Pandemic Problems

 So, it's been almost exactly a year since the world shut down for COVID 19. I was on a cruise ship when that happened, with spotty internet and no real idea what the rest of the world looked like while I planned my days around trivia quizzes, lectures and movies. We came home to a very different world than the one we'd left.

We all remember, I think, the last time things were "normal" before they changed. It's a shared experience; we all understand it.

As is usual, though, I find that I don't really understand how some other people reacted to the new reality. I mean, on an intellectual level, I can tell you how they feel, and why. I just do not emotionally relate to it.

Some people, when I'd post photos from my own back yard online, would say, "You went outside!?! Why? It's dangerous outside!" Well, look, being exposed to other people was potentially dangerous, but there's nobody in my back yard except me, and maybe someone who lives in my house with me. I didn't understand the extreme fear of simply existing in the world.

I went anywhere in public only once in that first month, to get groceries. There's three of us in my house, so in the first three months, each of us went to the store once. Maybe if I had a job outside my home - I don't - I would have been a bit more prepared for this, but when I finally went somewhere in mid to late April, I could not get over how many people were on the road. It looked like any other ordinary day. "Where are all these people going?" I wondered. 

After a month at home, I went driving to a lake just outside of town, hoping for fresh air and the chance to take photos; those are two of my preferred ways to relax. And all across town, the streets were full. When we got to the lake, the parking lot was almost full. Luckily, most of the people were out on the lake, wind surfing, so we were all distanced, and I got great photos. Still, I was a bit surprised by how many people were out and about. And how one of them wanted to walk RIGHT UP TO me to talk; hey, I don't even like that when I'm not worried about germs.

Which brings me to the other people that I don't understand, the people who experienced fear and anger and pain in being home all the time. I started to see all kinds of things online about how "humans aren't meant to live like this!" and predictions that violence and suicide would increase - and they did! This was a surprise to me.

Because I was, sincerely, happy as a clam. I woke up every day, especially in the first three or four months, thinking, "Yay!" I had no schedule, no expectations, no obligations, and it was delightful. For most of my life, I rarely watched TV during the day, but now, I had no problem with sitting down in my jammies and watching TV any time I felt like it. I read books, I painted, I stayed up late (for me, anyway) and slept in. I'd look online and see that people were taking online classes, cooking from scratch and making sourdough, and FaceTiming daily, and it just sounded exhausting. I was not organizing my closets and deep cleaning. I was rewatching old TV series - hello, Stargate Atlantis; I'm always going to gloat a bit that I knew how cool Jason Momoa was years before everybody else figured it out. I should have done more cleaning, really, but it felt like vacation, and who deep cleans on vacation? Not me. Everybody likes vacation - how were they not as happy as I was? Really, I was puzzled; I am puzzled.

But, because I was puzzled, I thought about it, I read about it, I talked to people, and I tried to figure out what people were thinking. I feel the need to repeat here that I don't look at differences as being an intrinsic case of, "who's wrong, who's right?" Right and wrong are for moral issues and the laws of physics, not for the fact that the world contains infinite variety, especially in humans. I'm also deeply puzzled any time someone sees that they're out of step, and immediately agonizes that they're wrong, or judges that everyone else is wrong and probably stupid. Some flowers are yellow, and some are red. Some dogs are small, and some are large. Some people prefer things that make me miserable, and vice versa. The point is to understand, not to relegate everything to two little boxes.

I also need to be clear that I am not speaking about about families or individuals who were experiencing job loss, illness, death of a loved one, lack of food, or anything else that is actually tragic. Those people deserve every bit of help and love and empathy that we have, and more. Their pain should, always, be our own. I also understand that most people were having some kind of empathy response, feeling for those who were experiencing these things. I'm speaking from my place of incredible privilege, about people whose homes looked a lot like mine - plenty of food (and TP), income, secure housing, good health, and loved ones who are mostly in that same boat, people whose lives are physically comfortable, but who now had to deal with being home (in comfort) almost all of the time, and were feeling uncomfortable about it.

The things that didn't resonate with me were things like, "How many times can you organize your sock drawer?" or actual angst, like the woman who said to me, "Was I always this friendless, and I just didn't notice?" I had to roll that around in my brain for a while, because it made no sense to me. How can you have fewer friends, just because you're at home, not out and about?

I think I've figured that out; it has to do with who we perceive as a friend. My definition is very broad and encompassing. If I like you, if I have positive thoughts about you or feelings for you, you are my friend. Unless I specifically dislike you, you're my friend. That means that you, personally, are in luck if we've ever met; I would be hard pressed to name more people than I can count on one hand as being people that I just do not like. Even then, even counting the very few people on the planet whose presence I avoid, I don't wish harm or misery on any of them. I hope they're happy and healthy, just not in my presence. If they were to be in my presence, I would be polite, unless pushed pretty aggressively.

Sure, I understand the concept of "close" and "casual" friends, but it's become fairly clear to me that I don't categorize the same way some other people do. There are people who have never been in my home, who have never hosted me in their home (despite living in my community), whose numbers are not stored in my phone, who are absolutely my close friends. Some I've known for decades. 

A few years ago at a funeral, I saw someone with whom I hadn't been in contact for over 20 years. But we were kids together, we understand a lot of each other's backstory, they could have my organs if they ever need them, so the first words out of my mouth were, "I love you!" accompanied by a hug. And they said, "I love you too! How have you been?"

I'm often sincerely puzzled by people who see each other several days a week. I don't understand that; I don't do that. My parents didn't do that. My parents had family, neighbors, friends that they liked, that they did things with, but there were no weekly bridge games or girls/guys nights. There were no daily, or almost daily, phone calls. I'm the same way. Seeing someone 3 or 4 times a year feels "often" to me.

I also sincerely cannot make sense of the idea, "Well, I did like you, I thought you were fun, but then we didn't see each other for a while, so now we're not friends anymore." When I talk to people who only feel close to someone if they see each other all the time, it feels artificial and needy. I can be outside of your presence and still feel that you're my friend. One of my close friends, who I've known since we were kids, described it this way: "I don't need to see people every day to know who my friends are."

Other people have called me and my relatives like me "anti social." I prefer the wording of a professional counselor that I once saw - "You just function with a very high degree of autonomy. Most people don't." I'm not afraid or unhappy, I'm just self contained, and I can't imagine why that would be a bad thing.

I remember being puzzled when I was a newlywed moving to a new town. I'd be hundreds of miles from the only city I'd ever lived in, moving to a city in which I knew no one but my husband. Someone who truly was concerned about me said something about how hard it would be, because "you won't have any friends!" I replied, "I'll have the same friends that I have right now."

"But there won't be anybody to hang around with, day to day!"

"I don't hang out with my friends much now." I was 20, only two years out of high school, but I considered frequent contact to be something that kids with a lot of free time did. Several of my best friends had moved away, others were in school full time, some were like me and working two jobs. There was not a lot of time or money for hanging out, and our schedules were no longer similar, nor did we all live in the same neighborhood anymore. Getting together was a 'special occasion" kind of thing. I thought that was normal; I still do. I liked them, they liked me, I still wrote long, newsy letters, but now I put stamps on them instead of handing them off between classes. I didn't feel the need to audition people for Frequent Contact Buddy, because I wasn't lonely without one.

And yes, sometimes being with other people feels very much like an audition. They're trying to figure out if they want to spend time with you. Sometimes, the answer is no; sometimes, that's a good thing. Not too long ago, a dear friend - someone else I've known since we were kids - told me about someone who phoned them and said, "I'm sorry, it just takes too much work to be your friend, and I can't do it." The reason? An invitation was extended, the answer was, "Let me check with the rest of my family, and see what the work schedules look like," and that took until the next day to accomplish. That sounds so very normal to me. My husband's in bed at 6 PM, and works 12 hour shifts; if it's not an emergency, I may not discuss it with him for about 24 hours, because I won't see him for about 24 hours. Apparently, the Invitation Extender felt that things can, and should, be determined quickly, and arranged via text almost immediately. Having to wait overnight stressed them out.

I have to say, if that's the case, then I couldn't really fit into their circle, which means that "we can't be friends," since their definition of "friend" looks different than mine. Theirs sounds exactly like "too much work" to me. I tell people, truthfully, that I don't often carry my phone, especially at home. Calls, texts, or emails are usually answered within 24 hours. If that doesn't work for you, then no hard feelings, but we should not plan on doing things together.

So, the pandemic doesn't feel all that different to me. In fact, I often see or speak to people more than I did before quarantine. I spent weeks taking Porch Portraits, because people were home and available, and I love to have subjects to photograph (and I could stand out on the sidewalk, no close contact). I took the first family photos for friends with a newborn. I took "first home" photos for young couples. I learned how to Zoom. People occasionally call just out of the blue, to see if we're OK. I do not feel ignored at all.

Do you know what has happened? I hate driving. I sincerely hate driving. I have been on the freeway only once in about 9 months, and I hated every second. It takes 15 minutes on the freeway to get to our favorite pizza place; I drive through town, taking 30 minutes. The first time I drove out of town since quarantine began, I had a little panic attack on the highway. It was a familiar road - I've driven it since I was a teen, and I was only going an hour away. I've driven it twice in a day before. Now, I just came unglued. That was ten months ago. I haven't driven on the highway since.

