I had been contemplating buying a home for a while. I figured I was probably here to stay, the lack of light in my apartment and the brown berber carpet were kind of depressing (as was the slotlike "galley kitchen").
I had started looking, in sort of a desultory way, the previous spring. I had some things on my list that were strong desires - lots of windows for lots of natural light, hardwood floors, a fireplace, windowsills wide enough to set plants on, a decent-sized kitchen, a laundry room, maybe even a sewing room.
I hadn't seen much that I liked up to that point. I had been working with a real estate agent who, frankly, I don't think he thought I was serious about it or something. He didn't tour houses with me - just pushed a bunch of listings at me and told me to go check them out. (One of the houses was across the street from an unfinished house....which is still unfinished today).
I was pretty disappointed. I had been thinking about sticking out the apartment for a while longer, maybe even looking into buying land and having a house built, when the annual HUD inspection went down. (I lived in a complex that got section 8 money. Until very recently, that was true of every apartment complex in town). Even though I way paying the top freight of rent and received no governmental breaks, my apartment was picked to be the "inspection apartment" - because it was close to the office.
I was told I owned "too many books." And they presented a "fire hazard." And if I didn't get rid of some (the manager very cleverly suggested "We also have a storage unit business! Yeah, so they could get rent for me AND my books), I would be fined.
Now, let me back up. Don't envision something from "Hoarders" or the Collyer Brothers. Yes, I did own a lot of books. But 95% of them were arranged neatly on shelves. Yes, I had a small stack next to my bed and another small stack on the coffee table...but really.
Also, fire hazard: I have since learned that it's actually pretty hard to burn a book, and at any rate, if the temperature in my apartment got up to 451 F, there'd have been a lot bigger problems than my books being flammable.
But my response was (first) disbelief and anger and (second) "Forget this mess! I'm going to work harder to find a house so I don't have to deal with this."
And I got lucky...one of the women I go to church with found out I was looking, and she happened to have a friend who was thinking of selling...her friend was not in the best of health and probably would have to move into a nursing home. (She has since died; she died over a year ago now).
So I went to see the house. It had most of the things I wanted - also, the rooms were generously-proportioned, unlike some of the newer houses I'd seen, where, in an attempt to carve four bedrooms out of a small footprint, there was a distinctly warren-like feel to them.
True, this house has only one bathroom and two full-sized bedrooms, which may be a liability if I ever want to sell it, but it suited my needs.
So, over the summer, I worked with the woman's son, finally got an offer approved. It was - and I realize this is very rare, and I realize how much it reeks of privilege, but it's the truth, so I'll share it - I was able to pay for the house outright. I had saved up money over the years, my dad was able to kick in some as a "gift," and I had $30,000 left of money that my grandparents had left me for college.
So after debating whether getting a mortgage would make more sense or not, and deciding that no, the comfort of having the house-abstract in my own hands, rather than some bank's, was important to me. (I probably could have gotten a fixed-rate mortgage, and I hope I would have been wise enough to go for that...but in the light of everything that's happened in the past several years, I'm grateful I did not have to go for a mortgage.)
I remember one of the things I did on that horrifying day (Sept. 11, 2001) was to run to my credit union - where all the funds for the purchase had been deposited - and have a cashier's check drawn. Because we were still in the middle of not-knowing. Not-knowing what else might happen, if the banking system were attacked, whatever. I didn't want to miss the chance of getting my house.
So I had that huge check locked in a file cabinet for two days, and walked around with the key in my brassiere (and fear in my heart that if my apartment complex actually DID catch fire, I'd lose the way of paying for my house).
Finally, on the morning of the 13th, I met the seller and her son at the attorney's office. We signed some papers, I handed over the check, I got the abstract...and I owned a house.
I spent much of that fall renovating...in those days, I did not teach on Tuesdays and so spent most days over there, painting and repairing, doing what I could. It was over a month before the place was ready to move into.
I remember spending many evenings there that September, scraping the trim (someone had painted latex over oil...so I had to scrape it ALL before I could then repaint it, this time with oil). Listening to Rangers games on my little AM radio, because it was the only programming I could pick up that wasn't political and angry or sad or whatever.
Working on that house, that fall, gave me more of a sense of normalcy. I had a goal I was working towards. I had achieved something I wanted.
And eventually, I moved in.
A few years after that, I was in a British Import shop, and I found these house blessings...I bought one for my brother and sister-in-law (who had just bought THEIR first house), but also bought one for myself.
It still hangs on the wall near my front door; I see it every time I enter or leave the house.
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