My Forever Home
“And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our own feet, and learn to be at home.”
- Wendell Berry, The Unforeseen Wilderness
I am home. A mere 73 years old, my new house is five years older than me. My small wood frame home- - just under 800 square feet—was built during the halcyon days of this Detroit suburb when houses sprang up like dandelions in a vacant lot, thanks to legislation that awarded mortgages to returning GIs.
I live on Pearl Avenue, the only street in my neighborhood named for a gem. The others have more prosaic names like West End Avenue, or Olin or Ford (not an uncommon name in Motor City). My sprawling driveway is so spacious I could hang a hoop and shoot free throws.
I decided to make the leap from renter to homeowner last year when I was finally able to sock away enough for a down payment and closing costs. For years my three kids and I were suburban gypsies, changing addresses five times in as many years. The circumstances varied. One landlord decided to move into our unit; another apartment went condo; then we moved into our third-floor walkup when my husband and I split.
But now those moving boxes are flattened and stored in my garage. There is an ancient silver maple in my front yard whose roots, I’m told by the man who inspected my house, spread like the tentacles of an octopus. I was cautioned to doublecheck with the town to make sure this botanic invasion hasn’t cracked any clay sewer pipes. My chimney needs a lid, to prevent water and birds from infiltrating my chimney lining. My gutters need downspouts, so rain flows away from my foundation. My crawlspace needs a switch to circulate warm air, so my pipes don’t freeze.
These repairs I embrace willingly, grateful to be paying a mortgage instead of rent for the first time in my life. Given my 30- year mortgage, I have 29 years and four months’ worth of payments to make before it is truly mine. Yet I am free. Free to do laundry at midnight without having to scour my junk drawer for quarters. Free to vacuum at 2 am without fear of waking other renters. Free to decide where and what to plant in my garden. I can grow scarlet bee balm to attract hummingbirds and milkweed to harbor monarchs.
Apparently I am part of a trend, an unprecedented movement of older first-time homeowners who, for a myriad of reasons, were unable to buy their homes until later in life. In 2022, eleven percent of home buyers 60 to 69 were financing their first home. Real estate experts speculate that many people edging toward retirement are drawn by the stability of 30-year fixed to escape the specter of spiraling rents or units going condo. My own reasons for buying were more spiritual than financial. After years of empty nesting, I wanted to live near my younger daughter Aster, who was closer to being settled than her two older siblings. Before leaving this earth, I craved a home to call my own.
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To celebrate Mother’s Day, Aster and I plant flowers in a bare patch of earth alongside my front porch: pink and white impatiens, tiger lilies, and astilbe, whose feathery blooms are pink brushstrokes against my gray siding. When the job is done, we toast each other with mimosas, resting in rocking chairs assembled by my daughter’s fiancé, Brennan.
The next morning, I notice mounds of earth where the cedar mulch encircling my flowers has been disturbed. I suspect the cottontail taking refuge under my porch is digging a shortcut to her basement unit.
After years of being a nomad, I have finally arrived “at the ground of my own feet.”
This is my first and forever home.