I've never been really comfortable with traffic or high speeds. Even as a kid, I was not a speed demon. I grew up during a time when 55 was the national speed limit, and I drove a clunky, slow VW van, and I really resent being asked to drive 75 now. It feels dangerous. It always has. So does traffic. My husband and I have always had a deal: on road trips, I will drive for hours through open country and small towns. He will drive in cities. I once had to drive home through LA when he was sick, and I spent at least an hour yelling at other cars and saying, "YOU OWE ME!" to my sick husband.

My brother lives about 10 hours away by car (at or near the speed limit). It's a familiar road; I've been on it, as a passenger and a driver, since I was a kid. Most of it is flat, straight, wide open road like you see in car commercials, where your visibility is 50 miles. But there are two mountain passes, steep and curving, that I hate. I'd be OK if I could drive them at 45 or 55, but I'm told that I can't, that someone will hit me from behind, so I cringe every second I'm there. I'm going too fast, other people are going WAY too fast, there's little visibility, there's no margin for error. I hate it - and that's on a good, normal day. I hate being a passenger there, too. Now, I do not know when I might ever be able to face that again. Certainly not now.

And I hate talking to people about it. I say, "I'd be fine if there were no other cars. I could mosey at 45, and everything would be fine." Then other people say, "What are you talking about? If there were no other cars, you could cruise at 120, and do 150 on the straightaways!" That just sounds like death. Speed is dangerous, speed turns small rocks into something that will spin you out or puncture your tire, it makes you likely to lose control, it will send you hurtling over edges and off of curves and tumbling down the mountain until you explosde. I hate speed. As a teen, I once got up to 65 downhill, and it felt like the Daytona 500 and a very bad idea. That means that other people do not "get" me.

Still, I coped well. Only a few years ago, I drove, by myself, on a 6+ hour round trip, on the highway, just to get photos for a niece's school Flat Stanley project. I left town headed north, and hours later, returned to town from the south. I had fun; the solo driving was a kind of meditation time. Now, I cannot muster up the courage to drive 10 minutes outside of town to take photos of the wild horses. Oh, I'll go one direction, on the old highway, because the new highway bypasses it, meaning there's almost no traffic on the old highway. But I will not get on the interstate.

Six months ago, I gritted my teeth, and was a passenger while my husband drove us an hour away, on smaller, state roads, for a tiny vacation. I didn't worry too much about the virus, but I worried A LOT about traffic. It felt as if I nearly had a stroke when he passed a highway department vehicle on a downhill curve. The drive was misery.

You're supposed to visualize doing things that you want to do, or get better at. I want to eventually drive on the freeway, and leave town on the highway, so I visualize it. I'm fine and calm until I visualize other drivers on the road. Then I freak out. I don't like other cars. They're deadly weapons, driven by impatient, distracted people. They could kill me.

Doing something frequently smooths out the edges of the anxiety, desensitizes you to it, so it becomes more doable. During this quarantine, I have lost all of my desensitization to traffic and speed and curves. I am a raw nerve ending.

I want to fix it. I eventually will fix it. But when people talk about what makes them sad right now, it's being home, and what makes them happy is leaving. I'm happy at home, and leaving makes me sad. Then people feel compelled to tell me that I'm "not normal," and need to work at being normal, because normal is a life goal. That's misery, too. "Normal" and "average" are just math. And I'm entitled to feel however I feel.

But in a society that considers sameness to be a bonding experience, I'm outside of the loop.

Home Sweet Home

I'm going to talk about homes. I'm not intending this to be an endorsement of anything or anyone political, just so you know. Yeah, sure, I have opinions on leaders and laws and how to be a good person, but mostly I just believe that it's my job to put information out there, and it's your job to decide what to do about it. And when you put info out, I decide. That's just how it is. Anyway...

I grew up with three siblings, my mom, and my dad in a 3 bedroom, 1 bath house. In some ways, it was really idyllic. We had a big yard, fish, gerbils, a rat, cats, dogs and horses. We ice skated in our own back yard. We rode horses. We built clubhouses, climbed trees, and borrowed my mom's jewelry to be "pirate treasure" and bury it and dig it up again. We took a week long vacation every year, and often smaller trips as well.

It was also pretty tough, money-wise. As a single man, Dad had no savings and no credit. He lived in a studio apartment, and ate out daily. He was 50 when my parents got married. It was my mom's second marriage, so my parents started their married life as a family of four. Then, they had two more kids. When I, the baby, was six months old, my dad was encouraged by his employer, the fire department, to retire as a consequence of heart problems. I no longer remember the exact nature of the problem - whether it was a heart attack, a-fib or what. But his boss felt that firefighting was too physically difficult for Dad anymore, that it would aggravate his health and endanger himself and his co-workers. So, at 56, with 4 kids and a mortgage, Dad retired. Dad was, for the record, bitter about this.

They'd planned on mom being a stay at home parent, but now, if we wanted to eat, Mom had to work. Dad did not want to feel that she was the primary breadwinner, though, so she worked 20 hours a week. Every now and then Dad would take on a part time job - distributing seeds to retailers, night watchman at a warehouse. But mostly, we lived on his pension and Mom's paycheck.

I realize now that we would have qualified for all kinds of government assistance, but I can only see my parents requesting and accepting that help if it was a matter of life or death. And it never was; we could only invite friends for dinner on spaghetti night, because there wasn't enough to share on any other night, but we always knew we'd be fed. I usually owned one pair of pants at a time, but we had clothes. Vacations meant sleeping in a tent and cooking on a camp stove, but we went some amazing places.

And we never, ever worried about losing our home. My parents bought the house in 1960, and paid it off when I was in my teens. I remember how relieved my mom was, how much of a weight it took off of them.

It would be impossible to do that today. I'm not exaggerating - it would be sincerely impossible. Can you imagine buying a home on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine raising four kids on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine doing it without any assistance, from family or church or government? Of course you can't. But my parents did it. They were careful. We did without a lot of things. But it never, ever felt perilous, because it could be done.

My husband grew up a couple of miles from our house, with his two sisters and his mom and dad. Their house was a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, built in 1927. The house was 1204 square feet. I don't know what they paid for it, but the average home price when it was built was $6000. In 1956, the year my inlaws were married and bought their house, the average price was $11,700.

My parents' house was built in 1959; when they bought it a year later, the average home price was $12,400. It was, at 1318 square feet, slightly larger than my inlaws' home. For years, people expected to have a bedroom for the parents, and one for the children. By the time my parents got married, people expected a third bedroom, so they could separate the boy children and the girl children.

I remember my parents being flabergasted when their house first assessed at $50,000. "Can you imagine?" they said, over and over. It seemed like an incredibly large sum to them.

The first home we bought was a single wide trailer on an acre and a third; we paid $29,500 in 1987. It had 3 bedrooms and 1 full and one half bath in roughly 700 square feet. In 1989, we bought a factory built ("manufactured") home with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It was 988 square feet; we paid $50,000. Nothing was being built anymore without 2 bathrooms, or at least one full and one half bath. People usually expected a "master suite," a bedroom with an attached bath.

Our current home was built in 1972, when the average home price was $39,500. This house had 4 bedrooms and 2 baths (no master suite). The owners added a family room, 2 more bedrooms and another bath (in the new master suite). We bought it at 2304 square feet in 1994 for $110,000.

I'm sure you noticed, but I'll point it out anyway. Houses have been getting larger and larger for decades. Things that are considered "standard" were once luxurious. Our former house, with a separate laundry room (something my mother never had - her washing machine was in her kitchen) almost qualifies as a "tiny house," as those are considered to be anything 900 square feet or smaller.

So, why am I bringing this up? Why all the numbers? I'm getting to that.

I (too) frequently see something in the news about homelessness, and they'll have a family just like the one I grew up in - only something happened to them. "We were doing OK until Bobby got sick." "We were fine until my car accident." Usually, both parents will be working, but they'll go from "comfortably middle class" to homeless faster than they ever imagined possible - especially if there's a single income (like, having a single parent household).

My parents had no health insurance. And life happened to us - a traffic accident for my brother, my sister being bitten by a dog who nearly severed her upper lip, me having an illness (strep throat becoming scarlet fever) that should have hospitalized me. Part of the difference, for us, was the policies and expectations of our doctors, dentists, orthodontists. Every single time I remember getting any health care at all, my mother would say to the receptionist, "I need a payment plan." The receptionist would say, "Certainly. How much can you pay per month?" She'd write it down - even if it was $5, even if we already had a balance - and that was that. You can't do that any more. Even if you can find a doctor who'll take uninsured patients - and good luck - you can't just set up payments with the provider, on the day of service, for whatever you think that you can afford.

I was 7 when my brother was in the accident that not only caused soft tissue damage, but broke the bones and cartilege in his face. He needed reconstructive surgery, and they feared that he might lose the sight in one eye. That's exactly the kind of thing that can derail families who have very little financial leeway. At that point, if we'd been paying rent somewhere, it might have been the breaking point. Or, it could have started an avalanche. The last time that I lived in a rented apartment, the rent went up three times in twelve months. About a year after my brother's accident, we bought a family car that quickly became known as The Lemon, because it always needed some kind of repair. About the same time, my sister had her dog bite accident, and she too needed a reconstructive surgeon. Of the six of us, four needed glasses, two needed orthodontics. Imagine all of that happening, all at once, to a family on a tight budget.

