A New England Tale

Ten fifty and my neck is tired of holding my heavy head. Ten fifty one and I'm only through my second sentence. If only I could write as fast as you could read, 'twould be better for the both of us. For me, it would mean getting to bed before my wife turns off all the downstairs lights. For you, it would mean I didn't take myself to seriously as a writer. If I were a better writer you would want me to take my time. But as it stands, with my skills painfully out of sorts, any attempt toward aesthetics comes off as dull and vapid and overinflated. Keep hammering at the keys David, keep hammering at the keys.

Yes, you heard me right. I am now living in a place that has a downstairs. How came I to live in a place that has a downstairs (and thus, of course, an upstairs)? Well, sit down a second, let me tell you a story.

Once ago, just a few months back we were. Sarah and I. The boys too. Sarah and I were sitting on the couch in the apartment on the campus of Gordon Conwell Seminary. The boys were sleeping. As it stood, I would plug on ahead and get two masters degrees (Theology and Church History), the second of which I was just beginning. The first was basically through. But here was the thing: as is typical of me, I was just realizing the enormity of the task ahead. Seven classes left with one J-Term and one semester to go. That and part time job and the boys boys boys. Too much, I said. Too much. And for what? And look how much money we're spending. For what? Sarah asked. You can't just turn tail and run with half a semester invested. Good point, yes, I said. But what if I just don't want to. I'm tired of education--at least education in the form it takes here at the Conwell? What then? What then? She asked. What then? Where would we live? We've got just months to go here and what would you propose we do? And, not that this should be a big factor, but how would we explain such a thing to our friends and family. Good point, yes, good questions, I said. I do not know. I do know I am tired of this place and we are spending a lot of money to be here, and that does not make sense. No it does not, she said. Let's pray, I said. I don't know what to do. Indeed, let's pray, she said.

Twice ago now, a week or so later (the lights are going out now, Sarah is turning out the downstairs lights, eleven oh six and she is turning out the lights). Sarah put in a call to the Hamilton housing people to ask about low-income renting options. Is there section eight? She asked. No, but there are some low income renting options. And there is this other thing. There is a lottery being held next month to afford qualified low income families the opportunity to purchase newly built condos at a greatly reduced price. Really? Sarah asked.

And so we applied. The condo development was just down the road, so we went to look at them. Beautiful, they were. They were brand new, three bedroom, two-thousand square foot condos. No way, we said. Could such a thing happen?

Yes, to cut a long two months of waiting down, we did come in high enough in the drawing to make the waiting list such that two months later we received a phone call telling us we had the opportunity to buy. And so we did (ha! if only the process of buying a house was as simple as those four words, but it is not). And so, yes, I am sitting in the downstairs with the lights out.

The boys are sleeping, I am looking toward another day of working from home as a web developer (I go in about once a week)/non-profit director (for the same company)--but more on that later. This was to get the ball rolling. This was to get me typing as fast as you could read until I got so tired I had to call it quits. And this is me calling it quits.