Home

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I have moved numerous times in my life. Not just from apartment to apartment, or house to house, or even from town to town, though I have done all of those. I tend toward the big moves; province to province, across the country, to another country all together.

I am a wanderer. A dreamer and a do-er. A traveller and gatherer of experiences and people of all kinds. I think it's safe to say that those who knew me as a younger child, knew me as a meek, quiet and sensitive thing. Almost fragile and dreamy. At least that's how I see my young self, looking back from middle age. I don't know that anyone would have expected me to take the route I chose in life.

When I was five years old, I remember thinking, 'I'm not getting married, I'm going to University (big 'U' in my fresh mind), and I'm going to live in France.' I don't know how I could have known anything about these things, or about anything at that age, but those were my convictions. I may not have held completely to them (a smile and a wink here), and I haven't yet lived in France, but this house that I bought in the farthest corner of this beautiful country, is a step on my way there.

Before this most recent move to the farthest corner of this country, I had just moved from Calgary, Alberta to Brampton, Ontario with my lovely, almost-grown daughter. She was to attend school in the big city of Toronto. I was to get her settled and then find a little place in the country and finally be able to save towards a house one day.

With all of my many moves from one place to another, despite all of the amazing people connected to each place, I hadn't yet found home, the place I would never want to leave. I would talk about finding a place where I would be able to watch the trees grow and my garden mature, a place that I could settle in and grow into.

Home as always been the house or the apartment in which I am currently living. Home was the place I made beautiful. No matter if there was a hole in the living room floor and the fridge was duct taped together, or it was a blank, new-built box made with cheap materials in as short amount of time it could take. I always made it a beautiful, creative space. My home becomes my sanctuary, and few cross the threshold. My time, alone in my house, is precious to me. This is where I re-group, where I am free to listen to my muse and lose myself in the act of creating.

That's enough of backstory for now. Onto the reason I am writing this.

When Maggie and I moved to Ontario, things didn't exactly go as planned, as life often doesn't and we found ourselves, expensively living in Hamilton, Ontario, amidst earth-shaking construction and a pandemic that forced low-paying jobs and the accompanying stress. Not a great time. I think Maggie finally had enough of my constant complaining about not wanting to live in the city and the expense and the noise and “this is not a life!”,

that she started talking about how she was so ready to move out on her own. I knew she was. My girl and I have an super close relationship. It's been just her and me for 19 years.

We were both excited at the prospect of exploring life on our own.

I've been looking at real estate for years. Dreaming of a time I could finally pull enough together to put a down payment on something permanent. Owning a house meant finding a home base and settling down. It meant having somewhere people could visit. It meant something to leave to Maggie after I die. It meant security in my impending old age. It was dream I had dreamt for a long time. I was ready. For years, I would research places from Ontario to BC that were not too far north (I need to garden. Calgary was enough of a challenge with its fluctuating temperatures and short, pseudo-summer).

How could I save a penny towards a house purchase when it was all I could do to pay rent, and child-raising expenses? I saw the real estate market creeping upwards everywhere and my prospects diminishing. I spent hours calculating how much it would cost to fix a roof and water damage on this house in the interior of BC, or how rustically I wanted to live on this property in cottage country in Ontario.

The years passed and I set my sights lower knowing that could never come up with any kind of downpayment while raising a child on my own, as an artist. So I started looking at houses that were no more than $150,000, just to see what was out there. Surprisingly, there were great deals to be had... if I only had the money. They all sold quickly and I began to lose hope of ever owning anything.

Then we found ourselves in Hamilton, and I knew I had to get out, but was so, so tired of paying too much in rent and really didn't want to be moving again into a place that was not mine and therefore temporary. I went to the bank to see what kind of mortgage I could qualify for.

$50,000. Yep that's right. I did not miss a zero in there. This is when they average mortgage was closer to $800,000.

So I widened my search, I did not give up. I had a couple of people mention the East Coast, which I had never really considered. I find it interesting that there is a line drawn after Ontario and those to the west of that line never really consider those to the east of it, other than chuckling at the quaint accent, uniquely Canadian, and thinking fondly of our friendly, impoverished neighbours playing their reels and jigs amongst the lobster and fishing boats.

Maybe not surprisingly, the prices out east were significantly lower than anywhere else in Canada, except perhaps the hinterlands of Manitoba or Saskatchewan. Most communities are quite rural and the employment situation is largely dependant on fishing to this day. Also not surprisingly, in an area known for its natural beauty, and inexpensive lifestyle, there are a large number of artists.

I found a couple of places that looked interesting and put the call out to my east coast friends about the surrounding community. I looked at one house on the South Shore and fell in love with the woodwork and the room after room of character. It was one of those old houses that you just know have hidden cubby spaces, and this one was no exception with a second staircase leading upstairs from the kitchen at the back of the house. It had been vacant for some time, serial tenanted for many years and needed love and attention. And it had a small property with woods, septic system and well. But it was above my price, so I shelved it. Within a week or two of seriously looking, I had made some calls and felt the need to settle on something. Nothing felt quite right. Lot too small. Too close to neighbours, no income potential. In a stinky, paper mill town.

I went back to the listing of the old house, just to look at the pictures again and found the price had dropped... right into my range, so I called the realtor, and put in an offer. This is where things should have fallen into place. I had the 5% downpayment, I had the income required. I contacted the mortgage specialist at the bank.

Now, if it had not been in the middle of a pandemic, I would have found a way to fly out there to look at the place. If had not been in the middle of a pandemic, I would have been able to go in person to the bank and speak with the mortgage specialist face to face. But it was in the middle of a pandemic, so I could do neither. I had done my research on buying a house, and the associated costs and steps. I'd been doing it for years! I had done my research on the kinds of mortgages available and the one that I felt fit. But my mortgage specialist was inexperienced and had a seriously thick accent, and I could not understand the things she said over the phone. I asked her to communicate with me in writing as well so that I could understand the process she was taking me through as a first-time home-buyer.

From the get-go, she was not helpful, in fact, she was the opposite of helpful, putting up hurdles as fast as I jumped them. You are not likely to be approved, she told me, as my age was a consideration and the fact that I had never had a mortgage before. Don't bother getting an inspection, she told me, the mortgage adjudication would probably not go through. Knowing there was a time limit on having the conditions met, and knowing that the inspector I had spoken with had one appointment open that week and not another for three more weeks (real estate was moving quickly and inspectors were busy), I booked the appointment anyways. If I didn't and the bank approved me, I would have lost the house because of the delay. If I did it and the bank didn't approve me, I would have been out a few hundred dollars.

The language barrier and the ineffectual and opaque service she was giving me had prompted me to talk to the bank manager and her direct supervisor a number of times in order to change specialists. While they were at first unwilling, I finally was given someone with a little more experience and an accent I could understand on the phone. Still, I had to constantly backtrack and watch that she was doing the necessary steps in order to keep the sale moving forward. It was such a low-ball price, I figured they thought it wasn't worth their time. I think anyone else would have given up when originally told that it probably wasn't going to happen. But that's anyone else. This is me. I do not back down. I am brimming with tenacity and perseverence. I am a force when I see a direction in which I want to move. Just try to stop me!

So I kept pushing forward like a linebacker in training.

A phenomenal amount of stress, huge support from friends and family and something close to the divine stepped in and that is how I came to buy a 100 year old house on the outer reaches of the South Shore in rural Nova Scotia.

Next step, moving...