If we had been renting, if we had fallen behind on mortgage payments, if there had been a variable interest rate or balloon payment, if we had to choose between medical care and food, everything may have unraveled for us. Maybe we could have moved in with relatives, but with six of us, it would be nearly impossible long term. Maybe my brother and sister would have had to leave before they were really ready, because we had no room. My sister is the only one of us with a university degree; maybe that would not have happened if we were homeless. Maybe my dad, in his mid 60s with health issues, could have found a job in, say, retail; maybe not. All of this is conjecture, because we never had to find out.

Instead, we stayed in our own home, Mom planned our meals around grocery store sales, and I have great memories of backyard campouts, getting permission for my friends to ride horses with us, and posters on my bedroom walls. The house not only held all of us, but housed various family members at times of crisis or relocation or out of town visits, over several decades.

That's not the only way that our parents' homes benefitted us, of course. Grandparents on both sides of the family rented to our children, at below market rates. Both grandparents' homes were offered to our children after their grandparents' passing. My son and his wife are buying one of those homes, with terms that make it comfortable for them. Our home's mortgage was paid off by money from my inlaws' estate. Money from both families' estates gave us down payments for "investment" condos.

We bought the condos specifically in order for our family members to have somewhere affordable to live. Long term, we may live in one ourselves, or sell them, or use the rental income during retirement. (Because, owning homes gives you choices.) But, mostly, our motivation was to give our kids somewhere affordable to live.

I realize how enormously privileged we are to even be able to make that choice, believe me. It sounds obnoxiously affluent to even say it out loud. But, I stand behind that decision.

The first one we bought was a 2 bed, 2 bath model, not far from our home. Everything went seamlessly. The mortgage agent said, "Just so you know, I can qualify you for 5 more at this price." We put it up for rent (our kids were either living elsewhere or still in school), asking only a small amount over our mortgage payment. (You've gotta have a cushion for repairs and emergencies.) We got a lot of inquiries that ended with, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We rented to strangers for a while, and when they moved out, my nephew's family moved in.

Two or three years later, we put an offer on a 1 bed, 1 bath condo. It's adorable, and in a bigger complex, so there are more amenities (playgrounds and tennis courts, as well as a pool, clubhouse, BBQs.) It cost half what the 2 bed condo cost. But, local prices were starting to skyrocket, and we wanted something that our youngest could afford, even if the only job she ever held was her high school job at a fast food place. (At my age, I look at market rates for even studio units, and think, "Who can afford that?")

We didn't anticipate any problems. Our credit is good, we had the down payment, we were remembering what the mortgage agent said last time - "5 more at this price" - and this was, I can't emphasize this enough, half the cost of our other condo (which made sense to me, as it's half the bedrooms and bathrooms). So, we didn't get financing in place first, since we anticipated it being a breeze.

It was not. Our first choice of mortgage company wouldn't finance it. Neither would our second choice mortgage company, or our credit union. The problem? "There are too many rentals in that development. Choose another development with more owner occupied units." But we didn't want another development, we wanted that one. Meanwhile, the owner was getting grouchy because he'd received an all cash offer right after he accepted our offer, so now he was tied up waiting for us, instead of closing a cash sale.

The fact that we bought the condo at all is due to two things - 1. our realtor has known us for years, and was willing to work a little bit harder, take a little longer, and be a little bit unconventional, and 2., we know someone who has a large family trust, and was willing to loan us the money at just over bank interest rates.

Which, of course, got me thinking; the price and payment should have put the condo in the price range of people with limited incomes. Someone working for minimum wage, or just over, could afford it even without making 40 hours a week; they'd probably need 30 or so - and that's a single person (or couple with a single income). Then there'd be more owner occupied units, too, so everyone would be happy, right? But here's the thing: if middle aged people with great credit, low debt and no current mortgage couldn't get financing, how could somebody young, working in a fast food place, qualify? Banks don't want the loan, and young people (let's face it, any people) are unlikely to know someone wealthy enough to give them a private loan. See the problem?

And it's not like this was a slum that no one would want to live in. Aside from the fact that I'd personally be happy there (or I wouldn't have bought it), looking for renters was a stark contrast to looking for renters just two years earlier. We heard from friends, relatives, acquaintences, strangers, and friends and relatives of our friends, relatives and acquaintences. We were again asking only a bit over our payment, but this time, nobody asked if we could go lower or said, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We had families of three and four asking if we'd consider them, even with only one bedroom. I felt quite overwhelmed by the need, and referred everyone to our property manager. She did all the credit checks and made the final choice.

What had changed? Rents in our area skyrocketed, with the news that a couple of large companies with good wages were going to be locating here. Many rental prices doubled; some tripled. Renters who'd been in the same place for years suddenly could no longer afford their homes. We made the national news for our "housing crisis." And everything new being built was "luxury units," because, "that's where the demand is."

This, of course, is not true. It's where the money is.

In making inquiries about putting a house on an inherited piece of land, one of my family members found out that even owning the land free and clear doesn't make things easier. In asking about the cost to put a modest sized home - less than 2,000 square feet - on the vacant land, the answer from the owner of a local construction company was, "Here's the approximate cost per square foot. But I can tell you right now, nobody's going to be willing to work on a house that size. The money is in 3,000+ square foot custom and executive homes. No one's going to turn down one of those to come build a smaller house, especially one without the high end finishes." The same applies for apartments; nobody wants to build units for baristas, maids and fast food workers, because the money is in "luxury units." This is true no matter how many hotel rooms, fast food restaurants, discount stores and gas stations (and their employees) there are in my city (that depends on tourism).

Of course, it isn't just my city. My brother lives in another state. He is recently retired; he's living on Social Security and a small amount of savings. He's rented the same home for years. (He previously owned a house, but lost it in a contentious divorce with an ex who exploited a legal loophole to take virtually everything.) For years, his rent remained the same. Then, the landlord died, and the heir "doesn't want to be a landlord" (which is absolutely his right), so he's selling the house. This means that my brother was dumped back into shopping for a home literally decades after he last had to, he's been paying 1990s era rent, and he has no wiggle room in his budget. Oh, and throw in a looming deadline.

Waiting lists for low income senior apartments are 2 years long. Most senior housing in his state is in mobile home parks, meaning that he'd have to buy a mobile home and then rent the space, putting himself at risk when the lot rent goes up (and you know that it will go up). Plus, lot rent was often more than he had available, more than the rent he'd been paying. (Plus, after he dies, he couldn't pass the house down to anyone, unless they were over 55.) There are programs designed to help low income seniors buy homes, but they will not cover condos, mobile homes, factory built homes, or older houses. There's renter's assistance, but it will not cover living anywhere owned by a member of your family. You know - you can't get help for anything that would actually be affordable for a senior living on Social Security.

He got one call back from a woman with an assistance program who said, "Oh, sure, we have a great house right in your area that I can get you into." The mortgage would have left him with $400 a month to cover everything else - food, utilities, gas, clothing, medical care. That's not doable. Just his glasses and dental care could potentially eat all of that up, if he needed them both in the same month. He lives where it not only snows, it snows a lot, so he needs heat. You can't even eat ramen noodles and take the bus on $400 a month.

He has siblings, he has other family members; he immediately had offers to live in 3 different homes, rent free. But, all of those would mean moving to another state, shopping for doctors (he's diabetic, he has an ulcer that tends to bleed, and he has a heart attack and bypass surgery in his past), giving up his friends and what he loves, hiking and photographing his area. I mean, it's certainly doable. But, aside from concerns like doctors and interstate moving costs, a man who's lived on his own since the last century does not want to move into somebody's spare bedroom, like he's a college kid.

He panicked, the rest of the family panicked, everyone scrambled, there was a deadline. Do you know what - who - saved him? Our grandmother and our mother, who've been dead for years.

Grandma had a vacation home - what we call a cabin and she called a cottage. When she died, our mom put the money from the sale of the cottage in a separate account, and just let it sit there. When Mom died, it went to her children. Some of it was still left - almost enough for a down payment on a home. But, my brother couldn't qualify, because he was retired, on Social Security. Family members offered to buy a home, but the one he wanted was a factory built house, and the bank wouldn't let them buy it unless they were going to live in it. The bank would approve them for other homes, but then my brother couldn't afford the payments, and nobody in the family can afford to make them for him. But, with Grandma's money, and relatives willing to co-sign, and the bank being happy because one of the applicants was going to live in the house, and family members being able to pitch in the rest of the cash needed, he now has a home.

It's a beautiful home, he owns it; this is a happy ending. But, in the middle of all of this, we were stopped at the McDonald's attached to the store where we were grocery shopping. There was a woman who appeared to be homeless, sitting at one of the tables eating food she'd gotten in the store. My husband bought her a McDonald's meal and a drink, so she'd be a customer, and get to sit there and have a meal out of the January cold. We've done stuff like this before. But, as he sat down, my husband said, "I just had to. I look at her and think, if everything didn't work out, that could be your brother."

