2015.
Hey, folks! This is Madelyn writing this week. This has been the summer of kitchens. Jodi and I have brokered nearly a dozen of them in the past 2 months, and there’s more coming up soon! With all of this wheelin’ and dealin’, I was inspired to write a bit about why kitchens are so important, and how replacing them can be both exhilarating and terrifying.
As of late, we have been involved in a lot of kitchen balancing acts. *Cue the old-timey radio announcer voice* “…come see the magnificent Murphy girls and their death-defying act of balance! Watch as these graceful ladies navigate the treacherous tightrope of kitchen coordination!” If we don’t do our jobs correctly, then things really can turn into a spectacle. In a nutshell, in the case of kitchen remodeling projects, when pre-existing cabinets, counters, and appliances are removed to make way for the new, timing is everything. If our buyers take a kitchen away too early, then a family is left kitchen-less. Their home is missing a major component, and the loss is felt by everyone.
A kitchen is for living, growing, socializing. It’s a gathering place, the modern-day version of a hearth. What draws us to our kitchens is the promise of communion. A kitchen not only fills your belly; it feeds the soul. In the house I grew up in, I told my mom about my first kiss in the kitchen. It was the room I learned to dance in. It was the lab I first dyed my hair in (and judging from the odd purplish result, I probably should have done it in a room with a mirror). It is the haven I still flock to when I visit mom. Hungry or not, that’s the place to go to really arrive “home.”
So when you are thinking of renovating your kitchen, I know that it goes far beyond mere aesthetic. Changing your kitchen is heart surgery for your house. There’s your heart, your center, being sliced open and exposed. You hope that the post-op will be worth it in the end, but at the time of the first cut, you wonder what the hell you were thinking. What an undertaking! And there’s the nagging worry throughout the process. Even after all of the stress and preparation and expense, you cannot help but wonder: will your home be good as new? Better than good as new?
This is where salvage can swoop in to save the day, and where our heart metaphor gets really good. When an organ is failing, we replace it with the healthy organ of someone else who no longer needs it. It’s salvage at its most organic. So when your kitchen needs replacing, know that salvage is just as feasible- hey, maybe even better than- the traditional retail route. Why construct a new heart when there’s a perfectly good one already waiting for its next home? This is the true joy of recycling. You get to give materials a new lease on life; you demonstrate that just because something is not fresh out of the box, it still is useful. It is a scenario where the buyer and the seller can mutually benefit.
Your home cannot run without a kitchen. We all know this. Ignoring its culinary contributions, a kitchen supports togetherness, and we are social creatures. It can be devastating to replace a kitchen, but salvage often eases the transition. Recycling adds an element of joy and purpose to the kitchen remodel that cannot be acquired through retail alone. We salvage kitchens for the same reason that people donate organs: to do good, to propagate the life of materials. And when all is said and done, when your new cabinets are in their place and the kitchen is pulsing with activity, perhaps you’ll find your own little brats scrambling onto the counters, talking about kissing boys and the color that their hair “should” be.
Keeping track of all of the various Murco projects in their differing degrees of completion can be daunting. Luckily, my brain is comfortable in this self-made chaos. I call myself a mental cavorter, but I think the fancy-schmancy title is cognitive juggler – meaning that I naturally multi-task and drift from distraction to distraction.
My brain is not a one-way track; it’s a 6-lane highway, with thoughts hurtling in several directions at once. The inside of my head is full of traffic jams, u-turns, and high speed chases with the windows down. It’s exciting, it’s fun, it’s busy… and it used to drive Madelyn nuts. If Madelyn juggled, she would prefer to do it with one ball only; she’s the one-track mind of our crew. However, that’s not Murco’s style. This business can change course quickly, with many unscheduled pit stops along the way. It took her awhile, but she learned to adjust to the great Murco road trip.
My point is that my brain is perfectly in sync with my job and vice-versa. Adroit of thought, nimble in action, incessantly incessant. However, sometimes it all has to shut down. To thoroughly exhaust my own metaphor, when I keep my pedal to the metal, I eventually run out of gas. Luckily, I know exactly what to do when my gears are fried: turn on the music and dance.
Here’s a candid shot of my ballet class. I managed to sneak in a picture between pirouettes.
