I remember that October day when I was 28 years old and was handed the keys to my very first house. It was a big step for me because I’d spent the last few years moving from place to place, virtually homeless, “shacking up” with women. I had saved enough for a down payment and finally made the decision to purchase a house on the west side of the town I lived in.
I sat in the office at Century 21, with a giant stack of paperwork in front of me. The realtor and I were going over the details of the payment plan. Nobody ever explained compound interest to me before. I said something to the effect, “So if I only pay the minimum monthly payments, I’m going to have to pay three times what this place is worth.” He nodded in agreement. But, I signed the paperwork anyway...owning a house was better than paying rent because after a while at least some of those payments would be going toward my own net worth. After that, the keys were in my hand and the house was officially mine.
When I opened the door to let myself, and my large gray cat inside, it was like being handed a clean sheet of paper. There was a new chapter in my life full of possibilities yet to be written. It was exciting. I looked at the white walls and pondered over the concept that I could paint the walls whatever colors I chose. I had to fill the house with things…curtains, a television, furniture, and towels. That night I purchased a frozen pizza, and as I walked out of the store, I immediately turned around and went back in saying to myself, “wait a second, you don’t even own a pizza cutter.”
It felt good to own a home because it made me feel like I was a part of the American experience, and I finally had some stake in what happened in the country. As a young single guy, I created some of my fondest memories in that house. I associate those times with freedom, happiness, and tranquility; and I was proud of the life I had started building for myself. I would encourage any young person to do the same.
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