Without so many pieces - my grandma, my mom, sellers who were willing to come down on price, a realtor who worked his butt off looking for inexpensive properties, mortgage company employees who worked their butts off to get financing that worked, and relatives willing to put up money and co-sign, and other relatives willing to offer a free room if the purchase fell through, yeah, my brother could be homeless. I feel that reality on a gut level.

Our oldest brother is in his 70s. He has more education than my husband and I combined, is multi-lingual, has a great work ethic, has an educated, hard working wife, and told me the last time I talked to him that neither he nor his wife was able to retire, that they probably never would be. Why? Their home - a modest, older home - still has a mortgage. Instead of paying it off, they've helped their children and grandchildren over the years. So now, they keep working, instead of retiring - but everyone has somewhere affordable to live.

If we either rented or sold our condos for market rate, my husband could retire now. Instead, he keeps working, and we rent below market rate, so that others can have affordable homes. Because if you work, but can't afford anywhere to live, it's not just you who suffers. Society starts to crumble.

We don't all own a Bailey Brothers Building and Loan. We all ride on the choices of our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents. But we can all try to make it easier not just for us, but for everyone else.

Still Not For Sale

 I've already written about this once ("Not For Sale," April 2014). It would quite literally never have occurred to me that I'd be talking about it 4 years later.

A recap: My father passed away in 1988; my mom passed away in 2012. Their home is not particularly desirable by today's real estate standards - only one bathroom, gasp! - but it sits on over an acre of land.

Everything my mom owned was held in a family trust, with a successor trustee, that dictated passing of her assets to her children without probate. Family agreement, not on paper, was that the house would go to my brother. He's the oldest, and he rents his home. So, even though the trust owns the house, we all referred to it as belonging to my brother.

The thing is, he didn't particularly want it. He lives in another state, and has absolutely zero desire to move back to his childhood home. So, the trust rented the house to one of Mom's grandkids. The money went straight into the trust account, to be used for taxes, repairs, etc. on the house while my brother mulled over what to do.

OK. So you're caught up.

Over half of Mom's property - not to ignore my dad, but she lived alone for 25 years, and we got used to calling it "Mom's" - is vacant land that used to be a horse pasture. It's not visible from the street, but the neighbors certainly know that it's there. In all, there's 10 lots that touch the property boundaries. Mom's is actually valued at less than any of her neighbor's properties, except for one vacant lot; the extra land in a long, awkward shape, actually knocks down the valuation, as it's "difficult to use."

After Mom died, several of the neighbors inquired, with varying degrees of intent, whether the property was going up for sale. All were told "no." OK, well, the least emphatic statement was this: "He (my husband) said, 'Probably not.' (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)" ("Not For Sale")

So, they should have all been well aware that we were NOT selling it. And yet, at least three of them kept asking - and KEPT ASKING. In person, in notes, in phone calls - "Are you sure?" YES, we are SURE!

Not to sound too much like The Godfather about things, but this is a family decision. My brother had the final word on keeping or selling the house, but all of us weighed in. When I say, "we," I mean my mom's children and grandchildren - and our spouses, who are all in agreement.

Any of the inheriting siblings could, in theory, have taken the house as their share of the inheritance; none wanted to. The trust could have sold it, and split the proceeds, but that's not really what Mom wanted. She always talked about dividing the land and giving her children - or grandchildren - a piece to build a home on. (And we were informed by accessors and surveyors that a buyer would likely tear down the house, put a road straight through where the living room and kitchen used to be, and construct an apartment complex.) So, we decided to see if it was feasible to split up the land, and if any of the children or grandchildren would want a piece.

We consulted the city, and learned that yes, indeed, it was very possible, and not very expensive, to re-zone and divide the land. There is enough square footage for 8 separate lots, but making it into any more than 4 constituted "building a new subdivision," with lots of restrictions, environmental impact studies, etc. So, four pieces it would be, with the existing house on one of them, and with a short street (the old driveway into the pasture) and a cul-de-sac for access to the pasture; the city requires that a fire engine be able to turn around.

We talked with all the children and grandchildren, and there was enough interest that a decision was made: subdivide.

The inspections and paperwork went without a hitch. All the neighbors in about a half mile radius were informed of the zoning changes. The road, cul-de-sac and new property lines have been approved by the city. Grandkids made plans to build houses.

Now we've hit our first snag. When the neighbors had subdivided their property in the past - remember those 10 lots around Mom's house? - they had simply graded and put in a gravel road. That's what we intended to do. The city no longer allows that - a gravel road "isn't permanent." (We live in the American West - tell that to the still visible wagon trails from the Gold Rush.)

So, we're stuck in a holding pattern. We have to have the money to put in a paved street, sewers, and gutters, and THEN we can place the houses. The road has to come first - it's the law. We can't do houses first, paved road last.

And now, as an aside to the conversation, the only reason it's not done is money. We have to raise the money in cash, because banks will not loan us money for this - it's considered "too risky." The banks don't want to end up reposessing a hunk of land that it can't sell at a profit, and that's what they see here. We can't get loans to put in the homes until the road is in. The one local bank that will even finance "unimproved land" loans - most won't - won't touch us. We even tried to get a home equity loan - no dice. (I get the feeling that they'd go for the tear down and new apartments scenario more easily.) So, the land sits and waits, and the grandkids hoping to live there rent elsewhere. We have to try to come up with a ridiculous amount of money in cash - and THEN get another loan (or loans) for the houses. It's frustrating.

But do you know what is MORE frustrating? That several of Mom's neighbors seem unwilling to part with their plans to own Mom's land themselves.

I understand asking, as either a matter of curiosity or as an offer to buy, once. Maybe twice, if you're pushy. Beyond that, it's just aggravating.

It's looking more and more as if people moved in next to my mother specifically because they wanted to buy her land. One informed us, in a bit of a huff, that he'd be moving if the land wasn't for sale. Well, dude, sorry, pack your bags. Others - at least three households have been insistent - have gone from asking to buy all of it to asking us to parcel it out. "You're not selling any of it? How about just a piece?" One wants the lip that extends to the street corner; one has taken to asking for "just a few feet" of the pasture. And they ask over and over and over, seeming astonished and disappointed every time someone says NO.

My son went by the house the other day to drop some things off, and in the amount of time he was there, one neighbor phoned three times, asking to buy part of the pasture. Three times! In one day! No, pardon me, in a few minutes.

Nobody has actually come out and said so to us, but it really looks as though they'd been counting on this for years. Mom was elderly, she lived alone, and with the last of the horses gone, the pasture isn't in use. So, they apparently reasoned, when she died, no one in the family would want the property - in fact, they'd be itching to get rid of it. I can picture them sitting around discussing it with their friends and family, and their friends and family agreeing - "Oh, I'm sure you're right. They'll jump at the chance to unload that." Now that they are actually speaking to the only people whose opinions matter, the people who own the property, they seem distressed and puzzled by our failure to follow their script. Apparently, we were supposed to be just giddy about greedy neighbors.

I can even understand a bit of what they're thinking. One house has a back yard that's all of five feet deep - they can practically stand in their doorway and touch the fence. One family has children, and a postage stamp yard that is meticulously landscaped. One is, unaccountably, terrified of the trees - Mom's property has more than a dozen mature trees - and keeps telling me how terrified they are that the trees will fall and squash them and their house; I think they want to own it just to cut the trees down. But my understanding only goes so far. The thing is - I did not buy any of those homes, and their owners shouldn't have bought them either, if the only reason they lived there was the hope that some day, they'd have our land, too. If you don't like your property, or if you hate being next to vacant land, or if you fear trees, don't buy homes with those conditions! I mean, that's pretty self explanatory, right?

What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?

The fact that we're "not even doing anything" with the land seems to stoke the craziness. News flash: if we wanted to let it sit vacant for generations to come, that's our prerogative. And, as I noted, if we had bundles of cash, or a bank that would finance us, the road would be in now, and the houses going up or already lived in.

One neighbor who keeps asking us for "just a few feet" of the pasture is apparently ignoring the fact that they live in the bottleneck, so to speak, next to the narrowest part of the property, so giving them "just a few feet" would mean that we no longer had the required clearance for the road and cul-de-sac - selling those "few feet" would render almost an acre useless to us. Given a choice between making the neighboring yards bigger, or having our family use the land for their own residences, is it really any surprise that we chose family residences?

The current residents of Mom's home are tired of being badgered, and respond to all inquiries with, "We don't own it." That causes a near feeding frenzy - "Well, have you asked the owners? Can you just ask your landlord?" Yes and yes, and the answer is still "NO." But they seem just positive that the messages aren't getting through, because, well, why would anybody want to keep owning something when someone else wants to buy it?

I growled the other day, "I want to put up a big, two sided sign in the pasture that says, 'No, it's not for sale. No, not even part of it. No, not even a few feet. Back off, vultures.' I should print form letters that say the same thing, and hand them out every time someone asks."

My son replied, "Well, I think 'vultures' is going over the top a bit."

My reply: "My first choice was 'opportunistic jackals,' so 'vultures' is already toned down."

My sister says, "Tell them that if they continue this behavior, you'll file a harassment suit." That sounds better every time they ask the same questions again.

