Homeless Homeowners

It is possible to own a home and be homeless.  We're about to do it!  Here's how:

We do not have enough money to get a decent mortgage for a decent house.  We were also too poor to carry cash to a city tax auction and compete with contractors and "investors" for dregs.  We are, however, clever enough to dig into the system and buy a city tax auction house outside of the auction so we could prepare and get a personal loan to pay for it.  We are also persistent enough to make it work!  However...

The city said the house was in "normal" condition.  It is not.  The city said they had NO inspection reports, they said they did NOT go inside, and they could not tell us anything about the property.  We can tell them that there is no plumbing, no heat, no doorknobs, a roof that needs complete replacement, and a back porch that is dragging off the back of the house.  We have also found out that the only reason the home was boarded over was because of neighbors begging for it--for years.  Lesson learned: the city knew the condition of the house, they let it get worse, and they had the nerve to ask for any money for it.

We love our house!  We spent all our first months, from September to December, cleaning out the garbage, attempting to get contractors to give us estimates, and bringing over boxes of our stuff we won't need right away.  We tried to apply for the grant that would get us just about everything we'd need to fix the house and live in it, but you have to live in the house to get the grant.  ?!?  After a HUGE struggle, we got special house insurance for a house that was being fixed up that was cancelled after a month because they said the house needs to be fixed up and we need to live in it.  ?!?

So we're now renting our apartment, paying for a personal loan, and paying taxes on our house.  We haven't been to the house in over a week because temperatures are less than 10 degrees, and, as you may remember, we have no heat.  The struggles of low-income people to make it out of their low-income living conditions is real.  Really real.  Because what happens when we can't afford to rent?  We use up all the money we've managed to save for fixing our house.  We can't move in if we can't fix it.  We can't get a home equity loan or house insurance or a grant until we live in it.  What do we do?

The plan: visit the department that manages the grants and tell them we're about to become homeless homeowners unless they put us on the grant waiting list (yes, there's still waiting!)  We look to rent a scary-cheap apartment in the same city as our house.  We wait until the temperatures go to above freezing, go back, keep cleaning, keep moving, try to fix more windows, try to remediate the basement ourselves, and maybe even try to dismantle the back porch ourselves.  In the meantime, keep plugging along, trying to increase our income.

Homeless with a home.  In 10 degree weather (lows below zero.  Fahrenheit, in case you were wondering.)  How does it happen?  People like us struggle to get up.  How will we make it work?  Through ingenuity and persistence, like we've always done.

Do you lie?

When I was fifteen, I finally landed my first boyfriend.  I had been desperate for some years, but I finally had enough and pushed this kid into a locker and leaned on him, one-handed on his chest, and told him I liked him.  Naturally, he gave in to my subtle charms.

His name was Mike, and he was cute.  That was about it.  Nice enough, but though I didn't know my type yet, he was not it.  We were okay together.  Mild.  We made out.  He never invited me over to his house, and I never met his family.  What stands out in my memories of him was that he was cute, he named his younger sister Marsha after Marsha Brady, and he introduced me to the guy who would become my second boyfriend in one of the most dramatic ways possible.

Mike and Peter walked to my house in the middle of winter, which was quite an accomplishment.  It wasn't as cold as it had been, but it was snowy.  When I came to the door, I was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see his friend.

Where Mike was tall, thin and dark, Peter was sturdy and pale.  He had grey eyes that rarely blinked and a full head of fair, well-combed hair--the kind that he'd be sure to lose at middle age, but that feathered nicely as a teenager.  Mike looked frightened.  Peter looked determined.  I let them both in, though my parents were gone for the day.

316

A police siren undulated in the distance, crescendoed, and faded.  Traffic was quiet because it was Christmas Eve and most people already were where they needed to be.  The weatherman said the wind would pick up as a strong low front marched across the land, and though it was later than predicted, on it came.  The trees swayed and the low thrush of sound became steadier and steadier.  The temperature drop would come soon, but most would be in bed when the full force of the front passed overhead, not leaving red and green-wrapped presents, but rather downed branches and a sheen of ice.

277

The search party's voices were ripped apart by the wind and smothered by the icy snow, but still they kept on for hours after dark.  Groups had already returned to the Inn Malcolm to report and defrost by the common room's enormous hearth.  None had good news.  The last group to return was the one lead on past sense by Fulcrum, Hannah's older brother.  Fulcrum had not wanted to return, but with the snows worsening, it was only a matter of time until search parties would be needed for them, and the group pleaded with the grieving brother's common sense.

272

The wind picked up, blowing with it the scent of snow.  Rolling clouds tumbled across the sky, steel blue and gray and suddenly stuck by sun, reminding the world that it still shone, no matter perspective.  Dried leaves rattled in the trees and the weakest tumbled to join their brethren on the ground.  Dark would come fast this day, but not before a fleeting, blazing show of a sunset.

130

The house was so much darker after they had stuffed the windows with crumpled newspaper, but it certainly kept it warmer. The front door, a leaky thing even when there had been heat, took more papers than Gerta had thought it would, but she managed it. The ill-fitting storm door was locked and then screwed shut for protection, then filled with papers pressed in place with cut cardboard as she filled it. The inside door locked tight and duct taped around the edges. But it was so cold that winter. So very cold. The old lady upstairs died. So many people did, but that was the closest death to Gerta. They buried her in the snow out back, but Gerta doubted she was still out there. Scavengers ate even the roughest of meat.

60

Wind that smelled of the sharp dagger of winter whipped the tattered banner and hail stung the stones of the castle. Sentries, men bundled against the cold and wishing they were inside by the fire, passed each other with a nod. The forests groaned far below and away for as far as the squinting, watering eye could see.