My Back Yard
It’s not big but it is manageable and, at my age, anything ‘manageable’ scores big points. After all, retirement is to be enjoyed, not merely endured!
I have always loved to potter about a garden. Even as a child, I can remember tending a flower bed that Dad had donated to me, mainly to keep me from under his feet while he did the major jobs around our suburban plot of land. Mum encouraged my interest and occasionally bought a packet of seeds for me to plant and tend until the flowers were ready to grace her crystal vase on the dining room table.
Fast forward sixty years and when I was looking for what I was sure would be my final abode, a small back yard featured on my list of wants along with numerous other requirements: Somewhere central with easy access to the shops, all on one level, as stairs and steps were out of the question with my rheumatic knees, and low maintenance, preferably solid brick construction. I was also keen on having two bedrooms and two bathrooms - bugger sharing ablutions with any visitors I might find myself lumbered with! I was also hoping I could find a place with decent-sized rooms since the modern homes I’d inspected so far all seemed to specialise in promoting claustrophobia!
With a budget that in no way matched my dream home, I began the search. It took almost twelve months but I finally found a place that looked promising. Having recently returned from a trip overseas, I was trying to get myself back into Real Estate Hunter mode when I happened to pass a small realtor’s shop not far from the rented accommodation I’d been calling home for the past eighteen months. Naturally, I stopped to browse the offerings and was surprised to see a property that I remembered had first been listed at the time I’d begun my quest almost a year before. This was the only place I’d seen advertised that ‘ticked all the boxes,’ to use realtors' parlance, however, the last line of the blurb contained the reason I hadn’t even inquired about the property twelve months ago – the price!
At $480,000 the place was about a hundred grand more than I could afford, taking into account all those sneaky extras like conveyancing fees and stamp duty. I sighed in resignation and turned to go but couldn’t help scanning the blurb again: ‘Solid brick… central location… two bedrooms… two bathrooms… no stairs…generous sized living area…private courtyard... grow herbs and flowers. ‘No!’ I heard myself declare. ‘This is it.’ I pushed the shop door open and marched inside.
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Three months later, after some lively bartering, offers, and counter-offers, I couldn’t believe my luck when, using a ploy I remembered an old friend teaching me years before, I secured the purchase of my dream home. And at a price I could afford.
What is this clever ploy I hear you ask? Well, I’ll share it with you and maybe it will work for you one day. With the price of no more than $400,000 firmly locked in my mind, I proceeded to make very low offers in the mid-300s – in writing, to show that I was genuinely interested. As expected, the vendor rejected each offer one after the other. I impressed on the agent that I really wanted this property but could simply not afford what was being asked. Finally, the pièce de résistance: I calculated the amount of fees the agent would charge the vendor based on a selling price of $380,000 which worked out at approximately $11,000. I then wrote my final letter with the heading: Final Offer in which I explained that although my offer was well below the asking price, the property had been on the market for more than twelve months and so I was prepared to pay the agent’s commission meaning the vendor would get exactly what I was offering without any fees being deducted. This psychological ploy proved successful and the vendor agreed to my proposal.
Now, I sit here in my little courtyard under a small but beautiful flowering Jacaranda tree. My fifth Christmas in my ideal home is approaching and I lean back and soak up the late afternoon sun. Sure, I’m getting older, and thank the stars I got a place with no steps. I can still hobble down to the shops, just five minutes away and that second bedroom really comes in handy when friends and family come to visit. But best of all, I love my little backyard. There’s not much in the way of flower beds, in fact it’s mainly gravel, but that’s what makes it manageable and I need something manageable. Anyway, I’ve found that plant pots are a great substitute for garden beds and can be moved from one location to another, rheumatism allowing!
I bought some Jonquil bulbs yesterday and now I’m enjoying the almost sensual pleasure of planting them in warm soft loam in the big pots I’ve had stored in the garage. The sweet-smelling jasmine growing up the wall will give months of pleasure with its heady perfume. I especially want these perfumes in my backyard because soon the joy of seeing the flowers will be gone. The doctors tell me that the tumour in my head is eventually going to affect my eyesight. It will happen gradually over the next few months. I’ll start seeing black spots in my field of vision and these will gradually grow until my sight is totally gone. I have become resigned to this dark future but the feel of the foliage and the blossoms, the warm sun on my skin and the heady perfumes from my favourite flowers will compensate in some way.
Nowadays I take note of how many steps it takes from my kitchen door to the back gate, I close my eyes and feel where there is gravel and where the pavers are and I memorise where I have planted the herbs and where the flowers are. All these little exercises will help me find my way around this back yard so that I can enjoy the peace and quiet I find in this, my perfect place, among my sweet-smelling flowers and away from the traffic and noise of the outside world, beyond the high garden wall of my special retreat - my little back yard.
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