This really isn't tough, folks: if there's no "for sale" sign, it's not for sale. If you ask and are told no, it's not for sale. If it ever does go up for sale, it will be through an agent of the owner's choice, not negotiated through persistent notes and phone calls - and, at this point, even if it ever were to go up for sale, none of us want to reward bad behavior by selling to harassers, so we'd probably leave word for our grandchildren to avoid their grandchildren, and so on, indefinitely..

Once again, for those in the back: No "for sale" sign means it's not for sale.

We've had almost three thousand days to think about it. The answer is still no.

Yes, the family members are all on the same page here.

What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?

On The Street Where You Live

Recently, as we sat in traffic in a large city, my husband grumbled about being "surrounded by nothing but trash and crazy people."

"It's actually cleaner than I expected. And you're generalizing, aren't you? You haven't even met many residents. They might be lovely people." (I'm usually pretty Pollyanna about things.)

He looked at me as if I was also clearly crazy. "Sane people wouldn't put up with this!" He waved his hand at the traffic, the noise, the crowds (and also, I'm pretty sure, the inflated prices).

I laughed. "You know how many people say that about where we live, right?"

I have several loved ones who have waged a years long battle to convince me to move elsewhere, or at least to get with the program and consider my home state to be a punch line. I know that they sincerely want what's best for me, so I cut them slack, but it grates on my nerves.

For one thing, I sincerely like my area. We're high mountain desert, tucked up against a mountain range; everything from the wide open sand and sage of the Great Basin to the pine forests overlooking deep mountain lakes says "home" to me. It's pretty fantastic.

I like my house. It's comfortable and cost effective. I am intensely irritated by people who think that I'm living my life in the way that I am because I'm unaware that there are other options.

Recently, a friend moved to a new city, and asked for advice on her social media. "We're considering two houses. One is larger and less expensive, but the area isn't considered as desirable. The other is more money than we wanted to spend, but it's in a popular area. Which should we buy?" I think that I was the lone voice saying, "The less expensive house! Obviously!" Everyone else voted for the more expensive house, saying things like, "Think of the resale value!" and telling her that, obviously, the neighbors and the schools would be better in the popular area.

(They finally chose a third house that split the difference.)

People are frequently perplexed by our choice of a fixer upper in an aging neighborhood - not old enough to be "historic," just old enough to be "older." I say, "Hey, I'd rather live here and take my kids on vacation and send them to summer camp." I've been told that I'm doing things "all wrong." "It's more important to spend the money on something you'll use every day, not on something that only lasts for a week or two."

Balderdash. I can show you studies that verify that spending money on experiences instead of belongings results in a happier life, but I don't need them to justify my choices. I am happy in my life.

A friend was once trying to describe what she loved about living in a large city. "In my neighborhood, when I go to get coffee, or shop, or have lunch, the people working there know me, and I get personalized service." I responded, "That sounds like living in a small town." The last time I lived in a truly small town (it made the front page of the tri-county newspaper when we got our second stoplight), when I was buying groceries the cashier said, "That shed's looking pretty good!" My husband was building a shed in our yard, one visible from the road, but I have no idea how the clerk knew that I lived at the house with the shed under construction.

My friend was sure that I was deliberately misunderstanding her. I don't think so; in my city, when I go to the bank, the grocery store, the convenience store, and several restaurants, they know me, often by name. Sometimes, I will have known them for literally decades. I don't think that the size of my city has any bearing on that.

 Of course, there are other conversations and other tactics.

"It's such a shame for your kids,"  to be living here, I was told.

"How do you figure?"

"They're never going to be exposed to different people from different backgrounds. Where you are, it's pretty homogenous; everyone's the same."

I have no idea where that mischaracterization came from. I went to church with a significant number of Tongans with names like Feofa'aki. My daughter's boyfriend was Navajo, and her best friend was from El Salvador. We'd planned birthday party menus to include Hindu, Muslim and Jewish guests. I know lawyers, accountants, ranchers, artists, singers, right here in my community.

I tried to encapsulate all of that in one sentence, without sounding like I was trotting people out as show ponies ("How can you say that? Look at my Token Minority friend!"), and speaking to the experiences of my kids. "My daughter is the only white girl in her Girl Scout troop."

"Well, yes, but I'm talking about professional, educated people."

Um, what? This is a lovely, sincere, well educated person, who always means well, but I was appalled. "Oh, I just know that you did not just imply that their parents are all dishwashers and maids, or that there would be anything wrong with it if they were!"

"No! No. I'm just saying that people in my community have been recruited from all over the world for their particular areas of expertise."

"Do you know what my Scouts' parents do? Because I don't, and I see them every week." This is true; I have actually known people for years before I find out what they do for a living.

I meet a lot of people at church or doing community theater, and we tend to "talk shop," not go through the cocktail party small talk of, "So, what do you do?" I rarely ask this of people. Sometimes, I'm taken by surprise when I find out.

The girls in the Scout troops I led always had parents who took their cookie order forms to work, and sometimes I'd find out what they did for a living based on where they made their sales. On year, the top seller had a (very pretty) mother who was a bartender, and made her sales at the bar. ("And if they don't pick up the cookies, I know I can just sell them to somebody else who's there.") One year, the top seller had a grandmother who worked at a local brothel, and made her sales there. No, I didn't ask in what capacity, although I know that they have non-prostitute staff. I once did theater with a young lady who was the cashier at a brothel.

No, I did not bring up the brothel workers at that point in the conversation. No, I do not think that they prove my loved one's point. No, I did not point out that the area in which this person lived in is known for a particular industry, and therefore more "homogenous" than many other communities, in that you can probably accurately guess what industry in which any person you meet is likely to be employed. I did not point out that when I'm sitting in church in between the owner of a construction business and the owner of a potato farm, listening to a schoolteacher give the lesson, I'm simultaneously experiencing diversity and not categorizing people based on occupation or education.

What I did was rather forcefully change the subject. This is a relationship that I truly value, but if I'm expected to be a job snob and feel that I'm shortchanging my kids by refusing to be badgered into moving to a sprawling metropolis, well, I may start to value it less.

Someone else described me to myself this way - "You're so... so... provincial!"

(You know how sometimes you make a friend, and you laugh together about how you never would have hung out when you were in high school? Yeah - I'm aware that people who love me, but met me when we were kids, would probably not be interested in making friends with me if they met me today. That's OK. We love each other anyway.)

I enjoy visiting large cities in order to experience museums, theaters, historic sites and the like, but then I want to leave and go home.

Something I discovered as an adult, and it was a pleasant surprise, is that I could conceivably live anywhere. I pick up real estate guides every time I travel. We recently spent time in cities older than my nation, staying in apartments, and commenting, "I could live here." I may live somewhere else in the future; but it won't be because I don't like it here, where I am now.

Why am I thinking about this? I was sorting through and organizing photos recently, and I came across this:

Oh, yeah. This image is comfortable, happy - it says "home." It lowers my blood pressure. I could live down that road. Looking at it, I know what it smells like, sounds like, feels like. I want to know what's over the horizon. I want to wander and explore.

That's in contrast to how I feel looking at this image:

I also know what this sounds, smells and feels like; I took both photos. I know that there are places to discover, to eat, to shop. I could conceivable live there. But, given a choice - not so much.

Given a choice, I'll probably always take the dirt road.

Not My Style

Twenty one years ago, we bought a "fixer-upper" house. We're still fixing.

The good news is that it's starting to show. We spent years with a house full of kids, and I'd rather send them to camp and take them on vacation than get new flooring. Now that the "baby" is halfway through high school, though, we have a bit more time and money to put into the house.

I've spent a lot of time in home improvement stores, furniture stores, thrift stores and between the pages of decorating magazines. There's always good ideas to be found, but there's also those things that, no matter how many times I see them or who recommends them, I just don't like.

Don't take offense if you like every one of these things. I'm not saying that you're wrong. I don't think there is a "wrong" except in matters of morality. And, I'm very clear that I'm the one out of step. Nevertheless, none of these things gets me excited in any way.

1. Throw Pillows

I know; I can tell you all the reasons that they "warm up a room," how easy it is to "switch out your look," why people like piles of them on their couches, beds, floors - I just don't like throw pillows. They're uncomfortable; the first thing I do when I'm on a piece of furniture that has them is take them off. They just don't serve any purpose for me. The family room set I own now came with co-ordinating pillows, and the only time I've ever used them is when I'm sleeping on the couch; they're big enough to be used for my head. Otherwise, I toss them on the floor.

I remember learning how to make throw pillows as a kid. I enthusiastically made a bunch of them - and gave them away. I liked making them, I liked how they looked - I just didn't want them.

And don't get me started on cost! Good gravy! I once said something very unpleasant out loud when I saw a $245 tag on an 8x8 pillow.

2. Carpet or Rugs

This is more an aversion to their upkeep than to their look. I hate vacuums. HATE them. They are roaring monsters marring the peace of my home. Plus, they usually kick up enough allergens to make me deeply miserable, even the expensive ones with HEPA filters. And carpet needs vacuumed all the time. You can barely breathe on a carpet or rug without needing to clean it. Yuck! From an allergy and asthma sufferer's viewpoint, there is no way to get all the irritants out of carpet, even shampooing it. More yuck.

