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Erica's WLS Book
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For Darn Good Writing Ask Erica
HOME OWNERSHIP 101
(Originally Published in the New Age Journal, Available for Reprint)
No one could believe we were actually doing it. Two lifelong city dwellers, neither of whom had ever survived without regular psychotherapy, who didn't know the difference between leaders and gutters, or how a septic tank worked or how to fix absolutely anything, were leaving New York City to buy a house and move to the country.
Escape from New York was a popular fantasy among our friends, but no one had actually tried it. Reactions ranged from "how brave of you," to "you must be crazy." Both sentiments were correct, especially since limited funds forced us to buy what the real estate trade calls a "fixer-upper." When anything went wrong in our city apartment, we called the "super," who was drunk most of the time, but eventually fixed whatever was broken. How could we survive without him?
Although our new home had holes in the walls, loosened stair bannisters, ripped linoleum in the kitchen, and filthy, frayed wall-to-wall shag carpeting whose original color one could only guess at, I immediately saw its "possibilities." It was tucked into tall woods of maple and oak, had two-story cathedral windows with a view of a babbling brook, and a swimmable lake right across the road. What we didn't know was that the brook only babbled if the lake drain was cleaned daily, because the beavers plugged it up nightly, and that our charming dirt road turned into a sheet of ice in the winter and a series of axle-crunching potholes in the spring.
The real estate agent said the house was a wreck because it had been "abused." Children were abused, but who would batter a house, I asked? "Renters," he disgustedly explained. We'd been renters all our lives but we'd never abused our surroundings. All I knew was that I was in love, and like any woman in love I viewed my beloved's serious faults as charming quirks.
We never did learn how to fix anything, but we learned quickly how to hire good help. The summer we moved in we found Larry, a local carpenter, who made our house livable while educating us in homeownership 101. Houses are alive, Larry explained, and they need to be tended like living creatures. If you don't vent them, and caulk them, and paint them, and patch their roofs and waterproof their decking they'll turn on you. Now we have a crew of talented, if rather eccentric, workmen to call on, who'll even hang out and have coffee with me during the day when I'm lonely or bored. A far cry from my old "super."
We must be doing something right because we've lived here for ten years and nothing really disastrous has ever occurred. The potholes do get worse every year, but now we view them as speed bumps that keep cars from whizzing past at 50 miles an hour. We've learned to outsmart the beavers by fencing their favorite trees. The bears were a little scarier but we got used to them too. We've learned to accept inconveniences and fix things as we could afford to. Slowly, we renovated the kitchen, replaced the shag carpeting with wood flooring and even added a screened porch. The upstairs bathroom could still use some work, and we need a good paint job, inside and out, but now we see our house as a work-in-progress.
I can't say we never miss the city. We do. But I can't imagine living in a few small rooms again or having to take an elevator to go outdoors. Over time we've tended our house and it's tended to us–a more intimate, and mutually satisfying, relationship than one could ever have with an apartment.
(Originally Published in the New Age Journal, Available for Reprint)
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