Off to work, to pay the handyman

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: The cracks are spreading. Last year’s faint threadlets on the bedroom ceiling now bleed through in clear jagged lines; what once were fine tracings on inner walls have begun to resemble bold inflation graphs in The Economist. The outdoor trim paint has been pulling from the house more and more each year, as that flippant decision — water-based or oil-based? — continues to haunt us. Our garage has a huge vertical crack into which my fingers can pass: cave crickets, the size of small scorpions and as sinister looking, only jumpier, have found these damp crevices more than suitable. And this is our well-maintained house, in South Orange, New Jersey.

The rental property, in Bradley Beach, New Jersey — the poor cousin — is in need of insulation; upper floors lack storm windows, winter tenants grumble over their heating bill. I see my son, who will one day inherit this estate, ruing his blighted lot along with his well-intentioned benefactor. I came into home ownership, by way of matrimony, in my early 40s. My husband brought to the marriage the house in South Orange and I brought a knowledge of the real estate market in Bradley Beach. That was my childhood home, and I yearned to return to a house there. It was the late ’90s and property values were still low enough. So we could think of it.

As a child, I had observed my father’s grimaces as he tended to his own Shore rental properties, loading lawn mower, ladders and endless cans of paint into his station wagon to pursue his weekend and after-work maintenance. I’ve looked to my husband to continue this tradition — and he’s looked right back at me.