My dislike of carpet probably solidified in my last house. It was a darling house with a great layout - except for one thing. The living room and dining room were combined (a "great room"), and carpeted. I had two toddlers when we moved in. There is NO WAY to keep carpeted dining room floors consistently clean with toddlers. Even ordinary foods like crackers were a nightmare. Don't get me started on yogurt. Yes, I tried plastic mats. Have you ever met a small child who keeps their mess on the mat?

When we bought our current house, we almost immediately started ripping out the carpets. There was no way in the world that I wanted over two thousand square feet of carpet.

People thought we were crazy. After we put vinyl floors in our children's bedrooms, they really thought it. My niece reported to her mother, in puzzlement, "They put kitchen floors in the bedrooms." We got lots of questions as to why. We heard lots of, "Won't it be loud?" After many years and accidents involving diapers, vomit, smashed fish tanks and spilled nail polish remover, I am happier than ever that we put in the vinyl. On carpet, it would have been a nightmare. On vinyl, we used paper towels and were done. The worst was actually the polish remover, which ate a few tiles. We took those out and put in new tiles - done.

I also heard lots of, "But you're laying down rugs, right?" No. I did not rip out carpet to put in rugs. "Won't it be cold?" and "Don't you want softness underfoot?" puzzled me. No and no.

We have vinyl, laminate and wood. Eventually, all the hated carpet will be gone. Hallelujah.

3. Candles

I like the theory of candles. I like making candles; when I was a kid, my mom bought several candle molds and big slabs of wax, and we made lots of candles. We kept some, and we gave a lot as gifts. I love the look of candles. I like having them for emergencies. I just don't like burning them.

My friend Linda explained this succinctly: "Of course. You're a parent. All you see is an open flame."

That sounds nice, of course, but I didn't burn them when I was a kid. When I was in my teens, my brother worked for a while at a candle factory. That Christmas, we all got candles. Mine was gorgeous; it had seashells embedded in it, and a scent with a name like "Windswept Seashore." When my brother came to visit about four years later, it was still on my shelf. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.

My sister gave me taper candles and candlesticks for my first Thanksgiving with my husband. She was terribly disappointed to hear that I put them on the table, but didn't light them. "You were supposed to have a candlelight dinner!" she said.

My son just found an Advent candle, with 24 marks on it, that someone gave me as a gift years ago. I've had it so long that the side of it that faced the window has faded to a very pale pink from its original cardinal red. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.

I like the look of it when I go to people's houses and they have masses of lit candles for a party. I would just never do it myself.

Maybe it's the fact that lovely candles end up as misshapen lumps after you burn them. Maybe it is the open flame. I don't know. I think they're great; I just don't burn them.

4. Artificial Scents

My youngest has never met an artificial scent that she doesn't like. Perfume, air freshener, incense, potpourri - she loves it all. She would live in a constant cloud of it if she could. When I told her over-scented self that no one should be able to smell her perfume unless they were hugging her, she said, "What would the point of that be?"

Even when I enjoy a scent - those cinnamon scented pinecones at Christmas, for instance - I don't want to live with it. It's too much. It's like having a favorite song playing 24 hours a day. Pretty soon, it's not your favorite any more.

"Mix it up!" "Get one of those fresheners that changes scent every two hours!" "Get the lighter, more natural scents." "You'll love this product!" I've heard it all. I do not want products with scent in my house. I don't like them.

I'm not crazed about it - I don't ban scented soap, cleaning products or my daughter's perfume - but I don't seek them out. I'm just not interested.

5. "Stylish" Anything

I cannot stand articles or individuals who tell me about the value of being stylish or "keeping it fresh" or "updating your look." If it is in style today, it will soon be out of style. I am not going to constantly replace my stuff because what's popular has changed.

Besides, why in the world would I decorate with someone else's taste? I do not understand what I call Conviction By Consensus - "Other people think this; therefore, I think this." It just looks like Groupthink to me, and I don't "get" it.

Of course, I was once told that it was "self centered" of me to make decorating and food decisions based on the idea that "I like it." To choose something merely because I enjoyed it was viewed as a very bad thing. "It's like you're saying that you're better than everyone else."

Um - NO. I'm saying that I'm living my own life - decorating my own house, eating my own food, and, while we're at it, choosing my own clothes, entertainment, etc. You are living yours. Do you ask me to choose your furniture? Your clothes? Do you ask me to decide on your meals? Movies? Anything? No? Then why in the world should I put what others think about that paint, sofa, book, meal or hairstyle over my own taste? I choose to have things, people, events in my life if they make me happy, not if they make you happy. You get to choose for you.

Just by chance, it appears that I've chosen trendy kitchen cabinets for my kitchen remodel. They're white, which the magazines tell me is in fashion. People with lovely hardwood cabinets are being urged to paint them white in the interest of updating and brightening their homes. I like white cabinets - I like white anything - but I also like wood.

The magazines also tell me, repeatedly, that clear acrylic chairs are perfect in a kitchen. They "visually open up the space" by not being bulky or heavy looking. This is true. Still, I hate them. I am not fond of anything sleek or futuristic looking. I generally do not like shiny, either.

The magazines also tell me that mismatched chairs, dishes or silverware are charming. I am fine with that; I don't mind matching, but I don't need it either. Those same publications, though, tell me that the fact that my refrigerator (white), dishwasher (stainless steel) and stove (black) do not match is tacky and makes things look disjointed. So, mismatched chairs = OK, mismatched appliances = bad? Sigh. I can't get into that mindset.

This is why I don't shop with other people.

Don't worry, I'm not thinking terrible things about you if you have throw pillows on your acrylic chairs in your white cabineted, carpeted, scented room. I probably admire a great deal about your rooms. And your clothes. And food.

Just please, don't get bent out of shape if we do things differently.

House Hunting

Watching television the other night, I was puzzled. I was watching people behave in ways that make no sense to me.

That shouldn't be surprising, really. I shouldn't expect everyone to be like me, and I like to think that I don't. I'm baffled, though, more often than I like to admit.

I was watching one of those real estate shows - people go shopping for a home in a certain city, and we, the audience, get to watch. We watched a couple with small children, relocating overseas, and a teacher buying her first home.

The relocating wife said, over and over, that it was important to her to "experience (the country's) lifestyle;" it seems to me that it's impossible to avoid it. You'll be living in another country. It's inevitable that you'll experience their lifestyle, even if you try to avoid it. Still, they'd look at properties, and she'd complain, "I can't experience (the country's) lifestyle here."

She'd look at bedrooms and say, "This is tiny! It's smaller than our closet back home," and be astonished that, "There's only one bathroom?"

"That's very typical of (our) houses," the agent would say. Apparently, that was not the "authentic lifestyle" that the client was hoping to experience.

One home, that I thought was darling, was below their budget. It was on a riverbank in a beautiful area that was described as being 15 minutes outside of town. It had a big yard (important to me, and fun for the kids), was across from a park, and near walking trails. The wife hated the downstairs decorating, which seems to me to be a small thing - it's relatively easy to paint and hang new art. She was very unhappy, though, that there were no stores or restaurants in easy walking distance. "I don't want to get in the car every time I want to go somewhere," she said. That, too, apparently kept her from "experiencing the lifestyle."

One home was quite a bit outside of their budget. Both husband and wife said, "Ooh," and grimaced when the agent told them the price. "That'll be quite a stretch," the husband said doubtfully. Still, the wife lit up as soon as they walked in.

"Look at the chandelier! It's gorgeous!" she said. I was thinking, "For that kind of money, the chandelier had better come to life and clean the house," but they didn't seem to be thinking the same thing. "It's so elegant!" the wife said. "And historic!"

As much as she loved the house, she loved what was outside the house even more. It was easy walking distance to the market and restaurants. The wife glowed. "Now this is the lifestyle that we came to experience!" she said.

They chose the expensive house. "We'll just travel less than we originally planned," the husband said. They were moving to a European nation, and had originally planned to use the time there to see more of Europe.

"Well, the kids are little. Maybe this just isn't the time of our lives to travel," the wife said.

I was left thinking, seriously? She'd rather have a really expensive house so that she can walk to the flower vendor and bring bouquets home to enjoy them under the elegant chandeliers than travel through Europe? I just can't imagine.

Obviously, to her, the country's lifestyle was synonymous with "urban" and "elegant." I have no problem with urban or elegant, but it irritated me immensely that she kept insisting that she wanted "authentic" when what she wanted was urban. They're not the same thing. Just be clear with the agent, and yourself, that you don't like suburban or rural areas. It'll waste less of your - and their - time.

As a newlywed, I lived in a rural area, outside of a small town. We bought a home about ten minutes from town. The only business that might have been in walking distance (and that was a stretch) was a gas station. My kids would have had to ride the bus if they'd been school age.

Many of my friends and relatives found my living circumstances to be varying degrees of undesirable, and used words like "tacky," "provincial" and "middle of nowhere" to describe it, but no one would have said, "You're not living an authentic American lifestyle." When they sang the praises of where they lived, or tried to convince me to relocate, they never said that it was more American or more authentic than where I lived.

If someone had moved there from overseas, I would not have expected them to say, "It's too bad that I won't be living an authentic American lifestyle." I would not expect them to move back home saying, "Gee, I wish I could have seen what America is like."

The single woman wasn't worried about being authentic; she said that her biggest concern was safety. She said that the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was having a man stand outside her home screaming, and then throw a chair through her window.

