Gated Community

January 4, 2021

The real estate agent stood next to her car inside the gate. She yelled, “Punch #2124.”

Sandy undid her seat belt, got out, and punched the code into the keypad. The gate opened. She got back in, refastened her seatbelt, and put the car in gear. She hit the brake. The gate had closed again.

We went through all that again except for the seatbelt part and drove through. We followed the agent through the neighborhood streets. The red-brick condo units looked well-constructed. She drove slowly, watching the unit numbers, and stopped at the last one on the street along the neighborhood boundary. She fumbled with the lockbox, we walked in.

The day was overcast and chilly, in the middle of that dead week after Christmas, when everyone is exhausted and no one wants to think about the New Year. But it was time for us to do this. Two months have passed since we landed in Greenville. Two weeks have slipped by since my operation, I’m walking slowly. We’ve got four months left on the apartment lease. The clock is ticking.   

The place was empty, the layout as described: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a gas-fed fireplace, a “bonus” room upstairs. It was little messy, scraps of trash here and there. Sandy noticed a water stain on the kitchen ceiling. I stepped out the back door. The tiny yard, within an eight-foot-high fence, was littered with gardening tools. Beyond the fence, traffic roared by. I went back inside.

“The owner was a single man,” the agent said. “His family just placed him in assisted living.” She walked with us through the rooms, pointing out this or that feature, trying to show enthusiasm. She said she didn’t know for sure if the neighborhood was age-restricted to “55 and better,” as the phrase goes, but it looked that way.

We drove to another unit a few blocks away. It was identical on the outside to the first, but on a gentle rise. The place across the street was decorated with a big orange “Tennessee” banner, which cheered me, a relief from the ubiquitous “Clemson” flags and tiger-paw decals here in Greenville, near the center of the Clemson universe.

The place was clean and freshly painted the same color we had chosen to help sell our house. The layout was identical to that of the first unit but the kitchen had been fixed up a bit, with a granite countertop, which is all the rage, and a colorful tiled backsplash. The living-area and dining room floors were new ceramic tile. I looked out back, the yard was the same size as the other place’s but faced a neighbor’s backyard instead of a busy street.

The asking price, $209,900, was $100 less than that of the first one. The monthly HOA fee is $267, which covers yard care, pest control, snow clearing, and upkeep for a community pool.

We drove away. The gate opened automatically. We wished the agent a happy New Year. “We’ll keep looking,” she said, smiling. We headed back to the apartment.

So this is house-hunting, our first try since 1987. Sandy found the two units on the internet. We had driven past the neighborhood but couldn’t enter without the agent. Now we know something about gated communities. At this one the unit layouts all are identical, scratch that, some of the two-car garages have two doors, others have one. All your neighbors would know exactly what your place looks like inside, except for your furnishings and the wall color.

I realized I had never asked myself what is the point of the gate? To keep the riffraff out? The tourists, door-to-door salesmen? The drug kingpins and Hell’s Angels? Some gated communities include golf courses and other features not open to the public. No doubt, the residents would say, the gate ensures security. But most neighborhoods are fine without gates. At this one, a determined bad guy easily could vault the neighbor’s fence that meets the gate. He would have to commit his crimes without an escape vehicle. Security? Maybe. But I guessed also the gate offers a vague sense of exclusivity that comes from separating yourself from others.

Privacy is comforting. But the urge to separate, represented by the gate, also can feed the inclination to reclusiveness. Traversing the neighborhood, we saw one old guy jogging, or trying to jog. He waved, but stared. The streets were otherwise deserted. We saw no one raking leaves or puttering. The entire neighborhood was silent. The grounds are maintained by the HOA. You don’t have to do anything outdoors. Unless you’re leaving the compound, you don’t have to go outside, ever.

I thought of another silent place, Pony, Montana, 60 miles southwest of Bozeman, which we visited three times for trail runs a few years ago. It’s the middle of nowhere. No gate restricts entry, anyone can live there. The place had an unused school building, a bar, a post office, a few houses and trailers. The spectacular snow-topped Tobacco Root Mountains loom behind town. One road leads in, as with the gated neighborhood we just visited. Privacy—plenty of that. Would I rather get my privacy behind the gate in Greenville, or in Pony? Honestly, I’m not sure.

Back at the apartment, I looked, half-hearted, at Zillow.com. The search will be hard work. We have only the sketchiest idea of what we’d like. Except for the big backyard and the three extra never-used bedrooms, we liked the house we had in Virginia before we sold it.

On a pleasant day last week we went for a walk along unfamiliar streets through a thickly wooded neighborhood. Oaks, maples, and poplars, nourished by the rich, damp Carolina soil, towered above large, lovely lots. It was quiet. We looked over the long ranch-type homes, knowing they were too large, too expensive, too much work. We’re hoping only for a permanent address, a touch of greenery, maybe a bit of character or flair.

You can find anything if you want to pay for it. Two-bedroom single-family homes are hard to find. Bigger is better, square footage is the bottom line, with at least two bathrooms. Our seven-year-old grandson, visiting our daughter in Pittsburgh last month, couldn’t believe her apartment had only one bathroom. His priorities are way different from ours. Still, we’d like two baths, maybe a view of the mountains. You don’t get that for $210,000 in a gated community. But you might get a fancy countertop. Then they can put me in assisted living.