Every time I make the hour-long 60-mile drive to Savannah, sometimes two or three times each week, I decide that I will move to the city, closer to the three sweet young lives who mean the world to me. That will put me, in my second year of retirement, closer to the daughter who will be my caretaker as years pass. To be truthful, I would not do anything major in my life without asking her, because she is smart about people, money, and relationships.
It's taken me two years to take a step toward that decision. I've owned three homes, two with my husband, and this last one on my own. Homes one and two came with some extraordinary problems that my husband, strong and knowledgeable about construction, could solve; home three was brand-new and move-in ready. In the eleven years I've lived in this tidy little home, only twice have I had to get help: once, a plumber, and once, a company that cleaned up air-conditioner damage. The costs were manageable and the inconvenience relatively minor.
Lest I forget, I have had two wonderful gentlemen who've mowed my lawn and kept the shrubbery under control, too. Again, the costs were manageable.
But now that I am ready to make the decision to move, all sorts of questions arise. I went last week and looked at a condo about five minutes away from my daughter, and was sadly disappointed. The price was excellent, the location was fine, but the low ceilings, small rooms, dark vinyl floors, and the small windows were downright depressing. I told the realtor I would look at some more, and she sent more listings in my price range, and I am going to look at them, but I have a feeling they won't really be what I want.
When I told a close friend these thoughts, she made a point I had not considered: how about renting?
I am sure that my face fell, and my shoulders twitched, and my head listed from side to side. She didn't say anything until I recovered. Then she started to point out the fact that in retirement, I didn't need mortgage interest for a deductible on my taxes. If I rented, I would not have to worry about repairs and maintenance. I would save a lot of money in insurances, gasoline, lawn care, and so on. I waited to feel better about the idea of renting, but the idea still sat like an overload of lasagna in my stomach. How much antacid would it take to change my mind?
It's taken me two years to take a step toward that decision. I've owned three homes, two with my husband, and this last one on my own. Homes one and two came with some extraordinary problems that my husband, strong and knowledgeable about construction, could solve; home three was brand-new and move-in ready. In the eleven years I've lived in this tidy little home, only twice have I had to get help: once, a plumber, and once, a company that cleaned up air-conditioner damage. The costs were manageable and the inconvenience relatively minor.
Lest I forget, I have had two wonderful gentlemen who've mowed my lawn and kept the shrubbery under control, too. Again, the costs were manageable.
But now that I am ready to make the decision to move, all sorts of questions arise. I went last week and looked at a condo about five minutes away from my daughter, and was sadly disappointed. The price was excellent, the location was fine, but the low ceilings, small rooms, dark vinyl floors, and the small windows were downright depressing. I told the realtor I would look at some more, and she sent more listings in my price range, and I am going to look at them, but I have a feeling they won't really be what I want.
When I told a close friend these thoughts, she made a point I had not considered: how about renting?
I am sure that my face fell, and my shoulders twitched, and my head listed from side to side. She didn't say anything until I recovered. Then she started to point out the fact that in retirement, I didn't need mortgage interest for a deductible on my taxes. If I rented, I would not have to worry about repairs and maintenance. I would save a lot of money in insurances, gasoline, lawn care, and so on. I waited to feel better about the idea of renting, but the idea still sat like an overload of lasagna in my stomach. How much antacid would it take to change my mind?
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