If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve owned a home at some point in your life. Newspaper readers tend to be that type of people.
Interestingly, research has shown that many people only start reading the newspaper after buying a house, perhaps to keep track of their investment. Purchasing a home is typically the best investment most of us will ever make, unless of course you bought one in 2008 right before the market crashed.
If that’s the case, I sympathize. I too experienced the consequences of that crash, but fortunately, things turned out okay.
I purchased my first house in 1999 when I was already middle-aged. At the time, I foolishly believed that no one would ever lend me enough money to buy a house. You see, newspaper reporters, unless they specialize in business, tend to be clueless about money. We wouldn’t have chosen this poorly paid profession if we cared about earning a decent wage.
I mean, come on. Houses cost a lot of money, even back then. At that point, I had never owned anything more expensive than a shelter cat, which can actually be quite pricey, especially if you take them to the vet.
But when you reach a certain age, you start longing for something different that has nothing to do with chocolate. You yearn to be free of landlords and have a place of your own. A place where you can paint the walls black and display flamingo lawn ornaments, without anyone stopping you (unless, of course, you have a homeowners’ association).
Those people don’t put up with that sort of nonsense. I once wrote a story about a woman who got into trouble for planting flowers in her entryway that weren’t within the “approved color palette” of her neighborhood. People were quick to say, “Lock her up!”
Fortunately, our street doesn’t have a homeowners’ association, and somehow, we’ve all managed to survive. The only reason I own a house today is because I happened to be on the phone with my friend Liz Weston, a financial guru, while observing people entering an open house across the street for a rundown bungalow that I couldn’t afford.
“I wish I could buy a house,” I wistfully expressed to Liz, even though I was content with my rental bungalow.
“You can,” she confidently replied. “How much money do you make?”
After I shared my income with her, she whipped out her trusty calculator (she always has one, even in the bathroom) and informed me that I could borrow $200,000. My head started spinning, and I found it hard to believe that anyone would be crazy enough to lend me that much money. But after visiting a few banks, I discovered that many places were indeed willing to provide the loan.
Back then, you could actually buy a house for $200,000, although not in any desirable location. So, I started diligently searching disreputable neighborhoods in pursuit of my dream home.
However, I soon realized that my dream home was nowhere to be found. I had to lower my expectations and settle for a place that I could at least tolerate, even if it wasn’t my ideal. When I found a potential property, I would stand outside at night, evaluating the safety of the surrounding area. If I noticed at least three people with guns or stab wounds passing by, I would remove it from my list.
I have a soft spot for historic homes, which eventually led me to a 1914 shingle bungalow that had been turned into a duplex with a tiny back house. It was located in what Joan Didion would refer to as a “senseless-killing neighborhood.” Nevertheless, I had been a crime reporter for years, so sporadic gunshots didn’t faze me much. They weren’t aimed at me. Plus, I adored the spacious front porch, perfect for holiday decorations.
I paid $191,000 for that gem and was able to rent out the extra space to help cover my mortgage. It was also the first place I brought my adoptive kids when they came to live with me as foster children.
Living there had its perks. Since no one had much money, my kids were relatively well-off compared to their peers. The backyard swing set was always filled with neighborhood kids, and there were no arguments about needing expensive sneakers.
However, when there was a fatal gang shooting across the street, I decided it wasn’t an ideal neighborhood for families who had the means to escape. So, we moved.
We ended up in an unattractive 1952 tract home in a plain suburb, where we still reside today. At the time, the house seemed ridiculously expensive, but now I couldn’t even afford to purchase the garage. The biggest cultural attraction of our neighborhood is having three grocery stores within close proximity. However, the schools are excellent.
After enduring the exhausting process of moving as a single mom with two young kids, I promised myself I would never move again. “The next time I move,” I vowed, “will be when my kids put me in a home.” As I made yet another call to set up utilities, my muscles aching from the move, I questioned if I could still feel my legs.
And here I am now, counting my blessings.
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