Before we began negotiating in earnest on our final house choice, we actually narrowed the selection down to two. We really wanted three choices, because that’s how they do it on HGTV’s show House Hunters which, I’m ashamed to say, I had become addicted to. On the other hand, we also hadn’t gone around each house saying things such as “I like the way the door sits on the hinges.”
Both of our final choices were ranches. One was listed at $80,000 more than the other, but the cheaper one needed a new kitchen, which my brother-in-law, Mr. Handy, quickly estimated at $75,000 without taking into account the risk of allowing my wife to run loose in an appliance store.
The more expensive one was situated on a curve in the road such as one might find at a NASCAR race, while the other was at the end of a bulbous cul-de-sac but up an inclined driveway that might give Sisyphus* pause.
Both had about the same amount of property, all of which was buried under about 6,000 feet of snow, so it was hard to tell if we would have a lawn, a baseball field, or La Brea Tar Pits.
In the end, Barbara thought that the more expensive one was “too much house for us,” although for someone such as myself who grew up in apartments, any house was going to be too much. Barb also thought that the cheaper one was in more of a neighborhood, and she had visions of being able to take the dog on long walks as everyone came out of their homes in quaint 1950’s attire to “shoot the breeze.”
In the end, we decided on the one that was less expensive.
At least until we do the kitchen.
See you again soon.
*This was the guy in mythology who had to keep rolling a boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll down again. I think of him now when I schlep the recycling bin up and down the driveway to the curb.