I’ve been getting ready for another property-tax protest. It’s a yearly ritual: The county appraisers do a flyover or drive-by, or throw darts at a board. They send out a whopping new evaluation, my jaw drops, and I get ready to protest.
I’ll round up all the usual documentation to show what an Appalachian shack I’m living in. Cracks in the outside walls. Estimates from foundation repair people. Photos showing this year’s new problem: In a torrential storm a few weeks ago, we discovered that the people who did our new roof didn’t quite get it right: Water leaked into the kitchen, leaving water stains on the ceiling, etc. More estimates for repair costs, painting and the like. Oh–and did I tell you about our heating system? Musta come with the house. We’re talking ancient, probably dangerous. I’ve got a replacement estimate.
And so on. If it goes as it usually does, they’ll knock off about half the proposed increase, I’ll sigh and shake my head and agree to it, and my modest rebellion will end for another year, at which time they’ll sock me with another big increase.
Maybe it’s because we’re about to head to Destin, Florida for what I hope will be some great fishing, but I somehow found myself thinking of Hemingway’s novel, The Old Man and the Sea, and poor old Santiago, who hooks the great fish and then must watch impotently as the hungry sharks gnaw it to the skeleton before he can get it to shore.
Can’t imagine why that image comes to mind.
