Since we’re circling the drain on the topic, I feel the need to mention: I’m going to want a barn.
Someday not long from now, when we’re buying real estate, I’m going to wait for my moment and then ask you for a big, red barn. Maybe we’ll find a property that already has one, all ready to go and befitting my ideals. Maybe we’ll need to make the room somewhere, then build our own from scratch. Either way, I am definitely going to want a barn, and chances are, I will be babyish and petulant until I get my way.
(I’m just warning you now.)
On the off chance that you’re not immediately on board with this, allow me to point out the merits of a barn.
For starters, barns are totally cool. They remind us all of a simpler time, of a day and age in which prosperity was made manifest through hard work, through determination, and by the grace of God. In fact, one could say that barns are a symbol of the American dream.
But that’s not why I want one.
You can keep lots and lots of stuff inside a barn. They’re great places to throw a party (even if it rains!), and what’s more? If we’re blessed enough to have kids one day, then we can totally use our barn for leverage. Allow me to explain.
When I was in the fourth grade, I decided that I wanted to be a pirate for Halloween. My Mother came up with this great idea, to make a single, clip-on earring a part of my ensemble. Well, I got dressed up for school that day, and along with the rest of my costume, I put on that large, gold hoop of a clip-on earring. When I boarded the bus to head to school, this girl on the bus (tall, blonde and if memory serves, she hit puberty way early) came and sat in front of me. She leaned over the back of her seat, kind of smiled a bit, and then she told me that my earring was really, really… sexy.
You’ve got to understand. This was the time of Duran Duran. Forget David Cassidy. Simon LeBon (or was it Adrian Zmed?) was, like, every girl's dream, and you can rest assured that all the teen kings on the cover of Tiger Beat had at least one earring. All it took was to wear one—a fake one, even—and suddenly some girl with tendrils (TENDRILS!) of curly, blonde hair was using the word, “sexy” to describe me!
When I came home from school that day, one thing was certain: I was so getting an earring. The only difficulty would lie in breaking the news to my Father. When I did? He was totally passive. He just looked me in the eye and said, “Come with me.”
We got up from the dinner table, and I followed him over to the large, glass door that lined the back wall of the house. From there, you could see across the yard, and into the woods that bordered the property. About ten to fifteen yards beyond the tree line, you could just make out the visage of this small, rusted-out tin shed with one side exposed to the elements.
My Dad looked down on me and said, “You see that shed?”
I looked up at him, slack-jawed, and responded, “Yeah?”
He once again turned his attention to the window, paused for a moment, and then looked down on me for what seemed to be a very long time. At last, he spoke. “You get an earring, and that’s where you’ll be sleeping.” Then he walked away.
Needless to say, I never pierced either one of my ears. Looking ahead some time from now, let’s say a boy of ours wants to defile his body, or that our otherwise angelic daughter wants to date an older guy. You see where I’m going with this?
Still, that’s not really why I want a barn. I want a barn because it will be fun.
When we have a barn, I’ll climb high above the tamped, dirt floor. I'll shimmy my way out onto the middle rafter, where I’ll hang a rope and then fashion from that rope a swing. Can you imagine the sounds of laughter that our rope swing will generate, and for years and years to come?
Now, I realize that a barn isn’t all about fun and games. A barn is utilitarian. It means serious business. That is why I will insist upon a working hayloft, and that it always be filled with bales of freshly strewn hay. Never you mind that I’m slightly allergic, or that hay causes my skin to break out in a rash. A hayloft is a requisite part of any bona-fide barn, and we’re not about to build the thing only to scrimp on something quite as vital as a hayloft.
Besides, can there be a better place for you and me to make out?
I think not.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
INVESTMENT
I am 34 years old, and I am beginning to gray around my temples. Though I still have a bit of a babyish face and while no part of my body seems the worse for wear, I’m beginning to show my age—here and there, in smaller, subtle ways.
It occurred to me this evening that some thirty years ago, my parents were well on their way to being parents. I was nearing the age of kindergarten, whereas my sister was 16 months behind, and no doubt participating in some sort of pre-school experience. They had started, my Mom and Dad. They had been married for a time, had spent that time getting to know one another, growing together, before embarking on the adventure that was two kids and a mortgage. Before long, those two kids would multiply to become four, and one house would be sold to pay for the next, and perhaps generate a tidy little profit.
My Dad sat me down only a few days ago, and suggested that I seriously consider buying real estate. I told him how disheartening it was, to even think of that in this market. In this place that we call New York City, it takes a fortune or more to pony up for the 20% that we might like to supply as a down payment—and this for a mere postage stamp.
Never mind that I might be close; I’m not quite there, just yet. Besides, it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense, to plunk down more than a million dollars for my secret garden of 800 square feet. All the better to buy upstate, to gain both land and a little place—all for a steal, by comparison.