To that end, she'd specified the part of town she wanted, a part she assumed to be safe. She wanted to adopt a dog, so in addition to safety she wanted outdoor access.

She was shown an 8th floor condo in a lovely building that she deemed very safe, but it was a bit pricey, and she thought that "coming down 8 floors in the middle of the night so the dog can go potty seems a bit much." A less expensive ground floor condo impressed her because it was gated and necessitated a security code, but the fact that the bedroom window faced the alley - basically, the complex's driveway, giving access to the garage units and dumpsters - caused her a great deal of concern.

"You can always get security screens," the agent said. (She also sniffed to the camera later that, "In her price range in that neighborhood, she's going to be on the ground floor. She's going to have to deal with that.")

The agent also took her to a small, two bedroom house. "This neighborhood makes me nervous. I notice that there's businesses mixed in with the houses," the client said. I found it very amusing that the last client had been delighted by having businesses in walking distance, but it made this client nervous. (They weren't questionable businesses - no porn shops or the like.) "And this street seems very busy."

The house had a back yard that the client loved. "It's very private. Your neighbors can't see in, and there's plenty of room for a dog." She liked the house, until she opened the blinds on the master bedroom window. She visibly recoiled and turned on the agent as if she'd just discovered machine gun toting assassins.

"I told you how important safety was to me, and look at this! It looks right out front! The street is right there!"

At that point, I'm thinking several things. Was she unclear that the room was in front of the house until she physically opened the blinds? Was she unclear about how far away the street was? She just seemed so surprised, and I don't know why. I mean, it is TV, they probably ask people to amp up their reactions, but it still seemed odd.

Then, too, I'm unclear on how this made it unsafe. There's a light on the porch, there's a street light in front of the house, and yes, it's a fairly busy street; this means that it's the least likely spot for anyone to break in. Criminals try to avoid being seen. The backyard that she, and the cousin she brought along to help her decide, swooned over was a far more likely spot for a break-in. Out of sight of the neighbors or passers by, someone could take their time jimmying a locked door or window. Going into the unused guest room is also far safer and more likely for a house breaker than going into an occupied room in plain sight of the street, the neighbors, God and everybody.

Then I thought about a conversation with my middle daughter recently. I spent a month and a half sleeping in my living room, recovering from surgery and unable to climb the stairs to my bedroom. "Doesn't that creep you out?" she wanted to know.

"No." I wondered what about my living room was creepy. I mean, my decorating isn't everyone's taste, but it's certainly mine.

"You're about three steps away from the door."

"Is anybody going to be coming and going while I'm in bed?" I can handle people seeing me in my jammies (but they'd better not wake me up if I'm sleeping).

"Probably not. But you're right there if someone breaks in."

"The front door is the least likely place for anyone to break in." Maybe we've all been watching too much TV; criminals will likely not stand on my front porch fiddling with lockpicks. We also have a porch light, a streetlight in front of our house, and clear visibility up and down the street from the front.

Seeing a person in evidence is usually a deterrent, as well. Brian Mitchell, who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, worried that he'd come across an adult in the house. He once tried to take another girl, but abandoned the plan because someone was sleeping on the sofa in the chosen home. He couldn't risk being seen or heard.

If my house is empty, it would be worse if someone broke in, because they'll have ample, unobserved time to wreak havoc and take my stuff.

Maybe most people worry about being near the front door. Maybe I'm unaware of how most people think.

Maybe the home buyer worried that people would see or hear what was happening in her house, and that made her feel exposed, which she equated with unsafe. Close the blinds at night, and you've fixed 90% of that. No one is going to stand in your front yard, in clear view of the neighborhood, peeking in through your closed blinds. They'd be arrested. Very few people will stand on the sidewalk and listen to you. (And if you're loud enough for people driving by to hear you, well, you have other issues.)

For that matter, in that private back yard, put security screens, motion sensor lights and maybe an alarm on the windows and door. Those and the dog she was hoping to get will deter probably 95% of criminals.

Was being on the ground floor really part of what made her nervous? I've never lived in a large city, where, in the words of the old TV show "Mad About You," homeowners generally "own square footage hundreds of feet in the air, like normal people." Safetywise, it seems to me that in a high rise, you'd have bigger worries about fire, earthquakes, plumbing leaks, power outages and dozens of other issues that seem to more than balance out any "danger" of being on the ground.

She bought the gated condo, in case you're wondering, and put in security screens.

Both times, the camera crew went back to see how they liked their choices; both times, the clients were very happy. That's good; one choice is not best for everyone. That's why there are choices.

I just didn't understand their thought processes.

Or maybe it's the way they expressed themselves that I didn't understand. If the first woman would have said that she valued urban living, and the second had said that she valued privacy, what they said and did would have made sense to me. Instead, I was baffled.

Human interaction is difficult.

Also, I don't think I'll ever want a career in real estate.

Off to School We Go

My third child is about to leave home to attend a university several hundred miles away. Naturally, we're simultaneously thrilled and anticipating missing him.

We've done this twice before, as his sisters went away to school, so we know the drill. It's not new. Still, there are differences.

The biggest difference is that he's been homeschooled since the sixth grade. "Are you more excited about Alex than you were with Lana and me?" my middle daughter asked. No, not more excited; I do feel a bit more proud of myself, though, because his education has more to do with me. All I provided for his sisters was their genes.

OK, that's not true; I'm exaggerating. We provided good genes, a home filled with books, educational trips, parents who loved learning, a place and time for homework, perspective, incentive ("If your grades slip, you'll have to quit your job. School comes first."), and an environment that helped them succeed. Still, most of the responsibility rested on them, then on the school. We could help, but you know those studies that say that kids spend an average of ten minutes a day with their families? We had those days.

When they were young, they had dance classes, gymnastics classes, drawing classes, Scouts and church activities on various week nights. Thank goodness, they were not in all those activities at once, but it still meant 2 or 3 weeknights, on average, spent somewhere besides home. When they were in high school, especially their last two years, their schedules looked like this: 6:45 a.m. - early morning religion classes; 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. - school; 2:30 - 5:00 p.m. - band practice; 6 to 10 p.m. - job; 10:30 p.m. - bedtime. Add to that band performances at games and competitions, other extracurricular activities, time spent with friends and church youth group, and on many, many days, we'd see them just long enough to say, "Get up," and, "Go to bed." If there were large educational deficiencies, we could do little to remedy them except cut back on their work hours or extracurricular activities - and everyone knows that the standard advice on getting into the college of your choice strongly advises extracurricular activities, so cutting those too drastically would make for both unhappy teens and diminished educational opportunities. (Ironic, isn't it? You can't cut back in order to focus on education, because your educational opportunities will suffer.)

(Both, by the way, were honor students, both took AP courses. Both got into their first choice college.)

We've gotten used to having my son, and our youngest daughter, with us all the time. They, too, have had classes (fencing, dance, karate), Scouts, church activities and more. We've spent an average of one day a week, and sometimes two, at homeschool co-ops, where they're in classes taught by someone besides us for up to three hours. Even with all of that, we still see them for hours every day. This last year has been a big adjustment, since my son's been working an average of 30 hours a week.

And, of course, we're legally (and otherwise) responsible for making sure he has a chance to learn everything he needs to know. I don't have to teach it to him personally, but I have to make sure that he has a chance to learn it. That's a change from when my older kids just signed up for whatever their school offered.

I never worried too much about whether he'd be able to go to college after being homeschooled. (My husband worried a bit, but that's because it's what he does. I Worry, Therefore I Am.) There are so many avenues available. Many schools accept a homeschool diploma the same way they do a public or private school diploma. Dual enrollment, or enrolling at the community college during high school (ours accepts students 16 and older), the GED, placement exams, Credit By Exam/Advanced Placement exams and more are available for schools that don't accept a homeschool diploma.

There are so many schools, and so many ways to go to school; there are few wrong ways to become educated. One of the very few ways that I consider wrong is the need to go into massive amounts of debt so that you'll have a particular school name on your diploma. Sometimes debt is unavoidable - my second daughter needed student loans - but I think it's a bad idea in general to take on loans while in your teens or 20s that you won't have paid off until your 50s.

I loved recently reading a piece of common sense advice from a father to his daughter. She was a sweet, earnest girl wanting very much to do the right thing, and she asked her father how she'd know which college God wanted her to attend. His down to Earth response? "God doesn't want you to be an idiot, so go somewhere you'll learn." Bingo. That nails it.

Plus, my son had an A list (only two schools, but I browbeat him into adding a third), a B list and a C list of schools to apply to. His fallback, "if all else fails" plan was to stay home and go to the local community college and then transfer to the local university; that's the A list plan for many kids. It's a good one. Still, I wanted my son to have the experience he wanted. He wanted to go away to school. Plus, both of his sisters went to their A list schools.

Other people, it seemed, worried about my son's choices, and chances, a lot. Many of them would express general worries about homeschooling, then temper their expressed worries by saying something like, "Oh, I'm not worried about YOU and YOUR kid, just OTHER homeschooled kids," as if that wasn't irritating. (Obviously) I'm only responsible for my kid. The world in general doesn't answer to me.

Even my son, who asked us to do this for four years before everything aligned and it worked for our family, occasionally argued with my choices.

