Whose House Is It, Anyway?

Wifey and I bought our first house in September of '86, using the $10K gift my mom gave to us.  Back then, interest rates were still high, and some years Sunny would gift each of her three kids that tax allowed amount -- as rates fell, and her savings dwindled, the practice stopped.  But we found a place in East Kendall that looked like it was in Coconut Grove, with a huge banyan tree out front, and put down 10%, or $8650, and we owned our place -- along with the bank, of course.

I started having wild financial dreams about maybe someday owning the place mortgage free.  It seemed that would never happen, or it it did, it would be LONG into the future.  We stayed there four years, and bought our second house, for $175K, in October of 1990. By then I had become a plaintiff's lawyer, and made more money, but the thought of a mortgage free house also seemed a far away goal...and then a hurricane hit.

Andrew was a life changer for us.  It put us in peril that night in August of '92, with my Mom staying with us, 3 year old D1, and 6 month old D2.  Ceilings filled with stormwater and collapsed, and we found refuge in my car in the garage.  Thankfully that room held -- it was on the NW corner of the house, farthest from the wind.  But after all the insurance adjusting was done, we were left, in fact, without something I thought we'd have a long time: a mortgage.  Our rebuilt house was all hours, so long as we paid the real estate taxes.

We never looked back.  Though I made good money, our next house waited until we could afford it for cash -- a pile I plunked down in December of 2000.  We've owned the place free and clear ever since -- paying high real estate taxes, and an ever escalating insurance bill.  But that's ok -- I have no real complaints.

But lately it occurs to me the house isn't really mine --  I sort of serve at the pleasure of the folks who service us.

Our long time cleaner Miriam comes once per week, and every third week for a supplement.  She comes and goes as she pleases -- and I try to be gone when she's there.  She used to come early and leave around 4, so I'd be out of the house before breakfast, and back in the late afternoon.  But lately she's still there at 5 or so -- I gamely come in, and struggle with Spanish to try and communicate with her.  She thinks I speak it better than I do -- I fake real well.

And on Friday, the pool guy is there -- lets himself in, opens the garage to service the filter.  Nice guy, but I got blocked in the other day, and I waited, twiddling my thumbs until he was done, so as not to interrupt.

It used to be weekends I knew the house was all ours -- I might even decide to take a naked dip in the pool, or leisurely read the paper on the porch.  Not so fast.  Wifey has new landscape guys, to service the new stuff she had put in, and they come EVERY Sunday .

Just this am, I was going to take the dogs out to hang, while I finished the paper, and then the strange rescue alerted me to a presence in the back yard -- the man with his leaf blower.  So now I'm inside until they finish their work.

I realize these are the whiny complaints of a rich guy, complaining about the "help," but it teaches me something deeper -- I really DON'T want to be surrounded by many folks as I get older.  Wifey pressures about selling the  house and moving to a condo -- not going to happen.  I'm annoyed at a few service folks interrupting my solitude -- the thought of neighbors I have to see is terrifying.

So I'll get my second cup of coffee and realize I should be happy to be providing work to the three handscapers, the pool guy, and Miriam.  But I fantasize about a house really being all my own...