Given what I make right now, I suppose I could support two people. I could probably do that, swing rent near to the city, and then muster up some kind of mortgage payment somewhere near to New Paltz, maybe. Of course, it’d be made considerably easier with a dual income, and a way to offset the everyday costs. As I said to my Dad during our discussion, a second income would be like gravy. Everything, after taxes, would amount to a slush fund, of sorts. Whether the secondary income was yours or mine, it wouldn’t matter. We could do some lovely things together, and lay the groundwork for the years to come.
Problem being, there’s not yet anyone around to figure into my future.
I said to my Dad that I might like to buy a plot in Northern Michigan. It’s where I come from. It’s where my family lives, and it’s the closest place that I have to a home. The tip of the Mitten is a retreat. It is where I go when I begin to lose perspective, and when I start to lose a grasp of what truly matters.
My Dad is of the mind that I look to negate the rental payment, by buying a place where I would live day-to-day. Like most every idea that my Father puts forward, it makes perfect sense. Still, I can see a future in renting for now, while all the while owning acres of land in a far-off place. I could take my sweet time to build a permanent structure upon the property. I could do it in stages, in steps, beginning with outhouses and outdoor showers, and with a sleeping cabin to shelter us in the meantime.
Go ahead and consider me quixotic, but I adore the notion of starting out slowly, and of roughing it for a time.
A few weeks ago, I read an article in the New York Times. It told the story of a young couple that had pooled their resources, and all to buy a neglected place about two hours from the city, and for a mere $92,000.
For a total of ten weeks, they would make the weekend commute to their property in the north, where they spent the whole of the time updating the house, renovating, installing drywall and furnishing the space. It took elbow grease and a conservative budget of $10,000, but they retreat to the place now. They were able to hold their wedding there last May, and now—in addition to the rent that they have in Brooklyn—they’ve got a home they can call their own.
Not to state the obvious again, but I don’t have a person with whom to plan. Still, I’m not letting that fact stop me. I’m composing dreams based solely on what I might want, and on where it is that I might like to be, regardless of what happens.
Central Casting can take its sweet time. It’s the dreaming that keeps us alive.
At the very least, that is the way it’s working for me.
It occurred to me this evening that some thirty years ago, my parents were well on their way to being parents. I was nearing the age of kindergarten, whereas my sister was 16 months behind, and no doubt participating in some sort of pre-school experience. They had started, my Mom and Dad. They had been married for a time, had spent that time getting to know one another, growing together, before embarking on the adventure that was two kids and a mortgage. Before long, those two kids would multiply to become four, and one house would be sold to pay for the next, and perhaps generate a tidy little profit.
My Dad sat me down only a few days ago, and suggested that I seriously consider buying real estate. I told him how disheartening it was, to even think of that in this market. In this place that we call New York City, it takes a fortune or more to pony up for the 20% that we might like to supply as a down payment—and this for a mere postage stamp.
Never mind that I might be close; I’m not quite there, just yet. Besides, it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense, to plunk down more than a million dollars for my secret garden of 800 square feet. All the better to buy upstate, to gain both land and a little place—all for a steal, by comparison.
Given what I make right now, I suppose I could support two people. I could probably do that, swing rent near to the city, and then muster up some kind of mortgage payment somewhere near to New Paltz, maybe. Of course, it’d be made considerably easier with a dual income, and a way to offset the everyday costs. As I said to my Dad during our discussion, a second income would be like gravy. Everything, after taxes, would amount to a slush fund, of sorts. Whether the secondary income was yours or mine, it wouldn’t matter. We could do some lovely things together, and lay the groundwork for the years to come.
Problem being, there’s not yet anyone around to figure into my future.
I said to my Dad that I might like to buy a plot in Northern Michigan. It’s where I come from. It’s where my family lives, and it’s the closest place that I have to a home. The tip of the Mitten is a retreat. It is where I go when I begin to lose perspective, and when I start to lose a grasp of what truly matters.
My Dad is of the mind that I look to negate the rental payment, by buying a place where I would live day-to-day. Like most every idea that my Father puts forward, it makes perfect sense. Still, I can see a future in renting for now, while all the while owning acres of land in a far-off place. I could take my sweet time to build a permanent structure upon the property. I could do it in stages, in steps, beginning with outhouses and outdoor showers, and with a sleeping cabin to shelter us in the meantime.
Go ahead and consider me quixotic, but I adore the notion of starting out slowly, and of roughing it for a time.
A few weeks ago, I read an article in the New York Times. It told the story of a young couple that had pooled their resources, and all to buy a neglected place about two hours from the city, and for a mere $92,000.
For a total of ten weeks, they would make the weekend commute to their property in the north, where they spent the whole of the time updating the house, renovating, installing drywall and furnishing the space. It took elbow grease and a conservative budget of $10,000, but they retreat to the place now. They were able to hold their wedding there last May, and now—in addition to the rent that they have in Brooklyn—they’ve got a home they can call their own.
Not to state the obvious again, but I don’t have a person with whom to plan. Still, I’m not letting that fact stop me. I’m composing dreams based solely on what I might want, and on where it is that I might like to be, regardless of what happens.
Central Casting can take its sweet time. It’s the dreaming that keeps us alive.
At the very least, that is the way it’s working for me.
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