My home sweet Long Island home

In August, I paid off my mortgage. I didn't know if I'd ever see the day for a home of my own, because for decades I was a renter.

"Why are you throwing money away every month?" I was asked back then.

To me there was no difference between paying a landlord or a bank. Either way I had a monthly bill, but by renting I was free to move at any time, which I often did. Starting in the 1970s, my young son and I lived in Vermont, Brooklyn, Greenlawn, five places in Huntington Station, and Huntington village.

Landlords adored me. So fearful was I of rent increases that I did my own household repairs, landscaping, and indoor and outdoor painting. If I grew vegetables on the property, I would pay a tribute of sorts to the landlord like a medieval serf. I despised owing money and routinely paid the rent early.

All that time, I wondered deep down what it would be like to own a house. In my early 40s I realized that if I bought a house then, it would be paid for by the time I got old. So in 1996, I set out to find the perfect dwelling.

I chose to look in Huntington Station. I'd spent most of my adult life there. It was a community with more than a little affection for my family, which has had a sometimes slippery grasp on the middle-income tax bracket.

My real estate agent took me on a tour of affordable houses. She called ahead at the first house, where the owner's son was staying, to let him know we were coming.

Evidently he had never heard about staging a home to make it inviting for buyers -- or even fit for habitation.

It was before noon, and the house appeared to have hosted a party the night before. The young man had just quit after a year of working at a shop that specializes in auto oil changes. A plastic sign from that national chain swung from a nail above the garage door. Beer cans littered the driveway and front yard, which was packed with cars and motorcycles.

Inside, perhaps a dozen young people, some still wearing their oil-change uniforms, lay sprawled out on the couches and floors. Our sleepy-eyed host stumbled from room to room, knocking politely on each door to spare us from God knows what. My agent inquired about the advertised second bathroom. Down in the basement, the owner's son pointed at a hole in the floor. He said a friend had needed a toilet, so he took his out and gave it to him.

Eventually we plowed through empty pizza boxes and other party detritus to head to our next house, a block away.

"This is it!" I said when I saw the little two-bedroom bungalow. It had an unpaved driveway and was surrounded by towering spruce trees.

"Does this neighborhood need a cat lady?" I asked the bewildered agent, "because I really think I can fulfill that need." At the time, I think I had three cats.

The house had a deep porch with a wrought-iron railing. There was a feeling of the South about it, as if William Faulkner could have written "Absalom, Absalom!" there.

The price was great. The agent warned me that the house had "charm" but needed work. Built in the 1930s, the house needed interior and exterior paint, and a new roof and windows, just for starters.

I did not care. I loved the place and made it mine. If something nonessential broke, like the handle on a drawer, I let it be simply because I could.

I will admit that at one time, I had as many as seven cats (but that was with the arrival of a new litter). Now I am back to three.

The house is paid off, and as the owner, I live in fear of no bank or landlord.

Reader Ann Rita Darcy lives in Huntington Station.