There goes the neighborhood

I bought a house. 

Every time a say this it feels disingenuous. The reality is a bank agreed to pay for my house in exchange for most of my salary for most of my remaining working years. I sold my soul for a place to stay.

But usually it feels like a fair bargain. This house was built in 1941 in an old neighborhood of Vancouver as worker housing for the shipyards during World War II. This house was purchased by a young family whose children grew up in the home, laughing and playing, until they eventually left to start their own homes. The young couple grew older and their daughter Lillian came back to care for them.

Lillian stayed in the house after her parents were gone, and eventually her family came back to take care of her. My across-the-street neighbor Shirley says it was difficult towards the end. Shirley would come across the street to help Lillian with bathing and meals.

--

In the summer/fall of 2016 I was trying to decide what to do. My job was becoming overwhelming, and my romantic-turned-platonic relationship with the primary person in my life imploded. My best friend lives in Denmark, and a move abroad didn't seem like such a bad idea. What I did know is that I needed to get out of my dad's house. Rounding out 3 years back at home, I was feeling restless.
A family friend knew of a house for sale. Dad and I went and looked at it: a big, leafy place out in Hazel Dell. We contacted the realtor, and - as we do - started dreaming. The realtor wasn't sure when the homeowner would be serious about selling, but he set me up with a coworker who could show me some options.

I had heard St. John's was still affordable. Other than that, middle-income millennials were buying in Milwaukee. But after fruitless weekend tours, St. John's was a bust, and Milwaukee just not appealing. "Have you looked in Vancouver?" my realtor asked me, to my dad's approval. And so we started on the other side of the bridge.

There were some reasonable choices, but no stellar options. "What should I do?" I asked my sister, as always. "Come to Denmark," she counseled. "But most importantly, you just need to make a decision."

I followed my realtor on one more visit, determined to tell her the timing was not right. But something about a little house I had seen was calling me, and we tacked it on to the end of the trip. It was my house, I could see it. A sunny living room in a shady neighborhood, a shared driveway with a neighbor who gardens, it was a good one.

So, two long long months later I closed on the house a day before Thanksgiving. The closing papers read "Janice Rasmussen, single woman." Lillian's house became my house to raise my children, laughing and playing. I brought a single mattress the first night and slept on the floor.

--

My mom jokes that my dad turned off the water and electricity right away to keep me home longer. Really, the work needed (and needs) to be done, but the work is rewarding. What could be better than building your own home?

It's April and we're not finished, but it's coming along. Every nail we hammer, every hole I accidentally drill through the hardwood floor, it's mine to keep.
 

I want to end this on an all-wrapped-up note. But that, too, would be disingenuous. Work is still hectic, my sister is still far away. Does it ever get easier to sit with your choices? How do you reconcile the ultimate joy of a decision with its own opportunity cost? I don't know the answers to those questions yet. For today, I'm just a single lady with a house.