Real estate is emotional. Why? Because a home is more than walls and a roof, it鈥檚 a canvas and container for our lives, our families, our communities. As part of an on-going series, we鈥檝e asked local writers to share their stories on real estate and housing.听Want to write for the Star鈥檚 Home Truths series? Email听hometruths@thestar.ca.
We turned onto the leafy street, ready to lose our third bidding war in eight months. On the sidewalk in front of the “for sale” sign, we spied a crowd of prospective buyers, their desperation shining in the twilight.
“I don’t want to stand with them, please pull over,” my wife, Dawna, said.听We watched agent after agent go inside to present bids. My cellphone was in hand as instructed by our agent who, away for the weekend, had deputized a colleague to submit our offer.听
Finally, a woman emerged jumping for joy, arms in the air. Our hearts hit the floorboards. “Let’s go 鈥 but not past the crowd,” Dawna said, tears in her eyes. My phone rang.听
I told the agent: “It’s OK, I know we lost. We saw somebody celebrating and it’s not us.” No, she exclaimed: “That was me being happy for you. You won! Get in here to sign some papers.”听
This was 2002.听As I did some yard work shortly after we moved in, a man walking his dog nodded at our cute semi-detached near Queen Street East. “I heard you paid more than $300K for it.” Um, yeah, I replied, a little more.
In a pitying tone he shot over his shoulder: 鈥淚 never thought somebody’d pay more than $300,000 for a house on this street.鈥澨
I ran inside, told my wife and wondered what the hell we had done.
Now, with hindsight, I know听we won the lottery听without buying a lottery ticket. Not that we didn’t pay in different ways. Purchasing a house remains one of the most stressful, emotional events of my life. If we had lost again, I wasn’t sure I could continue without a long sanity break. And now, with homes on my street routinely selling for between $1 million and $2 million, the promise of an enviable windfall for retirement is tempered by what cashing in would mean for our kids, who would likely face a far more difficult buying experience 鈥 in the unlikely case they can get into the market at all.
Our buying experience started in late winter 2001. We looked at $320,000 starter homes in gentrifying Roncesvalles Village but bidding wars pushed actual sale prices out of our range. A friend said look east, where we found similar homes selling for $250,000 to $300,000, with bidding wars somewhat less fierce.
Our first miss was a renovated woodsy home on Rhodes Avenue west of the Beach. We were outbid by $25,000 鈥 at the time a crazy enough sum that we shrugged it off. The next one stung 鈥 a home on Dilworth Crescent in East York. We didn鈥檛 know we were up against very good friends. They didn鈥檛 know either and beat us by $5,000.
I felt bereft but our agent, Wafa Masri 鈥 who became and remains a good friend 鈥 said: “That home wasn’t meant for you. Trust me. You will get the home you are supposed to get. It’s out there.”听
I balked when Wafa suggested the cute semi in , west of Leslieville. That stretch of Queen was rough at the time, having been neglected by the city for more central parts of the core,听and we wanted kids. 鈥淭rust me,鈥 she said, 鈥渢hat area’s going to get great. Just go look at the house.鈥澨
We talked about our semi-detached as a first home but, two mostly grown kids later, we’re still here.
I have since discovered that our area is magic 鈥 a treed family street so close to downtown that you can see the bank towers. Walkable, multiple streetcar lines, 听plus听a new lush 鈥渞enaturalized鈥 Don River听opening to Lake Ontario.听
Also, diverse and interesting neighbours with whom we鈥檝e raised families, celebrated, mourned and loaned, between us, everything from eggs to cars.
After renovations and roof repairs the time never seemed right to try to trade up into prime Riverdale. I was secretly relieved.
We already had, nearby, the Danforth, Little India and the Beach. Then Queen East morphed into a renowned restaurant strip rife with funky shops and coffee bars, albeit with higher rents and the loss of beloved working-class staples such as Jim鈥檚 Restaurant.
No matter how bad a day I have, when I turn on to my street, with its arched tree canopy and mix of gingerbread workers’ cottages, Victorians and moderns, my mood lifts. You could not prescribe something more potent.
When we bought, our loose plan was to eventually downsize to a rental or small condo, and use the price difference to subsidize retirement.
Our home has probably quadrupled in value. But I love the place as much as I hated the ordeal of buying it. Also, I can鈥檛 stop thinking about my long-ago conversation with an American friend who lives in Japan.
His wife’s Osaka parents had a big enough lot that Rob and Ryoko were able to build their house behind the family home. I joked that, given sky-high Japanese land values, they could subdivide, cash out听and move back to Wisconsin to buy the Green Bay Packers.
“Can’t do that, it’s taboo,” Rob said seriously, explaining that selling, with a strong chance you can’t buy back in, dooms your descendants to never own land.
I think 海角社区官网is there. Maybe, by clinging to our house to have something to give our kids, I鈥檓 clinging to an outdated, elitist concept we can no longer afford. Why should those who own get nest eggs? Maybe our 21st-century kids will care more about travel and freedom than bricks and mortar 鈥 who says a house equals stability and happiness? I am fully aware that this internal debate is steeped in privilege.
I am sure people will tell me the best course of action is obvious:听Let my kids fend for themselves.听Sell and invest some of the windfall for them.听Rent out the house and live somewhere cheaper until our plans, and post-work needs, become clear.
With my retirement visible, but not imminent, I鈥檓 finding it hard to be rational. What has happened to the cost of living in 海角社区官网is anything but rational. In 1961, my parents bought a three-bedroom Etobicoke home for $19,500. Forty years later, at the turn of the millennium, we bought for 16 times that sum. The average home now costs more than $1.1 million, or 56 times my parents’ outlay. Our wages, and no doubt those of my kids, can鈥檛 begin to keep up.
Also not rational 鈥 the magic we found here. We could sell and re-enter the housing market hunger games. But, even if we win, what will we lose?
So I remain parked 鈥 irrational, emotional and afraid to rejoin the crowd out in the twilight.
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