It’s becoming more official. I signed the Detroit inspection report (ACR) this morning and on Monday we’re scheduled to close. The house — and all the responsibility — will be really and truly ours.
We’ve been pretty discouraged and distressed since we got the contractor’s estimate. I’m panicked about how we’ll put together the money and whether I’ve pulled my husband into the dark hole of financial irresponsibility. Does my family-in-law think, “Oh my, Karl was such a good, responsible, financially stable boy. Then he met Amy and she dragged him to Detroit and convinced him to sell off all their assets for this crazy dream.”
I just could not fathom coming up with $300,000 for a home. But then I remembered who my people are.
I’m a daughter of the West. I am a Haimerl. My father fought coal fires deep in the hills of Colorado; he worked in a refinery so toxic that the fumes had eaten pinpoints in the ceiling, making it look like starlight. My mother painted the outside of the house when she was 9 months pregnant — on a scaffold.
At the same time, Stacy Cowley and I like to joke that should the zombie apocalypse come, we’re basically useless. While my family could hunt, shoot, wield chainsaws, make shelter and cook on open flame, we could basically write the zombies a nice grammatically correct note asking them to eat someone else, please.
Guess it’s time to channel my Western heritage. Because if I can’t figure out how to paint
my our* walls or refinish my our floors, at the very least, my people should banish me.
Or let the zombies eat me.
*Note: Mea culpa. They are not mine. I address that here.