My grandmother's house was finally paid off when she was in her 60s.
It was doubtless a cheap build to begin with, but that's how long it took her to pay off a mortgage, sometimes taking in boarders to help.
The place was full of borer, there were no fixed floor coverings, and there was no gib-board lining, just scrim.
The walls breathed in and out in a strong wind, fluttering as if some living thing was hiding in the wallpaper. It was freezing in winter.
The loo was outside, across the back porch. The hot-water tank was miniscule.
There were no renovations or alterations, apart from a lick of paint over old varnish, once the construction was completed, and the twin marvels of washing machine and refrigerator that appeared in the 50s, followed in the 60s by the telly.
In other words, she lived well below what they call the poverty line today.
My mother's state unit was small, well maintained by the landlord state, but with no floor coverings, curtains or blinds when she moved in, no washing machine, no refrigerator, and no space for one in the tiny kitchen.
Instead, she had a built-in cupboard with a patch of wire mesh built into the back, a kind of updated safe to keep meat and milk.
The milk went off in warm weather and curdled in your tea. Meat had to be cooked promptly. She laundered everything in the twin sinks in the basement, a wringer between them, by hand.
I wish I could go back in time and make life easier for both of them, but I can't. I can't help my father's family, either.
In their case, the walls in the kitchen and dining areas had a thick brown slick of nicotine over the paint, and new curtains, fresh paint, or anything pretty to lift the spirits, didn't happen.
The loo was down two concrete paths, scary in the dark. Possums slid and caterwauled on the corrugated iron roof at night, and I'm pretty sure there was a fridge.
They wouldn't have called this living in poverty. They thought they were pretty hot stuff.
From this perspective - time - I can't wholly relate to people who want a $500,000 house (or more) with all mod cons and fabulous furniture just like in the magazines, after they've travelled extensively overseas, dined out regularly in restaurants, learned the refinements of caffe latte and long blacks, know chardonnay from sauvignon blanc, have decent cars, and produce a couple of kids before they think about house-hunting.
I've lived in impossible places for much of my life, the houses I could afford, while prettying them up as best I could, including one in which gang members had etched deep thoughts deep into the windowsills.
You'd have called that living in poverty too, I guess, but I earned a decent equity.
Investors are snapping up homes young people could afford, the way they always have, and that's not good.
I have the impression that this country's main business is farming tenants to pay off properties, but there should be a limit on how many houses anyone can own as renters.
I don't like that student loans gobble up any potential savings either; that seems wrong to me.
But don't moan to me about interest rates when I once paid 16 per cent on my sole mortgage. As we all did.
• Rosemary McLeod is a journalist and author.
