Jeez. Here’s an update on the latest hoodlum fiasco in downtown Phoenix. Horrors!
I almost bought a condo right across the street from this happening. Very nice apartment, centrally located, excellent public transportation, right down the street from two major regional hospitals, and no further from my son’s house than this place is. If I’d gone ahead with that plan, I’d have been right in the middle of that mess.
Fortunately, I had better sense. On reflection, I saw that…
* The place was a hive: you’d be living right on top of the neighbors. And right underneath them. And right next-door to them. The noise would be constant.
* You had to park your car in a public garage. Likely it wouldn’t last long there…
* If they let me keep Ruby the Corgi, chances are that wouldn’t have lasted long, either. She does bark. And bark. And bark. Every time she heard someone coming up a hallway or banging around in their kitchen, you can be sure she’d want the world to know about it.
* Far as I could tell, it was a LONG way from any grocery or drug stores. Here, we have three major supermarkets and a Walgreen’s within easy walking distance.
….and, apparently, you’d be at risk of getting shot! 😮
Wrangling a four-bedroom house with a yard and a pool is no picnic: it does make the prospect of a nice high-rise apartment look pretty good. But boyoboy! Am I glad I decided against making that move.
The hired help here probably costs no more than the overhead in one of those fancy high-rises would. I have to pay Pool Dude, Gerardo the Marvelous Lawn Dude, and Luz the Ineffable Cleaning Lady. But none of them is breaking me up in business. And together they maintain the house handsomely, so I hardly lift a finger to take care of the place.
Now that I’m getting older (and older…and older…), I worry that I won’t be able to stay in a free-standing house much longer. But…but…why? Whence that worry?
It costs no more to hire people to come in and take care of the place than it would cost me to live in some holding pen for the elderly — probably less, come to think of it. My father moved into one of those places, and they took everything he got from the sale of his nice two-bedroom home in Sun City…and then some. He had a little left to will to me…but one helluva lot less than he would have had if he’d stayed in his sweet little house.
That’s what I figure: with the house paid off, living here doesn’t cost that much, even with the pay for the pool guy, the yard guys, the cleaning lady, and the various occasional repairmen. And barring a major catastrophe, I should be able to hire someone to come in and babysit me as I journey toward decrepitude.
And, with any luck at all (pray for a lightning bolt…), I’ll be able to leave this house, lock, stock, and paid-off barrel, to my son.
