Where I live
I am in my mid-fifties and live in Vancouver, Canada, a stupidly expensive city. My home cost close to one million when I bought it in 2017.
I lived in a suburb of the city for 18 years before that, in a four-bedroom, 2600 square foot home, to my now half-duplex, 1100 square feet, in the city’s downtown east side, with the poorest postal code in the country, and a half dozen blocks from the saddest street scene, at the corner of Main St. and Hastings. For me, it is a good place. Nearby jazz pub, a sense of community. Always, people with stories that they share. I cannot walk to the library without someone asking me about the books in my arms — does it get better than that?
I am a writer
Since 1992, I have earned all of my living from writing fiction (for the most part) and contract teaching, ghost-writing, freelance editing… all writing-related. The most I have ever made in a year (and that was a rare year) was $52k, and the average is closer to $36k. Many years far less than that. My deceased partner was a musician who never made more than 60k. I’ve been widowed for over five years.
1994
In 1994 we stopped renting and bought a townhouse an hour’s drive away, the closest we could afford. We had a private mortgage through the former owner of the property, an arrangement that worked well as it was negligible if the banks would take us seriously as two self-employed artists. Our “seed” money had been from the payout of a car insurance claim after my partner was hit by a drunk driver on his way to a gig.
Hold your nose
It all seemed so impossible… to own a home. Yet rents were creeping up, and our thoughts were that if we could just “hold on” with a mortgage for a handful of years, eventually the rents would surpass whatever we were paying in mortgage. It was a hold-your-nose-and-leap moment. Would we take it? Or rent for the rest of our lives and continue the struggle through rough times…?
Cut to the chase…
Right. In those years, when our mortgage payment was more than we would have been paying for rent, I was busy with two young sons. I was still writing. I published several works, but was paid very little. (This was pre-self-publishing as it is now, pre-Medium, pre- all the myriad ways one can earn from writing now.)
So instead of earning money, I saved money
I did all the child-care. Which was fine with me: I loved parenting; I loved to see the boys’ growth, and the glimpses into how young minds develop. I was actively writing for children — and this was altogether so useful as well as a joy.
I did the cooking. I went from being an equal-opportunity-burn-everything cook, to making meals that my family exclaimed over — nothing under the table to the dog. My grown up boys will show up on any day for my pizza.
We used the library, not just for books, but for videos, magazines, and the various community-minded presentations (puppets, story-times), and of course, their annual sales.
We used the thrift shop. And friends with older boys routinely passed me a bag of their hand-me-downs, for which we were most grateful.
Sometimes I cut hair in my kitchen; I’d been a hairdresser for a dozen years prior to the birth of my first son. And at one point I sold Avon for five years. I am not a sales person. Again the hairdressing past came to life for this. I never could sell things people did not need. But everyone needs shampoo and soap and sunscreen. I could do that.
The hard part
As of 2017, I own my little home in the city. I marvel at how that has happened. It does feel to have “happened,” too. But it was a lot of sacrifice.
The above was easy — it’s easy for me to give in terms of parenting and home-making. What wasn’t easy was giving up live music. Not only was the cost of tickets prohibitive, but the time — hard to justify almost two hours of driving into the city while paying a baby-sitter… and baby-sitter time for the concert itself. Altogether, that was too much grocery money.
I did not see the inside of a movie theater for almost two decades. (I think about that now, and wonder how I did that!) We almost never went to a restaurant… and yes, I’m talking about birthdays and anniversaries, too.
I did not take classes — no yoga or dance classes. Both of which I needed for exercise, and started in my late 40s, once I started to make a bit more money and had less child-duties.
Clothing. I would go years without anything new besides socks and underwear. The thriftshop was where I shopped… when I did. At first this was not easy. I’d been a fashionable person at one point. This one became something I let go; it later became a source of sadness that I could not find time to put pieces together… or carve out the time to even find secondhand pieces. It’s a regret. It doesn’t have to cost money to have fun with clothing. But it does take substantial time, and I found the battle between time and money to be significant. Money buys time — just how it is — I have come to know.
Finding pleasure
I found pleasure in my boys, and in family life. Buying a second-hand trampoline one summer (at the time my spouse lost his job and was re-creating his working life) in lieu of any type of vacation, and I end up remembering that summer as Special as a result. It cost $70.
The boys loved to sleep outside, and that was our “camping.” We made good use of the yard (made it easier to make those mortgage payments!), and the neighborhood kids were generally in our yard, too. Which to me, said I was doing something right.
I also took pleasure in the fact that I could write… that I could eke out time early in the morning. And my life was giving me story ideas. We spent hours each day reading — a huge source of joy.
Ultimately, I turned the front yard into a vegetable and berry garden — again, joy.
And in the end
I ponder the sacrifices and the joys; did they balance each other?
If I still had a huge mortgage, or any mortgage now… how would I manage? I wouldn’t, truth told. All those years of cutting have paid off, no matter how I look at it.
Would I do anything differently, if I could go back? I’ve voiced one regret, about not taking time for myself with clothing.
Such tough times can easily turn to some level of self “punishment.” I think I could have allowed in even more joy. But the “punishment” piece is all about…
Having faith
And in believing that the future will be better than the present. And so the specter of “future” hangs over while we are going through uncertain times. In retrospect, I could have enjoyed the tough times if I’d pushed away thoughts of what was coming down the pipe. Because here I am, down the pipe, gone through some rough stuff — caregiving and such — but truly now in a good place.
And so I know that a lot of the worry at that time was simply not necessary; it did nothing. Ah, but at the time, there was no way to know that.
But did I need to know or not know? I could have just lived.
Maslow’s hierarchy of need
We had a roof, food, warmth. We had more than that. We had a fireplace, and we always managed to find wood around the neighborhood. we always had the best annual Christmas party — once I realized people were just fine with potluck. And we would set up musical equipment — we had that. The house with its open floor plan, and vaulted ceiling with a scruffy pine of lights and old ornaments… those were the best times.
We were never hungry, even if it took counting our nickels and dimes from yogurt containers. And sometimes it did. There is a layer to our financial realities that we don’t talk about. But this is how it is for many working artists. Many people, really.
We sought out non-monetary ways for Maslow’s “self-actualization” level of need. Thrift shops and neighbors are gifts. Life itself is a gift. Creating and art are gifts, but also necessities. Hard to place a price on, but I am willing to sacrifice for these. And now that I am at the end of this piece, I realize it might be a not-so-secret ode to public libraries!
Enjoy moments and days. Children grow up. Let go. Daily, if need be, remind your self of what is important.
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This post was previously published on A Parent Is Born.
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