Month: January 2021

I am constantly seeing people introduced on TV and social platforms as “Influencers”. I have to confess, until a few months ago, I had no idea what an “influencer” was. I had to ask my daughter, who couldn’t help but smile at my lack of pop culture currency. She explained to me that influencers are people who blog or post consistently about various products or services or causes in an attempt to “influence” public opinion. This is usually done with the ulterior motive of selling something.

My daughter further tells me that people are making a ton of money and becoming national celebrities doing this sort of thing. Apparently all they do is sit by their laptops and type opinions. Companies pay them money to express favorable opinions.

Really? Gee. I could do that. I spend a lot of time sitting by my laptop and typing opinions, but so far nobody has offered me a cent. Guess I just don’t influence anybody.

Let’s see, if I wanted to become an influencer, what exactly would I want to influence people to do? Buy clothing? I don’t know clothing. I’ve had the same three pairs of blue jeans for ten years. When I hang them up they curl into a sitting position in the shape of my posterior on the hanger.

Review restaurants? My idea of a big night out is ordering the combo instead of just the burger. I’m not what you would call a connoisseur. I couldn’t even spell connoisseur. Had to look it up.

Evaluate TV and movies? All we watch these days is Andy Griffith, game shows, football and local news. I can’t make it through the sexual saturation, graphic violence, and profane language of most everything else.

Books? Never been much of a fan. I read a lot of child stories to my grandkids. Maybe I could blog about what’s really going on between Winnie the Pooh and Tigger.

Home improvement? Yeah, right. The biggest home improvement project I’ve ever undertaken is picking up toys after grandkids have scattered them everywhere.

Fitness? Please. I’m in such bad shape my mirror refuses to reflect my image.

(Sigh) Guess I just don’t have any strong enough opinions to be an influencer. At least not strong enough that somebody would pay me to express them. I’d love to influence people to keep those Bernie Sanders memes coming. Can’t get enough of those. I love chocolate brownies, old insulated slippers, Tom Hanks, dachshunds, two person porch swings, cashews, and daffodils.

Anybody want to pay me for influencing about any of those?

Didn’t think so.

In 1989 Sharon and I moved our family from the Birmingham, Alabama city limits to the northeastern suburb of Trussville, about 20 miles away. At the time, our new home was about two miles from the heart of this scenic little town, borderline “out in the country”. It sat on a fairly big lot, in a cul de sac, with a half acre backyard and a full basement in a peaceful subdivision sparsely dotted with similar homes.

We built a screened in porch off the back, and finished the basement, which, at differing times, would become living quarters for both of my adult children when they moved back home. When they eventually went off and got married, it became my man cave, gloriously repainted in the colors of my beloved Green Bay Packers.

Progress being what it is, much has changed in the last 31 years. The town pretty much sprawled out to us. Where once we were on the periphery of civilization, now we find ourselves right in the middle of it. The town built its beautiful sports and recreation park next door. Two of the finest elementary schools are on either side. Access to the interstate is just up the street. Shopping and restaurants have sprung up all around us. Our subdivision has expanded into four phases, most all of which are completely built out and lived in.

Combine this with everything that is happening today in the housing market. Interest rates are incredibly low, and new houses on large lots with full basements are hard to find, especially in central locations such as ours.

All of which is to say our humble little burg is suddenly in very high demand. Because of the interest rates, young couples with small children are able to pay top dollar for homes like ours. Many of my neighbors, seeing the ridiculously high prices they can now get for their abodes, have not been able to resist the temptation to put them up for sale, and they usually sell instantly.

People are constantly telling us its time to do the same. That we’re crazy if we don’t capitalize on the current housing climate. My own daughter is among the loudest voices, repeatedly reminding us of the money we could make on the deal (of course, with the ulterior motive of having us move next door to her for purposes of instant child sitting). Apparently we are fools if we don’t sell.

Here’s the thing. I love our place. Everything about it. Walking my dog in the backyard as he investigates the trees that I planted three decades ago, working crossword puzzles sitting in my porch, cheering on my team in my man cave, taking walks along the creek that winds around the sports park.

We’re content as two pearls in a clam, and I refuse to feel anxious about it just because there is money to be made.

I suppose home ownership for many is simply viewed as an investment. You buy it, make the trendy renovations, and when the time is right, you sell at a nice profit and restart the cycle somewhere else. Not the case for me. To me, a home is a place in which to grow roots and to seek refuge when the world gets too crazy, as it has during this Covid-19 madness. My kids were raised here. Now they bring their kids here. The walls witnessed the twisting trail of my middle-aged life, and ushered me into the senior stage. I know every inch of it, cleaned it, painted it, treated it with tender loving care for all these years. All of my victories were celebrated here, all of my defeats consoled.

Likely, there will come a day when all of our familiar and treasured neighbors will be gone, and we’ll be surrounded by young folks who will form their own social relationships, uncomfortable with including old fogeys like us. A day when I will no longer enjoy the smell of freshly mown grass when I cruise the backyard on my rider, a day when the increasing traffic around us will be too busy to bear. A day when we will eventually sell this place.

By that time, the housing bubble will probably have burst. Any profit we might make will be minimal or non-existent, and we’ll wonder if we were foolish for waiting so long.

In the mean time, if you need me, I’ll be on the two person rocking chair on my porch, listening to the blackbirds and mourning doves chirp me into taking a nap.