The House That Ain’t Ours

I was out on the back porch yesterday afternoon, sipping a cold beer and throwing the ball for Buddy, when it hit me—not the ball, thankfully, but the absurdity of it all. We own our home.

At least, that’s what the paperwork says. The deed’s in our name, the mortgage is up to date, the fence, the flowerbeds, and the creaky screen door—ours.

We built half of it and cursed at the other half while maintaining it. And yet, every year, the county sends us a little love note, politely reminding us that if we don’t hand over a few thousand dollars in property taxes, they’ll take it all away.

I showed that bill to Buddy. He sniffed it once, sneezed, and wandered off to roll in something unholy.

I know taxes keep the lights on—the roads paved, schools open, emergency services ready. But it’s an odd feeling, knowing you can spend a lifetime working for something, finally call it yours, and still have to rent it back from the government.

Doesn’t feel like ownership. Feels like a hostage negotiation.

I got to thinking about my granddad, who built his house board by board. The man could make anything out of nothing.

A pair of sawhorses, a handsaw, and his own two hands. The house was his pride.

But even he had to scrape together money for taxes every year, right up until the day he died. My dad said it best, standing in front of that house at the funeral, “Turns out, you never really own land. You just lease it from the ones with guns and pens.”

That’s a bitter truth, but I don’t want to stay bitter. I’ve got better things to do, like trimming the lawn or brewing a fresh pot of coffee for whoever wanders by.

So, what’s a fella supposed to do?

Well, I figure if we can’t change the rules overnight, maybe we can change the way we play the game. Some of my neighbors have started setting aside a little envelope labeled “Property Ransom”—their words, not mine—where they drop a few bucks every week.

It’s small stuff—skip a burger here, skip a beer there. And just like that, by the time the tax man comes calling, the money’s already waiting, tucked away like emergency chocolate in the back of the pantry.

We’ve started doing it too, with the added incentive that if we come in under budget, we get to spend the leftovers on something fun. Now, I’m not saying that makes it right, but it does make it easier.

So here’s our challenge to you: find one thing you can do today that makes tomorrow just a little more secure. It doesn’t have to be big.

It could be dropping coins in a jar or planting tomatoes instead of buying them. It could be writing a letter to your local rep and asking, kindly but firmly, “Why am I paying rent on something I already own?”

And if all else fails, grab a beer, throw the ball, and tell the dog your troubles. He may not answer, but he won’t judge you either.