I often get emails from the Texas Real Estate Inspectors Association offering various continuing education courses at convenient locations. They serve as a reminder of my ill-fated attempt to change careers in late middle age, when it looked like this newspaper gig wasn’t panning out anymore.
Two-and-a-half years ago, I was unemployed and loath to move from Longview, since my wife had a good job as a professor and our daughter was happy in school. We bought a lovely house, and I set about figuring out how to make a living.
Like most homebuyers, I engaged the services of a real estate inspector to go over the house. The inspector was a spry 71-year-old fellow. He crawled around the attic and up on the roof like someone half his age. After doing a little research I called him a few weeks later and asked if I could tag along on a few inspections.
I decided to get my professional real estate inspector’s license and hang out a shingle, work for myself. My mentor assured me I could make a decent living at it. So I signed up for an online course and began accompanying him on inspections to learn the trade.
He taught me a lot during those summer months, when we would belly crawl under a pier-and-beam house, making sure the floor joists weren’t rotted, and there were no leaking water pipes. I learned how to check electrical outlets to make sure they were grounded properly, to measure the depth of insulation in stifling attics, where my nifty laser temperature gauge indicated it was 140 degrees. I climbed up on second-story roofs to check the flashing along chimneys.
We always started early because of the heat, and I was usually home just after lunch and started studying.
And studying some more. The real estate inspector’s test is a tough one to pass. One has to memorize a chunk of the International Residence Code, such as the minimum distance between an electrical line and a driveway, where ground-fault-interrupted circuits are required, and how far a fireplace mantle must be from the hearth.
I didn’t study as hard in college to earn either my bachelor’s or master’s degrees. This was like learning a foreign language. But I easily passed the online tests, the first requirement to being allowed to take the state test. I was feeling a bit cocky until I took a couple of practice state tests. I made a 45 on the first one, and a 55 on the second. Hoo boy. A minimum of 70 is required to pass the state test. I enrolled on weekends in an inspector boot camp, spending 12-hour days having the code drilled into me.
Finally I took the state test. The result flashed on the screen as soon as I hit “finish.” I made an 86. All I had to do now was pay the licensing fee, get liability insurance, put up a website and get some business cards. Then I would make the round of realtors, which is where most referrals come.
I failed miserably in attracting clients. In the first four months, I performed three paying jobs.
As usual, everything worked out. Kilgore College hired me to teach journalism, which I did for a year and enjoyed thoroughly. Then, unexpectedly, the latest newspaper gig became available and I returned to my chosen profession. I have put my license on hiatus in case I ever need to try inspecting again.
I doubt that will ever happen, but I have learned to never say never. After all, I didn’t expect to ever get back to running a community newspaper
It beats climbing into attics during the dog days of August. At least most days.Gary Borders #95 - Career detour commentary
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