In his 5th grade public school classes, they'd had the kids in the advanced group doing "beginning algebra." When we started sixth grade, he naturally wanted to skip any review and go full steam ahead. I think that a lot of current assembly line, run-it-past-the-kids-pass-an-exam-on-it-and-move-on instruction doesn't let the instruction sink into their long term memory. Sometimes I'll use a common term like "adverb" around kids in honors classes (or adults who passed them), and they'll be baffled and unsure of what it means. I've watched too many teens in honors programs - mine included - insist that they can't calculate how much, say, a 20% discount is on an item. My 16 year old daughter, who was in honors trigonometry at the time, insisted through tears that she couldn't do simple multiplication without a calculator. I was not going to teach with those methods.

When he couldn't tell me what simple terms like numerator, denominator or divisor meant, I told my son that we were going back to the basics until they were rock solid. He was furious, and sure that he'd be tragically behind other kids his age. (This was also his dad's biggest worry. Math is not my strong suit, and I'm upfront about this. He occasionally worried that I was not up to teaching it.) I did not want to hear about what tests he'd passed; I wanted to know what he could do. An education only works if it's functional, accessible knowledge. Plus, terms like "beginning algebra" are fairly meaningless. The first time a small child is presented with, "2 + _ = 4," that's algebra. It's solving for the unknown using a given formula.

One of the reasons we chose homeschooling was the ability to tailor it to our kids as individuals. The more "standardized" instruction becomes, the less effective it is, in my opinion.

I have four children. Two of them are relentless perfectionists, much harder on themselves than necessary (or than anyone else will ever be). Two will always take the path of least resistance, and have to be kept strictly accountable for making any progress at all. Naturally, I have to handle these kids differently.

In general, I'm pretty laid back as an instructor. When I used to teach theater classes, we'd play some sort of game, or do something that the kids loved but that they assumed was just goofing off, and then I'd tell them the skill they'd just mastered. My youngest child is all about fun, and my son's way too hard on himself, so I deliberately kept things casual.

Sometimes, my son would accuse me of being too casual. I usually just "grade" their stuff as, "OK," or, "Do it over," so there's not a lot of letter grades. For his official transcript, the one that I anticipated every college needing, I had to do letter grades (and justify them). I coach the local homeschool speech and debate team; we compete against teams from public and private schools. He happened to look over my shoulder during his junior year when I entered an A for speech and debate. He was aghast. "I didn't trophy once! I don't deserve an A!" Competitions are on average every month during the school year, and although he made finals all but twice, and came in 4th several times, he had not trophied (3rd place and up). He would have grudgingly given himself a C, "or maybe a B-."

I dragged out my official coaching manual, given to me by the national organization. It gives a grading scale based on the points kids earn at competition. He was far, far above the amount of points required for an A. He was deeply surprised. "I do not ever hand you an A because I'm your mommy," I told him.

It is worth noting that during his senior year, he brought home 5 trophies and qualified for the national tournament in two events. You can only represent your district at Nationals in one event (which he did).

When he signed up for the ACT exam, the exam preferred by his A list schools, I deliberately downplayed it. "It's no big deal. Plus, you can take it as many times as you want, and they throw out all but the highest score." We didn't get any practice books, but he did do the official ACT online practice, just because taking standardized tests is a skill unto itself, and I wanted the format to be familiar. Had he been his sister, there would have been lectures about how important it was, and how she needed to do her best, but he's a different person. I was very, very casual about it. The last thing he needed was to tie himself in knots.

His math was his lowest score, but - whoops - that was because we sent him in without a calculator. His scores were still right in the target range, and exceeded what he'd need for his B list schools. His lowest score was what his highest ranked B list school wanted as a composite score. But he wanted to take it again, and we totally understood. Armed with a calculator this time, his math score improved by 4 points, now putting him in the ACT's "college ready" range, and in the range for his A list schools. (Take that, naysayers!)

His highest score, science, was in the 30s. No big surprise to us - we know him - but a friend actually said to us, "But I thought that religious people didn't like science." Sigh.

In the fall of his senior year, we hit a small snag. One of his A list university choices required all homeschooled students to have a GED; actually, the state the school was in required it. By then he'd taken the ACT, which, in my opinion, should be enough info for any school, but hey, you jump through whatever hoops you have to.

Again, I downplayed it as no big deal. "It'll be kinda like the ACTs, only less difficult."

Here, though, it got a bit hairier. Our local laws required him, as a minor, to take a GED pre-test before he could take the GED. After the superintendent of schools himself reviewed the scores, he'd let us know if Alex had permission to take the GED. This is because they want to guarantee that minors, who are factored into state and federal numbers, don't show up as drop outs or failures. So of course, the first thing GED candidates have to do is drop out of school. I'm not kidding. If you are enrolled in a public, private, charter or online high school, you have to drop out to take the GED, or even the practice GED.

Not that it affected my homeschooled student, but let's think about that for a second. Let's say that you know you're cutting it close, and may not graduate. You want a diploma, but between work, home and your family situation, it might not happen. Instead of letting you stay in school while you take the GED as a safety net, the law requires you to drop out to even consider it as an option. Really? Does this seem like a good idea to anyone?

When I talked to people, though, many of them defended this policy. "You want kids to stay in school. You don't want them to take the GED. You want them to graduate." My state has one of the worst graduation rates in the country, and my county has one of the worst graduation rates in the state. How could it possibly get any worse? How could we want to make any viable alternative harder? Newspaper accounts like these are our "success" stories: "The Washoe County School District's 2010 graduation rate increased to 63 percent after languishing in the 56 percent range. (Reno Gazette Journal, September 14, 2010)"

That year, 2010, my state ranked 51 in graduation rates, behind every other state and the District of Columbia.

This year, again, there are thousands of kids entering 12th grade who will not graduate even if they pass all of this year's classes. I mean, can anyone give me a reason that they should drop out to even consider the GED? Why shouldn't they have a safety net while they're in school? Would we rather they get an alternative diploma, or none at all?

A reason besides making the numbers look good, I mean. I consider this preoccupation with documentation to the federal and state government, under threat of losing funding, accreditation or jobs, to be equivalent to "cooking the books." But that's a conversation for another day. Back to my kid.

We had one month before the preferred application deadline to set up the pre-test, get it scored, get the official letter letting him take the GED, take the GED, get the scores back, and get them to the university. We took the first available slots for everything. The next pre-test was in 4 days. He had a cold, but we didn't care. We took the spot.

When we told people, some of them started to fret. "What will you do if he doesn't pass?" "They've really tightened up the exam. It's so much harder than it used to be." "After this many years out of school, I don't know if I'd be able to pass." I threatened any Negative Nellies - you will NOT say stuff like that in front of my kid! Good gravy! When my daughter and I went to the bookstore for something, I was glad that my son was at work, so he didn't see the entire shelving unit devoted to GED prep. I didn't want him thinking that it was a big deal.

I had no worries at all. I'm pretty sure that a few people wondered if I really understood the situation.

There are 5 sections of the test. "The math was so easy that I thought at first that they were kidding. I wondered if it was trick questions," he said. He got perfect scores on two sections, science and math. His scores were almost as good in the other three sections. There were hand written notes saying, "Wow!" and "Congratulations!"

Still, the superintendent himself had to review the marks. There is apparently no other entity, or computer program, available to say, "Yup, those scores are passing," or, "Nope, those scores are failing." We waited for the official letter, so we could sign him up for the real test. When we got it, we took the first available testing spot. My son was the youngest person in his testing room, and he got the highest score in the room, hundreds of points over the necessary "passing" mark. The university marked the scores as received two days before the application deadline. Success!

"So, he's done now, right?" his older sister asked. No, I told her. It's only October. We have an entire school year of stuff planned. I have a unit on Shakespearean tragedies planned, a research paper that he needs to write, a debate season to compete in. "I can't believe that you're making him get a diploma AND a diploma!" she said. Yes, I am, I assured her. His homeschool diploma has credits equivalent to (actually, surpassing) the requirements for our county's honors diploma. As far as we're concerned, that's his "real" diploma. The other one is just to satisfy the government, and anyone who worries that his home instruction "didn't keep up" to a public school education.

So, I feel that I can gloat a little more than I could with his sisters. I taught that kid. I coached that competitor. Yeah, it's still all about him, but I get a bit more reflected glory this time. I'm enjoying it; so sue me.

When he got the first acceptance letter from an A list school, we tossed out all the other brochures and applications. Whether the other two schools accepted him or not, the mission was accomplished. He was going where he wanted to go. I was so giddy that I bought him a school hoodie the day he accepted the offer.

 He refused both the GED ceremony to which the county adult education office (repeatedly) invited him, and any of the homeschool ceremonies he could have had. I signed his diploma, stuck a gold seal on it, and dropped it in the Rubbermaid tub where his memorabilia goes. He grudgingly let us take cap and gown photos. He's not big on ceremony.

Now, he's packing silverware, dishes and a crock pot for his apartment. He has a schedule, a roommate, a start date. He's a university student. Just like we did with his sisters, we'll go there for Move-In Day and parent orientation. Then, we'll drive away and leave him on his own.

I think he's ready.

Like every parent, I hope that I'm ready.