I've just rented my house. Or, rather, our house - Liam's, mine and the bank's. Really, of course, I rent it from the bank, and now I'll rent it to someone else. A journalist (talented travel writer) become professor and his energetic wife, who seem the right karmic residents for this place that has been my home for longer than anywhere, and home to my children, too, for all of their known lives.
I am sad and angry that I could no longer withstand the pressure of the property tax, the willful ignorance of the people of the Live Free or Die state that enslaves in a system the robs the landed poor.
Because the wealthy control the legislature and the political power in the state, they successfully keep taxes from their coffers while propagating the idea that "broad-based" taxes are evil and must be resisted. So my son and I lose our home because I simply cannot keep pouring $8000 a year into a failing real estate market. The house that was worth $350K five years ago is now appraised at $225K - while the town still taxes me at the highest rate in the state on $292K
I've been easing the pain by painting over memories - the wall writing and carvings my children left have been spackled and Bin-ed away, floors sanded, trim repainted. Oddly, it is becoming the place it always could have been. So, I will grieve it the more.
How do you tell your kid you don't have your house anymore? Sorry, son. I feel myself shrinking, shriveling from the task.
And somewhere in Fairfield County, CT, a banker deposits his bonus. I can thank him for his part in taking down the economy, which eventually cost me my job and then our home. It makes me hope, frankly, that there is a hell in which he can roast for eternity.
But I know I have to be careful what I wish for!
