Prudent To Rent Pt 5

 By Maryanna Gabriel

This was all very well, but where was I supposed to live? The question of what was home swirled through my beleagured brain. Which took me to where I grew up. A very expensive place. Now that is. 

Where I grew up - nostalgia seeps in.  

Every time I go to West Vancouver, I make the trek up Sentinel Hill and stare at our old house. We had been transferred from Toronto and my father, an ad man, was a new hire with a local television station. West Vancouver was just a sleepy suburb in 1967 when my parents were out house-hunting. One place caught my artistic mother's eye; it had been on the market for months. In fact, the agent did not want to show it. The soaring glass windows, and wood ceilings reinforced with tremendous beams, were too avant garde. My parents loved it, it had wonderful views, and made the purchase for $33,000. Moan. Our course was set, and it was a happy time. The house suited us perfectly and we had many adventures as a family. 

As nostalgia seeped in, I thought to myself this was a past I could reenter. Friends I cared deeply for lived nearby. There was a housing co-op, and I thought maybe I would give it a go and apply. Geez, I would come full circle with my life. How poetic. Maybe I would grow younger and age backwards. And maybe I could work at the racetrack again, the job that funded so much: university, my first apartment, and travels. What a jolly idea.

Home. No worries. I got this. 

I filled out the forms. My friends were on board as reference. The reply came all too soon. It was so polite it took me several moments to understand I was being turned down. Not a fit, then. Well, fine. Probably for my higher good. I had been asking for guidance after all. Who knows how these things work? 

A blow, nonetheless. Sigh. Maybe I could earn billions and buy our old house back. Wouldn't that feel weird. Now there's a plan. Sure, Mayanna - while you're at it, ask for another billion to pay the taxes. Alright already, back to the drawing board.