As "Navy brats", my siblings and I were largely raised in rented homes/housing. Our dad was a Navy officer. We went where he did, except during WWII and the Korean Conflict, but being moved around a lot was our norm. It was partly due to Uncle Sam and partly due to our folks' grabbing needed housing wherever we were moved, then upgrading. We were never stationed anywhere for more than two years. (Danville, IL, was the exception. We were there for three-and-half years. During that time, we moved three times. I went to three different elementary schools.) Also during that time, our parents actually purchased a newly-built home in a brand new subdivision in Danville, just a couple of blocks from the school. It was SO new that my father put the lawn together himself. We lived there for two-and-a-half years before Dad got his orders for Japan. I hated leaving that place because, for the first time in my 10-year-old life, I had a friend. Susie Kochell and I were bosom buds. We lived only a block apart. Living there had become my roots.
Prior to Danville, the only "roots" in my life was at the family farm. No matter where else we lived in the world, we always came home to our grandparents' farm. That was home. My grandparents were my mother's folks. (My dad's folks both died before I was born. I never knew them.) My father adored them as his own, and they adored him. He was their son, just as surely as their biological son was. In any case, I never considered myself to be a world-traveling gal so much as a farm girl, even though the farm was never our address. I never realized it as a kid, but I think I longed for a place to call my home town. I wanted roots. And when I became a mother, I wanted roots for my child.
I had married a school administrator. Nobody told me that the shelf life of a school administrator in any school district is tentative, depending on the politics of a given district. It seemed that we were also constantly moving. No big deal, except we had a child. (He had two other children by his first marriage.) We needed to stay close to our families--his, mine, and his kids'--just to stay grounded. And once again, we were strapped to rental housing. We kept up the properties and even tried to improve on them, but they weren't ours. We always knew that it wasn't in our financial interest to put a lot of money in a place. I remodeled and redecorated every home--in my brain. Never had the money to do it in real life.
In a traumatic move in 1988--traumatic because we were changing states and there were complications--we moved into yet another rental home in a new community in a new state. Not long thereafter, I spied a house on a double lot in that godforsaken town and suggested that we look into buying it. It was a nice place--tri-level--maybe something over 2,000 sq. ft. By this time, our daughter was in fourth grade. She was depressed about leaving everything/everyone she'd ever known in Illinois. She had gained 50 pounds, broken her foot, and was a very unhappy young lady. I was beside myself, trying to be everything to everyone. My husband wanted to play and wanted me to play with him. My daughter was at a selfish age, needing more of us than ever before. I was taking college courses to get certification in my new state so I could teach. And so it was. With a gift from his parents, we bought that house. Roots! Our own home! Then the bottom fell out.
All good things must come to an end, right? Before we even bought the house, I perceived that we were in trouble. I wasn't happy. My daughter wasn't happy. And my husband seemed to be unconcerned about either--distracted, perhaps. But we bought the house anyway, and within mere months of moving in, he was gone--lying, cheating, and in an affair with his secretary. It took me MONTHS to figure out that I needed to get the hell out of there, but I did. I "let" him keep the house but required a buy-out. He complained that since it was HIS parents' down payment loan that got us that house to begin with, I guess I was just supposed to leave everything to him, for cheating???
How did I get out of Dodge? I got a teaching position. I continued to take courses for Indiana certification, just to keep my job. I relied on a friend whose recommendations took me to a 2-bedroom duplex in Plainfield, IN, the owner of which was a local real estate agent and rented the place to my daughter and me. We'd had two cats in our former home which my ex refused to keep while we attempted to find places for them, so my cat-lover brother took them, temporarily. (That required a trip to Chicago and is a WHOLE other story!) Family and friends helped us move on Memorial Day weekend of 1991. We settled in, as best we could. Bad things happened with my ex there, but we endured. The divorce process continued. Dammit, still no roots for my kid!
After few months of our living in the duplex, it was announced that United Airlines was going to have a hub at Indy International. People from California were going to relocate here. The housing they could afford out there would provide them with VERY nice homes in the lesser cost of living in Indiana. I was afraid that housing prices would peak. I also was irritated to think that my ex had the privilege of his own home--our home-- while his daughter and I were, once again, paying rent.
Seven months into our lease on the duplex, I asked our landlady if she could help us find a house to buy and would release me from the lease. She was okay with that. She showed us two homes in the Hillcrest subdivision. Both had the same floor plan. The one I bought had no central air conditioning, but it did have a half-bath that other similar homes didn't have, and a covered patio. I figured I could always add central air but maybe not another bathroom, so I bought the second home I was shown! The gal, who happens to go to my church and is a very practical gal, said, "This is the only house you and Megan will ever need." She was right. Many times, I wish I'd had more space, but the reality is that I don't need anything more. Megan has moved on from her meager roots, but she knows that my home and I will always be here for her and my grandchildren.
My little house is probably apartment-sized. It was built on a concrete slab in 1968, as a National Home--prefab, I think. The walls are 3 inches thick rather than the normal 6 inches. Electrical service is 120-amp. (Not enough to serve modern needs.) I don't need a sump pump because there is no flooding, and because the furnace is in the house near plumbing, I've never had to worry about frozen pipes. I almost lost this place to foreclosure once, due to my own stupidity, but it didn't happen, and I have happily lived in this little place since March of 1992. In just a couple of months, I will have been here, if God lets me, for 27 years.
Think of it! Twenty-seven years! Twenty-seven years in one place! Roots! By many standards, my little house ain't much, but it's mine--now paid off. When I mention my little "house-on-a-slab", I'm not apologizing. I worked hard for this little place. I'm very comfortable here in my old age. It ain't much, baby, but it's all I've got!
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