Carole Bell never saw Loveless, but she worked herself to the bone representing my side of the ledger. This afternoon I opened a letter from Carole telling me she was “moving on” after 36 years as a realtor.
When I started out on this adventure to find a lake place, the first person I called was Carole. She sold my first Minnesota house and helped me find the one I’ve been inhabiting for 16 years now. She’s the epitome of that old saying about the iron fist in the velvet glove. Carole was a bulldog in the trenches of negotiation, but always sought to understand what was in your heart.
Now in her 70s, Carole drove with me up to Northern Minnesota, traipsed around several overgrown and trash-strewn properties with more gusto than I could summon.
She sent me cards on my birthday and on every anniversary of my home purchase. She never once missed sending Christmas greetings where she delighted those of us on her mailing list with tales of her talented children, her latest musings about life and her never-ending quest to do her part to create peace on earth.
Here’s to ya, kid.
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