The Day Two Stories Collided

There’s a new family on our block. 

Thursday evening, while grappling with mowing the grass on my lawn during the coolest period all day, they made the first turn up their driveway and parked. 

The house they’re taking over has been on the market all year. Not to say the place isn’t in high demand. It is. The prior owner had a complicated situation. One nobody wants to face at his age. 

The new owners learned exactly what’s meant by complicated when they arrived to find him still gathering the last of his things.

The awkward moment was visible even at a distance.

The discomfort of one man being forced to say goodbye to a place where he lived for around 35 years, and the new owners suppressing the joy of a triumphant moment. 

Undoubtedly, they were appalled to see him still there, occupying the place they’re going to call home for the next 10, 15, 20 years. 

Minutes later, the new owner, a man around 40, walked by with his son. A boy maybe three years old. 

“Hello,” he said, waving politely. 

I nodded in his direction. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” 

He continued making his way down the block. More cars eased up and parked in front of his house but outside of their driveway. My old neighbor was going as fast as he could, squeezing more belongings into his trunk. His tiny terrier looked almost like a wife waiting in the driver’s seat, up on his feet, with his head stuck a tad bit out of the window.

Priced Out: The Brutal Reality of a Fixed Income  

Never really got to know him much at all. But I’ve waved at him hundreds of times as he drove past me slowly in his Oldsmobile 98, one of those late-model 1990s vehicles that only older Black men still drive. 

His wife died about five years ago. Like many married couples that fall into their patterns and roles, she apparently, from what other neighbors told us, was the half that managed their finances and money. 

Never, ever, ever, ever, outsource managing your finances to anyone. 

Not even your spouse. You need to know how to manage your own finances. 

Without her, and with precious few living family members on his side to help him, and living on a fixed income in a neighborhood where rapidly increasing property taxes and steeply escalating monthly utility bills collided, his finances collapsed. 

Over the last ten years, property taxes alone have added nearly $600 to my monthly mortgage payments, and the County recently approved another increase that will likely pump our mortgage up by another $100 starting in January 2027. 

We ourselves are beginning to think about pulling up stakes for a more affordable part of the country. So, imagine how burdensome these increases are when you’re long retired, on a tight fixed income, and finding a job becomes as likely as winning the Powerball.

The House Was Only Half the Problem  

For a period of two months last year, a collective of families on the block became directly involved with attempting to help him. A couple examined what options he had, which turned out to be none.

Most of the help involved decluttering, packing, and cleaning a house with 30-plus years of stuff inside. 

My partner led the effort to tackle his backyard, which took multiple weeks and multiple hands. She came back from the very first time doing that saying, “Did you know there’s a very big swimming pool back there?” 

Certainly I had no idea. A few neighbors have hidden treasures. 

The overarching goal during this period was helping him find a path to sell the house and get enough to walk away without owing his separate lenders anything. 

It was already enough to end up losing all equity on a home purchase back in 1990 for half the value of what it would cost today. 

His best-case scenario was being free and clear.

Somewhere early this year, one of those neighbors who helped assist was accused of having possibly stolen something he couldn’t find. It’s never possible to know the truth when “he said, she said” begins. 

All that’s clear post-incident was that the collective disbanded. Nobody, including my partner, wanted to risk being at the center of future accusations.

Eighty, Alone, and Looking Back 

While making my final few passes with the lawnmower on the front half of my lawn, he went by slowly, like he normally did, and waved to me. 

This isn’t the last time that I expect to see him. On various occasions after first moving into our home back in 2016, the daughter of the former owner would pop up outside in her car.

She even worked up the nerve about a year after we were living here to ring the doorbell and formally ask, “Would we be interested in selling?” 

If it weren’t for the fact that my parents raised me right, I would have pulled a “George Jefferson” by asking her to back up just a touch before slamming the door in her face. 

Instead, she got a tight-lipped, “No.” 

Never once after that day have we seen her. However, it’s exceptionally easy for me to put myself in his shoes. 

He’s 80 and alone. A former small business owner with poor money management skills. Likely living someplace in the community that he’s known for 35 years. 

What’s going to stop him from driving by to see his old house on a near-daily basis? 

It might be the one thing that gives him some peace. ■ 

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