On February 17th â in the middle of nine days without power due to an ice storm â we had the foundation contractor out to re-inspect our house. We experienced some settling last fall, and I was worried that might indicate deeper problems.
For thirty minutes, the contractor explored the crawlspace while I sat in the living room, fretting. When he finished, he came up to tell me what he’d found.
“Look,” he said, “my assessment is the same as when you had me out here three years ago. Your foundation is fine. It’s not failing. The house isn’t falling down.”
I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
“That said,” he continued, “I do think you’d feel better if you were to reinforce one section of the foundation. It looks to me as if you’re seeing some minor expansion and contraction of the soil, which is what’s causing your settling issues. It’d cost about $9000 to remedy that.”
That evening as Kim and I huddled in our powerless living room, bundled in coats and jackets and using flashlights to read, I made a confession.
“I want to move,” I said. “I know we both love this house and this yard, but it’s taking a toll on my mental health.”
“I know,” Kim said. “I know you’ve been struggling. Ever since we moved in, I’ve seen how you’ve grown increasingly depressed and anxious. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy, but I think maybe you should give up on your dream of owning an old house.”
She’s right. I love old houses but my personality isn’t suited for them. They stress me out. (My ex-wife and I owned an old house too â she still lives there â and it caused me endless stress, as well.)
For the next couple of weeks, Kim and I spent many hours discussing our best course of action. Then, one month ago today, we made a decision: We would sell the house as soon as possible (to take advantage of the crazy Portland real-estate market), then rent a place for a while as we made a careful, calculated decision about where to live next.