That Old House

The fact that I now live ten miles away from the United States' biggest and most profitable casino belies the fact that gambling makes me twitch. I hate the temporary uncertainty and the long-term losses. I hate seeing half of our state's elderly population hooked up to the slots via Wampum cards on lanyards. I hate the rank air. I do like the free drinks, but I have to imbibe vast amounts before I can convince myself that all those bourbon and cokes negate the overall soul-sucking nature of the business.

Unfortunately, there's more than one way to gamble, and we've been doing it for over a year and a half in the real estate market. We've been paying two mortgages since we relocated in July. As our new home thrives around our growing family, our original place sits forlorn on its little hill overlooking the Interstate, waiting for a buyer.

Today I got to thinking about the offers we didn't take. The price we didn't lower quickly enough. The renters that almost burned it down. Everything related to the sale of that house has been a roll of the dice. It could be sold by now if a different number had come up on just one of those tosses.

Or it could have disappeared. One of the offers early on came from a neighbor who made his intentions clear--he wanted the property for its commerically zoned land, not for the house. He would have demolished the 200 year old Cape in favor of the expansion of his business. We decided we couldn't be complicit in the destruction of an antique treasure and told him, in no uncertain terms, "no."

I'm still glad we rejected his offer (which seemed a tad low at the time, but looks higher and higher in hindsight), though there's a sting each time our bank account bleeds out the next mortgage payment. If we didn't care so much about history, we'd have a much easier time funding the present. But so it goes. Another one of life's little lessons.

One of the most expensive locations in real estate? The moral high ground.



Cross-posted at New England Mamas.

Rent

There's a new title on my resume, and it is that of "landlord." The house that The Boss, The Partner and I used to live in--the one that's been on the market for 7 months with several bites but no digestion--is now inhabited by a band of siblings between the ages of 15 and 25. The story seems to morph with each telling, but the gist of it is that their mom ran off with her boyfriend, leaving a pregnant 17-year old, another 17 year old (this one adopted) and a fifteen year old without any adult supervision. Their oldest sister, whose name is on our lease, came back from upstate New York to take custody of the children and to move them into suitable housing.

A credit check determined that she had none--good, bad or indifferent--but she struck The Partner as responsible and motivated when he met with her earlier this week. A day later, the group moved in. We stopped by on Sunday to make a few repairs and found the place cleaner and more homey than we had left it. There was talk of a lease-to-own arrangement, which we said we would be happy to consider. We left feeling as encouraged as we could have hoped.

I had a bad feeling about this in the beginning and I can't say that that the vibe has been significantly altered. But now I'm content to hope that I was wrong. The place is, after all, a starter home, and it's been a strong foundation underneath many, many feet for more than two hundred years. I hope our new renters find as much happiness and support within those walls as we did.

And I hope they pay the rent on time.