Every time I buy a house, I learn something.
I once bought a house next to a tiny creek, and learned that tiny creeks don’t always stay that way.
I bought a house next to the airport, where we couldn’t hold a conversation with the windows open. Or out on the patio.
Friend, diving to the ground and covering her ears: What IS that?
Me, looking around: What?
That one, I should have predicted. Growing up, I lived in a house where the backyard ran down to the railroad tracks. We were on the wrong side, no doubt.
Friend, in shaking house: Is that a TRAIN?
In the summer, the sparks from the wheels used to cause brush fires. Plus there were big holes in the yard with crayfish living at the bottom of them. I’m not making this up.
Buy a house with a leaky basement, and your next house will be built on a slab.
Buy a house on a slab, and you find out there’s no place to put things. And no place to go during the tornado warning. I’m a Midwest, girl, and huddling in the bathtub doesn’t do it for me. I imagine soaring over the rooftops in my soaking tub, gripping the porcelain on either side.
Buy a house on a busy road, and you’ll vow that your next place will be on a cul-de-sac. Or in the middle of nowhere.
Buy a house in the middle of nowhere, and you’ll regret that you have to get into the car to buy coffee.
Buy a house in the suburbs, and you won’t know your neighbors.
Buy a house in a small town, and you may get to know them too well.
Buy a house with a huge yard, and your next place will be a condo. Where you’ll pine after the flower borders you left behind.
Buy a house with a leaky roof, and you’ll crawl all over the roof of your next house, looking for heaven knows what, because you’re not going to make the same mistake again. Meanwhile, you overlook the faltering septic system.
You see, none of the lessons learned will ever do you any good, because there are myriad more mistakes to be made.