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Mine, all mine
Those of you who've read my 100 things about me meme or have heard me talk about my dad here know that I had a pretty rocky and fairly violent childhood, one that eventually both my parents and I overcame to get on relatively good terms with each other once I was an adult and living on my own. It wasn't always easy, especially in the years after my mom died and my dad let everything in their house go to waste and I had to take care of everything on top of having a full-time job and taking care of my own house. Things have been a lot better since he moved into the retirement center, where he's become a whole different person than he was before. The past few years have been really good for the most part; we still have fights, but overall we're in a good place with each other. I thought that, like most years, he was going to give me a largish check for my birthday/Christmas, since he seems to have given up the useful appliance holiday thing that he would do every few years, where he gave my sister and me some oddball appliance or safety device we wouldn't normally get. But when I got down to his place yesterday for dinner, there was a wrapped box with my name on it.
I shook it and it felt like there was nothing in it, so I laughed and said, "Is this just a wrapped box with a check in it?" Because, you know, I had visions of Final Cut Express dancing in my head. He said, "Oh, no, it's not a check," with this weird smile on his face. I took it home and it was bugging me all night -- if not a check, then what? A gift card for Nordstrom? Because then I wouldn't be able to get FCE! And I know he's not sophisticated enough to understand how to get, say, a gift certificate online for Amazon or the Apple store. So I decided, after successfully installing my DSL today (and when I ran into a snag, actually being able to figure out -- if a little slowly -- how to solve it) that I would treat myself to answering the mystery. And there was an envelope with my name on it, and I opened the envelope to a letter he'd written to me in silly dad-like look-what-my-computer-can-do German Gothic lettering saying:
My dad gave me, for my birthday (and I assume for Christmas!) my house. I now own it, free and clear. He gave me my house. And then he left a note on how to file the form and telling me not to fuss.
I have a hard time articulating what that means to me. Yes, it's a crappy falling-down thing that costs me all my time and money to take care of and exhausts me and makes me weep with frustration sometimes. But it is a house, in a nice neighborhood, and I own it, and I can crank my tunes at night if I want or do laundry at 3 a.m. or paint it lavender, and no one can stop me. Because it's a house. When the people buying out the place I work at wanted to see if those of us in Seattle wanted to move to the east coast for the job, I just laughed, because there is no way, as a single woman, I could ever afford to have even a crummy studio apartment, let alone a whole house, like I do here. My dad kind of bullied me into buying this, as I really didn't want the responsibility, but he wanted my sister and I to be safe from the ups and downs of other types of investments.
My whole life I thought we were poor -- like, really poor. I didn't find out until I was much older that dad had been investing ever since they adopted us because he wanted us to never have to worry about things as we got older. We didn't get to do the things other kids did or have the things other kids had because he was socking money away in real estate, financial investments, and forest property. Pretty much everything my folks did when we were younger was with an eye toward what they could give us as we got older. When I lost my job during the house-buying process, he bought this house, and then when I was working again, he sold it to me with the best interest rate you could ever get. It's hard to beat First National Bank of Dad for loan payments. I had a lot left to pay on the house but it was a smaller amount than many people I know who bought houses after I did, because I've always tried to overpay each month so that I could get it paid off a few years ahead of schedule. But this will cost him more than that, I know, because there are a lot of fees involved. My friends with high-paying jobs would often criticize me for not having the cool toys, and tell me that buying a nifty vidding computer or whatever was within my reach, but I really didn't have that kind of money because I was paying my heinous property taxes or trying to pay down my mortgage when I could. It often annoyed me that others would criticize me for what I didn't have -- including one of my neighbors! -- without understanding that everything I had was going towards this crumbling down abode. And still many of the things I had to fix I could not have done without his help.
I keep crying. I'm crying as I write this, because it pretty much beats Final Cut as a gift any day, I'd say. And now I can put the monthly house payment towards the property taxes and a fund for the full copper repipe I desperately need. And hey, maybe even buy FCE. Because I won't have a house payment in December, thanks to Dad. I felt pretty bad splurging on DSL even though it might be necessary to keep the job for a couple extra months, but this takes the sting out of some of this. A lot.
