Optimist: a 61-year-old man who takes out a 30-year mortgage.
That’s me. Five years ago I signed on the dotted line (many, many dotted lines) and took possession of a goodly-sized house in Far Outerburbia, well away from San Francisco’s churn and squalor and tension and cacophony. Having determined that my well-being was at stake, I went into home-buying with my mind made up, my finances in order, and my ducks in a row.
Any regrets? Not a one. My house is well-nigh perfect for me. It’s in a sweet little suburban city that I have come to cherish. The price was just right. It has proven to be an excellent investment.
The house was 24 years old at the time of adoption. I am the third owner. The original owners left it mostly alone throughout their 19-year stewardship save for some worthwhile improvements: linoleum banished in favor of wood floors, new carpet, and a replaced back deck made of Trex after the wood original fell prey to rot. The second owners barely inhabited it during their five years, their home-making genes apparently dormant. Two big bumptious dogs seem to have called most of the housekeeping shots.
Escrow-period inspections revealed nothing particularly alarming, so upon taking possession I could move right in and begin making it my own house from within. That was a good thing. I didn’t really know at first just what, if anything, I was all that keen to upgrade. I needed time to adjust, to worm my way in, to amplify my aspiration to match my surroundings before making any big decisions. At first I limited myself to the no-brainers—replacing several worn-out power outlets, having the recalcitrant patio door serviced, that sort of thing. Replacing all of the light bulbs with LEDs. Repainting the five rooms that the previous owners had rendered garish. Cleaning, cleaning, and cleaning yet again.
As familiarity and comfort rose, so did ambition. I prepared my wish list, and before long I got to it. Gradually I acquired all the requisite contacts and relationships: plumbers, electricians, landscapers, gardeners, handymen, haulers, contractors, vendors. I wrote a lot of checks.
As Year Five draws to a close, that first list is pretty much a done deal. It included some sizable (and costly) upgrades. I haven’t regretted the expense for so much as a millisecond.
It was a good house to begin with. Five years in, it’s a dandy house. Comfortable, sparkling clean, and well furnished, it envelops, supports, and cuddles me. It is my house, my home, my space, as meticulously fitted to me as a custom-tailored dress shirt. Anything that required upgrading or replacing has been upgraded or replaced. Everything works. This is a house that throws no curves. Neither grand nor imposing, it is gracious and congenial.
Its overall afflatus is appealing, welcoming, and warm. And consistently so. There are no closed-off junk rooms or brooding, contradictory closets. Ample windows (35 in all, plus patio door) provide abundant light so I have restricted draperies to only a few strategic windows. It’s a house full of possessions, but judicious organization banishes any clutter. Paint colors range from plain white to warm flesh-like tones. The golden oak woodwork—cabinets, drawers, bannisters, railings, etc.—glows. Even the roomy three-car garage is a model of cleanliness and order.
The grounds are pleasant throughout, especially the back yard with its lush flower garden, wraparound deck, brick patio, and enclosing trees. A once-desolate side yard has become a dryscape garden that radiates a subtle allure. The front ‘curb appeal’ is pronounced. This is the home of somebody who really cares, it announces. People notice the lush velvet lawn, the freshly-painted exterior, the new windows, the meticulously maintained shrubbery, the spiffy fences and gates, the immaculate driveway and sidewalk. Their compliments are gratifying. I’m pleased that folks enjoy viewing and visiting my home. But I’ve done it all for me.
My list for the second five years is prepared. We’ll see where that one stands once the summer of 2025 rolls by.