I have been studying ballet for 20 years. Going to class has been the constant in my twirling lifelong spectacle of career, motherhood, sisterhood, friend-hood. At least once a week, I need to take the opportunity to stop the chatter in my head and let a ballet teacher chatter at me. In class, you have to strip down your thoughts to the most basic level. Tune into…then hone in on… the involuntary skills that keep you upright. In ballet, simply standing up straight in preparation to dance is extremely difficult. It’s the curve of your arm, the arch of your foot, the extension of your neck. And that’s before you even try to bust a move! When I’m working to summon a graceful exterior, the deals racing around on the interior are put in park.
Ballet makes the traffic halt because it consumes my conscious. I have to be aware of the tippy top of my head to the toppy tips of my toes. And just when I think I’m getting there, my instructor walks over with a quick correction to my torso, a nudge of my hips. Then she says, “Good, now pull up in your knees.” What? How does one actually do that? Who thinks about pulling up in their knees when haggling, negotiating, coordinating, or other Murco related –ing verbs? My knees definitely do not pull up when I’m in the office or surveying a property. But they do in class, with the help of a leotard and intense concentration.
Ballet takes my frenzied thoughts and fuses them to fit a single lens. I must give everything over to the combinations of movements given to me. There’s no room for mental cavorting. But surprisingly, instead of this environment being restrictive or stressful, it brings me clarity, absolute presence, and peace. You can’t master the movement unless you master the moment.
Ironically, even after 20 years, I am anything but a ballerina. Sometimes, when I catch myself in the mirror leaping across the floor, I burst out laughing because I look like such a crazy clodhopper. But I don’t care, I love it. I love the effort in spite of my suckitude. I don’t have to be good at it to do it. I don’t have to be good at it to gain immensely from the discipline. I just have to show up, pay attention, and pull up my knees.
Then, I leave class and my mind bursts back into a thousand directions. The Murco highway roars back to life, but now with a fresh tank. I’m ready for the trip. I buckle up and I smile.
After a good session of ballet, I’m ready to bust a move in Murcoland!
Hey guys, this is Madelyn. Jodi graciously let me cover the blog this week. As of late I’ve been thinking about the concept of sentiment. We all have it, we are all moved by it, but often we are not so attuned to the sentiments and attachments of others. A few months ago, this realization struck me when I worked closely with a family leaving their North Shore home of 40 years. As Jodi and I hustled and bustled through the house, identifying this mantel and that pedestal sink, I ran into the owner’s wife. She had peered around the corner to watch our evaluation process, and on her face I saw an unmistakable flash of grief. The sudden outpouring of emotion stopped me in my tracks.
Murco is a fast-moving business, a whirling dervish of bids, deconstruction, and under-the-gun negotiations. Most of the time, we preview homes that are already uninhabited. All personal effects are gone, and so are the families who gave those walls their sanctity. Equally as common are the properties that the owner can’t wait to level. Their sentiment for the home expired long ago, and their anticipation of the demolition is like that of a kid waiting for the Fourth of July fireworks to start. Working for Murco is like constantly wearing binoculars, trying to sort out the future purpose of used building materials. I see where stuff is going, not where it has been. That woman’s grief was a sober reminder of the fact that everything we redistribute has both a future and a past. Sure, the family enlisted Murco because they were moving on to greener pastures, and they wanted their former valuables to go towards reuse. But that doesn’t make the transition any easier for them. They were still leaving the haven that had been their childhood home, and that served as the home for their children. Where Jodi and I saw crown moulding and Thermopane windows, they saw the bedroom where they slept for more than 30 years, or the study where they practiced reading and writing, or the kitchen where the family gathered on a nightly basis. The magnitude of the history that Jodi and I casually traipsed through was astounding.
It is so easy to be consumed by the thrill of the sale, the deadlines, the networking. I forgot the value of sentiment. I forgot that in order to give something a new lease on life, something has to give in the first place. There is profound joy in salvaging, but in order to salvage something, something else must first be lost. This could entail the loss of usefulness, the loss of convenience, or far more despairing grievances like the loss of a home, the loss of a lifestyle. It is an honor to know that Murco brings happiness to families; this honor becomes all the more poignant when I remember that the home being torn apart raised families. The walls that we see as impending rubble used to be someone’s shelter, and when the wrecking ball charges in, that shelter will be gone forever. My job is to not ignore this fact, but to respect it.
