The Housing Bubble

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by Ahansen

It’s snowing out today, and a sharp wind is blowing hard through the mountain hollow. The electricity has gone out, which means I have to keep a fire going to keep me warm and my pipes unfrozen. It also means that I can’t pump any water to the house, which means I have to ration what I’ve got stored and disburse it by hand and on foot to the critters milling around the ranch waiting for same.

Which is a muddy pain and makes me think unkindly thoughts about the people who are so reliable about sending me a monthly bill for the kilowatts I’ve pulled from their (heavily taxpayer-subsidized,) electrical grid.

I have a generator, of course. No self-respecting hillbilly would be without at least one or two of them in some semblance of working order. Electricity, water, communications, roads are not things one takes for granted up here in the sticks—especially not in the rainy season. But in the many years I’ve lived here, and through the innumerable black outs I’ve endured, I’ve never been sufficiently moved to actually go out and use my generator. To do so would be like admitting defeat; acknowledging that I’ve given up all hope of
the Southern California Edison Company finding me in my darkened misery and literally reconnecting me to my fellow citizens.

So I’ve made it a matter of personal pride to ride through these lapses — no matter what. After all, the people who first settled this place certainly did so without their Mr. Coffees or Jacuzzis. (Although, in all fairness, they did have some nifty hot springs.) And I must admit that the hassle of hooking the accursed machine up, hauling in the gas and/or propane tanks, banging up my hands, knees, elbows, and (on the chance I actually get it going,) having to listen to the awful racket, mitigates against my caving to my inner wuss. I’d rather just wait it out. The power always comes back on.
Doesn’t it…?

My empiricist’s faith in the American power grid ensures that my generator remains under its canvas tarp, silent, unprimed; a shelter for the kangaroo rats, black widow spiders, and who-know-what-else that may have made it their home over the last decade. I don’t know what’s going on under there and I don’t wish to find out.

How many housed Americans do you suppose are of a similar mind? There is the ring of metaphor in here somewhere….

I would imagine that most of us never give a moment’s thought to not having running water on tap and sewage disposal on demand. We take for granted that when we flick a switch, a light will illuminate, and
when we set a thermostat, there will issue forth cold or hot air. That there will be gasoline at our fuel stations, and food in our grocery stores, and pixels aplenty when we turn on our handheld devices and press “send.”

But perhaps we shouldn’t be so certain anymore. I’ve seen for myself what happens when people make major assumptions that turn out to be catastrophically wrong. That the “value” of their houses will always
go up, for example. Or that our years of hard work will reward us with a comfortable retirement. That our savings are safe and our investments sound. That we will get out of our lives in proportion to what we’ve put into them.

Let’s just say that in my experience, you never know when you’re gonna get munched.

Which leads me to my point.

In the next days we will each in our way gather to be thankful for what we DO have. What surrounds us and warms us, be it a feast-laden table in company of friends and family, or a moment of spiritual clarity in the privacy of our own bathtub—this is what we celebrate.

Usually when I’m admonished to “be thankful,” my thoughts go immediately to those people who have it worse off than I do—and there are a soul-numbing heartbreak of such people. But I think that’s missing the point. We all have it worse off than someone, and we all have it better than others. Thankful isn’t relative, nor is it comforting. Thankful is a state of grace. A respite from reality. It’s knowing that the generator remains—for the time being, at least—uncranked.

On this day I would like to give an enthusiastic Thank You to the steadfast and courageous Ben Jones for maintaining this long-running forum for us in the face of ridicule, invective, and threat of directed retaliatory mayhem—and always in spite of the significant personal expen$e he incurs in doing so. (This is a hint, people.)

As dedicated and committed as our dear old Mums, Ben’s thehousingbubbleblog is every bit a gift of love as the turkeys on our tables…though in truth, “turkey” is probably not the most apt comparison here, as HBB is nothing of the sort—even if as individuals we sometimes have our moments….

The blog is our own alternative Congressional Record, complete with proposals, debates, screeds, and advisories, legislative analysis, malicious gossip, and self-important speechifying. (Who? Me…?) Its approaching-half-a-million individual comments are the real-time history of a nation in transition, our collective narrative, free of official spin and unsanitized by political “correctness.” Our posts represent the cumulative wisdom of a thoughtful and passionate congress of concerned and patriotic American citizens, the HBB Family—of which I am honored to be a part. And most thankful to all who contribute to this board.

Ahh, here’s power back on. Time to recharge…for now.

Eat lotsa turkey!