Maggie's Farm

He begins:

A year ago I moved into a row house in northeast Washington, D.C., two
miles from the Capitol. I paid $85,000, a price so low it’s a punch line
in a city where the average home sells for more than $600,000.

The hot water heater was missing, and the bathroom tub drained into a
downstairs closet. My house inspector, a dead ringer for the
gravel-voiced actor Sam Elliott, tramped silently from room to room,
occasionally pausing to pronounce, “It’s not proper.” The house was in
foreclosure and had been vacant for a couple of years, so when I found
crayons under the old carpet, I was spared the guilt of imagining them
in still-young fingers. But once, someone had loved this place. The
backyard bloomed with rosebushes staked with weathered shoelaces. With
an FHA-backed loan and a savvy contractor, I gutted the house and
renovated it. I found myself realizing a dream I’d assumed was miles out
of reach: I was a homeowner.