I will not forget that remarkable grieving look for a long time to come. The memory often greets me when I go to new previews, acting as a gentle admonishment: before you go into work mode, first take a moment to appreciate that this was someone’s home, their most precious sanctuary. Only after I do that should I dive into the unsentimental practice of cataloging everything that can go toward reuse. I do this because I know that one day I will go through the same grief. I have been fortunate to have grown up in the same home since I was a baby. For 18 years, I wandered those halls. They guided me from my first unsteady steps in diapers to my first unsteady steps in heels, and then some. Even though I now live on my own in Chicago, I know every nook and cranny of our family house, and I love it. And not too far down the road, Jodi will sell it. The time will come when she wants to move on, and that house will be snatched off of the market. And eventually in my lifetime, that house will be knocked down. It’s over a hundred years old and the kitchen floor slants. The basement needs refinishing. It’s a 3-bedroom, but it could easily be made into a 5-bedroom given the lot space. I could list dozens of reasons to justify the destruction of my childhood sanctuary. And when the demolition date is carved into a calendar, I will grieve. And after I emerge from that pool of sentiment and fond attachment, I will then hopefully put on my silver Murco jumpsuit (we’ll have those in the future, right Jodi?) and proceed to document everything that we can salvage from my former home. Let’s see, there’s this mantel, and that pedestal sink…
Why do we feel that if something doesn’t last forever, we’ve failed? Human beings have always been obsessed with permanence, and this attitude pervades our relationships with others and our own self-identity. We are terrified of the idea of transition, to the point where we dig in our heels and attempt the impossible: to somehow, someway, even at great personal expense, make a moment last.
But what if we could shed these delusions, the desperate expectation of permanence? What if we didn’t expect these intense, perfect moments/unions/constructs to last forever? For lack of a better explanation, moments are precious because they are momentary. Impermanent. The briefest taste. Moments are fleeting, exhilarating, powerful, breathtaking, educational, exceptional; they are wonderful flushes of feeling that zap us and just as quickly recede. They are shocking and discombobulating in their swift entrance in our lives, and even swifter departure. I think the common despair comes from the assumption that if a moment can be frozen in time, so will its effects. It’s a cheat code, we think, that can prolong joy and exclude pain. What is so difficult to grasp is that the brevity of the moment is what produces the rush, the power, and the emotion. If you could jump out of an airplane and free fall for days, I guarantee you would eventually get bored. After enough time the screaming and flailing would stop, the adrenaline wouldn’t pump. Hell, you would even get bored after awhile and start looking around for a book. Moments are not equipped to last forever, and neither are we equipped to participate in them forever.
So I ask you another question: why can’t we just savor these moments for what they added to our lives, instead of representing what we now do not have? The lens of permanence makes one view life through anything but rose-colored glasses. To try to relate your level of success to the duration of important moments/unions/constructs is insensible. I once ascribed my riding a 2-wheeler with training wheels as a benchmark of success, but I no longer cling to that. That accomplishment is not relevant to my current station in life. It was a great stepping stone among the thousands that have composed my path in life, and I leave it at that. This mindset, of course, is harder to apply to the bigger landmarks- our first loves, our promotions, our rejections. But in the end, they all boil down to moments, and like it or not, none can be suspended.
My life on several occasions has changed course because of a sentence spoken, a single look, a wrong turn. The lesson imparted in seconds left an eternal impact.
We are an accumulation of every experience. Nothing lasts forever, except for the impacts and collisions of our lives with fleeting experiences, good or bad. We are modified by moments. I like to consider a moment as a grain of sand. Sure, it’s small, but boy, can that sucker be grating. Get enough sand particles, and suddenly you have an amazing dune, or a deep cut through solid rock – every moment leaves its mark. Every moment is a means of building you up or breaking you down, and in the end, the final result is your full life.
The lens of permanence is a myth, and it is undoubtedly tempting. But it is also is a quick and easy way of creating unnecessary despair. True living entails passing from moment to moment. Take in the moments, let them give you momentum, and keep on keepin’ on as you traverse your path. When you consciously stop fighting to keep one grain of sand in your palm, you’ll find that you have an entire beach waiting for you.