I celebrated by going out and reminding myself how things really are -- cleaning the gutters, the most disgusting job in the world and a terrifying one because I can't be on ladders since I have no balance left anymore. I fall off even without moving! But I kept thinking while I was getting covered in freezing muck and trying not to gag on the rotten smell, hey, this is all mine. It may not be the greatest, but it's mine, free and clear.
I shook it and it felt like there was nothing in it, so I laughed and said, "Is this just a wrapped box with a check in it?" Because, you know, I had visions of Final Cut Express dancing in my head. He said, "Oh, no, it's not a check," with this weird smile on his face. I took it home and it was bugging me all night -- if not a check, then what? A gift card for Nordstrom? Because then I wouldn't be able to get FCE! And I know he's not sophisticated enough to understand how to get, say, a gift certificate online for Amazon or the Apple store. So I decided, after successfully installing my DSL today (and when I ran into a snag, actually being able to figure out -- if a little slowly -- how to solve it) that I would treat myself to answering the mystery. And there was an envelope with my name on it, and I opened the envelope to a letter he'd written to me in silly dad-like look-what-my-computer-can-do German Gothic lettering saying:
It was your mother's and my greatest wish to give you your house. We did not because of potential tax consequences. Recently my CPA told me I could give you and your sister $1,500,000 each if I had it without any taxes by simply filing a form [needless to say he doesn't have a million dollars!].
So it is with greay joy I give you the deed to your house. I am sorry your mother is not here to see this.
Dad
My dad gave me, for my birthday (and I assume for Christmas!) my house. I now own it, free and clear. He gave me my house. And then he left a note on how to file the form and telling me not to fuss.
I have a hard time articulating what that means to me. Yes, it's a crappy falling-down thing that costs me all my time and money to take care of and exhausts me and makes me weep with frustration sometimes. But it is a house, in a nice neighborhood, and I own it, and I can crank my tunes at night if I want or do laundry at 3 a.m. or paint it lavender, and no one can stop me. Because it's a house. When the people buying out the place I work at wanted to see if those of us in Seattle wanted to move to the east coast for the job, I just laughed, because there is no way, as a single woman, I could ever afford to have even a crummy studio apartment, let alone a whole house, like I do here. My dad kind of bullied me into buying this, as I really didn't want the responsibility, but he wanted my sister and I to be safe from the ups and downs of other types of investments.
My whole life I thought we were poor -- like, really poor. I didn't find out until I was much older that dad had been investing ever since they adopted us because he wanted us to never have to worry about things as we got older. We didn't get to do the things other kids did or have the things other kids had because he was socking money away in real estate, financial investments, and forest property. Pretty much everything my folks did when we were younger was with an eye toward what they could give us as we got older. When I lost my job during the house-buying process, he bought this house, and then when I was working again, he sold it to me with the best interest rate you could ever get. It's hard to beat First National Bank of Dad for loan payments. I had a lot left to pay on the house but it was a smaller amount than many people I know who bought houses after I did, because I've always tried to overpay each month so that I could get it paid off a few years ahead of schedule. But this will cost him more than that, I know, because there are a lot of fees involved. My friends with high-paying jobs would often criticize me for not having the cool toys, and tell me that buying a nifty vidding computer or whatever was within my reach, but I really didn't have that kind of money because I was paying my heinous property taxes or trying to pay down my mortgage when I could. It often annoyed me that others would criticize me for what I didn't have -- including one of my neighbors! -- without understanding that everything I had was going towards this crumbling down abode. And still many of the things I had to fix I could not have done without his help.
I keep crying. I'm crying as I write this, because it pretty much beats Final Cut as a gift any day, I'd say. And now I can put the monthly house payment towards the property taxes and a fund for the full copper repipe I desperately need. And hey, maybe even buy FCE. Because I won't have a house payment in December, thanks to Dad. I felt pretty bad splurging on DSL even though it might be necessary to keep the job for a couple extra months, but this takes the sting out of some of this. A lot.
I celebrated by going out and reminding myself how things really are -- cleaning the gutters, the most disgusting job in the world and a terrifying one because I can't be on ladders since I have no balance left anymore. I fall off even without moving! But I kept thinking while I was getting covered in freezing muck and trying not to gag on the rotten smell, hey, this is all mine. It may not be the greatest, but it's mine, free and clear.