You know you’re getting older when you catch your
adult kids walking around with a tape measure envisioning the remodel after
you’re dead. Actually, in our younger
son’s case, he’s sort of hoping for the remodel before we’re dead. “You
could really do something with this place,” he enthuses hopefully when he and
his wife and the kids and dog are down for the weekend. He envisions at minimum a second story master
suite angled to maximize what would be an unobstructable ocean view, a wrap-around
front porch for waving to the neighbors in our family-friendly neighborhood, and
reconverting the ill-considered 1955 garage remodel back into a garage (amen to
that). We’re very clear that his
fantasies include a remodel to his specifications on our dime.
We couldn’t agree more that this tiny house on a
prime lot could be a morphed into a really fantastic place. It’s had a lot of interior upgrades over time
but it is still the original 1947 footprint.
Its 1600 square feet (including the converted garage)
felt enormous when my ex and I bought it in 1973, much smaller when we added
two kids, positively palatial when the kids departed, and now totally sardine-ish
when both kids and families show up. We
think it will make a wonderful remodel for someone. But we’re not those someones.
I’ll confess that a part of me has always regretted that the timing was never right for that view remodel (divorce, college bills etc.). As we’ve explained to the kids, the house, the cars, and their educations are finally paid for. Definitely not looking for more debt, except at tax time when we realize our deduction-less tax burden singlehandedly supports several branches of state and federal government.
I’ll confess that a part of me has always regretted that the timing was never right for that view remodel (divorce, college bills etc.). As we’ve explained to the kids, the house, the cars, and their educations are finally paid for. Definitely not looking for more debt, except at tax time when we realize our deduction-less tax burden singlehandedly supports several branches of state and federal government.
We’ve told our younger son that we think all of his remodel
ideas are wonderful and that we will be happily looking down (or up) on them when
the time comes. He actually owns his own
house in L.A. so it’s not like he and his family don’t have a nice roof
over their heads. But I think if you
grow up in La Jolla, you never lose the draw to this place.
Of course, the other way you know you’re getting old
besides the kids standing on the roof with a sketch pad is you have to set up
those nagging Living Will instructions.
(It’s pretty much all down hill
once you wake up on your 50th birthday and find both an AARP card
and an appointment for a routine colonoscopy in the mail.) But one does have to decide at some point who
will make decisions for one’s health care once neither you nor your spouse are
able to. Did we want to appoint our
older son, the clinical social worker who runs programs for the homeless and
has done hospice care? Or should we go
for the younger son who has an MBA?
In our fantasies, the social worker kid is sitting
by our bedside adjusting our blankets and patiently listening to our endless
repetitious stories as he quietly strokes our hands. The MBA kid, we envision, is parked on the
other side, iPod ear buds cranked up to 120 decibels to drown out the annoying
stories, comforting us with one hand, and calculating the negative cash flow of
long term care on his Blackberry with the other. Next thing we know, Pffft! Someone
accidentally trips over the plug and we’re buried in the back yard.
For the
record, the MBA kid does not find this story funny at all, insisting that a
business degree would hardly prevent him from making compassionate decisions
about our care. And besides, he points
out, there’s barely enough room in the back yard to park the two of us without
disrupting the entire irrigation system.
And where’s the economy in THAT?
Actually, said my husband, Olof, the tripping over the plug part,
intentionally or not, didn’t sound half bad. Put us out of our misery. Besides, for all we know, it was the social
worker kid, driven cumulatively mad after the 500th repetition of
the infamous dead possum incident, whose foot suddenly intersected with the power
cord. And if it came right down to it, burying
us in the back yard (despite being massively illegal) actually sounds kind of
charming given our fondness for the place.
But one request: when you do the
remodel, can we have a spot with a view?
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