I am an avid gardener. Almost all of my plants came from Murco auctions, where the dig-and-dash approach was used to acquire many a tulip bulb, boxwood, and clump of pachysandra. Watching the emergence and awakening of green from my ragtag garden always invigorates me. Although we classify plants as being alive, we don’t often credit them for reactivity or strategy. They’re just “there.” Surely they pale in comparison to the accomplishments and innovation of mankind? We humans are awesome, right? We operate under the assumption that we can navigate and manipulate this world more so than any other living being. Isn’t that why we are the top of the food chain, gods among the single-celled organisms that fart to propel themselves? We perceive our environment, we adapt strategies to pass on to our incoming generations, and we have the ability to react quickly if our existence is jeopardized. Personally, my go-to survival tactic is to run. I can run really, really fast when need be. Plants, on the other hand, cannot run. They may spread out and proliferate, but in times of duress, they can’t up and leaf (sorry, too easy.) This human arrogance, I feel, is one of the greatest obstacles in our development. Just look around, people! Everything that one needs to know about survival, proliferation, and good living can be learned from plants. So what if they can’t run? Their roots extend deep, and when one is rooted, one can weather the storm.
I have several fascinating points to back me up on this. Did you know that plants, those “inert” green things, actively interact with the world? They do not merely exist; they are active participants in the evolution of the environment. They react, anticipate, and engage. Put this in your pipe and smoke it: wild tobacco plants have several weapons of defense against threats to their existence. One is to purposely ramp up the nicotine concentrations in their leaves. Nicotine is a paralytic toxin, and thus it can leave the bug trying to munch on its goodies in one hell of a compromising position. If that was not genius enough, tobacco plants have a means of identifying their attackers. By analyzing the enzymes secreted in the insect’s saliva, the plant can tell what species it is. If it happens to be a species impervious to nicotine, tobacco turns to Plan B. It releases a chemical into the atmosphere that specifically targets the natural enemy of its enemy. In other words, when tobacco is being bullied on the playground, it sends a message to the teacher to come take care of the problem. The bully is neutralized, and tobacco continues to thrive.
The name of the plant game is adaptability. Tobacco has two contingency plans in place. How many of us can say that? If your life, your business, your sanity were on the brink, are you sure that you have effective strategies to fall back on, to keep yourself going? It’s a scary thought, but plants face these trials every day, while looking gorgeous above it all! Try this on for size- some plants can switch pollinators. Think about that. That would be like me being able to change my physical appearance at will to attract whatever mate I deem useful. One day I could be a modelesque blonde with brown eyes and a love of Woody Allen movies, and the next I could be a curvaceous brunette with blue eyes who can cook, etc, etc, etc. You get the point. Flowers can initiate several crucial variations in their biochemistry to attract the pollinator that best aids their propagation. They can change the time of day that they bloom, the volume of sugar in their nectar, the shape of the petals, and beyond! And they can enact such wild transformations in a short amount of time. What a manifestation of evolution! What a wonderful example of the correlation between adaptation and resiliency.
These biological defenses and offenses of nature can be directly applied to my business. In the past two years, Murco has been playing patty-cake with an evolving market. Sure, I don’t have to resort to toxins or disguises to expand my business, but I do have to roll with the natural punches, or Murco would eventually turn to dust. Onsite auctions, though still prevalent, are being matched by online services. So we have had to learn to utilize internet sales effectively. Murco was once a cash-only business, and now we rely just as heavily on electronic payments as we do on good old-fashioned moola. Why? Because our dispersal abilities no longer apply solely to face-to-face transactions. The internet has allowed our influence to expand geographically. Now, Susie McRecycle in Iowa has as good a shot at getting a Murco kitchen as does Local Larry.
Murco’s mantra is “One World, One Chance, Be Gentle.” The foundation of that belief is rooted in our ability to grow and interact with our community, our competitors, and our supporters. Like the tobacco plant, we have developed several Plan B’s to accommodate the market and give new and returning buyers alike a fair chance. Like the plants that can change pollinators, we have learned to bob and weave with flexibility and speed as new challenges come into the fray.
Every spring, I eagerly anticipate the return of my garden plants. Their rebirth is inevitable. This year, the rejuvenation of my garden also coincides with a Murco “rebirth.” Our website is changing, our terms are changing, our methods of operation are changing. Murco’s garden is growing and adapting right along with my hydrangeas. And sow it goes…