My son and his wife come into the den where we’re sitting, all smiles. “You got it?”
“Yes. We signed the lease as soon as they handed it to us.”
There had been some trepidation about finding housing near where they are working. My son and his wife had to go through a screening interview yesterday, and bring their dog. I’ve written about her, Friendly. They call her “Fraidy” because anxiety makes her timid—and defensive. This meet-and-greet would involve two unfamiliar adults, two young children ages four and seven, and their own pup, as well as an additional neighbor, also a dog owner, who rents the unit right behind them.
Their new hometown boasts a population of 53,000, and housing is exceedingly tight. Those looking for renters have their choice. But they wanted my kids. Jobs. Educations. Recent home owners themselves. Yesterday I read a disturbing article in High Country News entitled, “Did James Plymell Need to Die?” Set where they have just landed a berth, the story indicted the police force for its criminalization and heartless treatment toward the homeless.
Homelessness is a topic for another post. What can we do to make life better for those so desperately struggling?
And I feel both guilty and selfish to move past the human toll of inadequate housing to the personal satisfaction that my kids made the cut. We all want our children to be happy, and finding a place to settle is a step on the path. Something I will continue to ponder, now that they have a place to call home.