House Rules: It's tax assessment time, prepare to dig deep

A few days back, I walked into my office and found an email message from one of my neighbors. He’d done some research regarding the 2009 property appraisals, and he wanted to share what he’d learned with other folks in our neighborhood.

Here’s a little bit of what he wrote: “Since 2005, our home appraisal has jumped $417,000 and our yearly taxes have spiraled from $6,741 to $10,138, an increase of 32 percent!”

My neighbor, plagued by the worrisome knowledge that Metro would soon be reaching deep into his pockets, dug a little deeper into the appraisal math and found out that, “in general, appraisals will be up 15 percent, except for West End, Green Hills and downtown areas, where they will escalate to 33 percent.” Bear in mind, citizens, that these numbers are subject to change as long as there are politicians involved, and there are always politicians involved.

In my world, ten grand is serious money. My daddy, Jabo Jowers, almost bought a brand new house in South Carolina for $10,000. But he did the math (with my help), and found that he couldn’t come up with that kind of money. These days, my little family occupies a 95-year-old house, which we share with the bank. We drive an 18-year-old car. We feed and comfort a 13-year-old Basset hound and a 12-year-old useless cat. Our do-or-die mission is to come up with two more years’ worth of college tuition. If we fail, our daughter might just ditch college — and us — and run away with a guy who greases the Tilt-A-Whirl at the circus.

I know, I know. Any homeowner who’s seen his property appraisal jump $417,000 is doing all right. My neighbor will get by. So will the other neighbors who built Brobdingnagian additions onto their houses since the last round of Metro appraisals in 2005. Me, I’m going to see my house value — or at least the tax assessor’s opinion of my house value — jump more than $120,000, which is almost enough money to buy a very modest house.

House prices in Nashville shot up about 25 percent from 2005 to 2007. Between late 2007 and now, values have declined. Like it or not, there are no foolproof loopholes, workarounds or schemes for getting your appraisal lowered. You can whine, complain, cajole or coax all you want, but the taxman’s going to get his share. If you live in a mud hut, somebody’s going to come to your door asking for some of your mud.

Although there are no foolproof tax-lowering schemes, there are some that are worth trying. One is the scheme that I implemented when I bought the current Jowers house — the time-honored scheme of buying the worst house in an excellent neighborhood. After I worked for a year as an editor at Old-House Journal, I returned from my uncomfortable sojourn in New York City, and found two termite-eaten, bent and broken houses in a Midtown Nashville neighborhood. I bought the one that needed the fewest repairs.

Wife Brenda and I lived upstairs, and I put together a wood shop downstairs. I made the house habitable, created replicas of the original woodwork, patched up the plaster and replaced the mechanicals. Then I made up my mind: I will not gussy up this house until I have to gussy up this house. Lay low, I figured, keep down expenses, and make sure the taxman thinks of my house as modest, humble, reserved. That worked until now.

A couple days ago, I went to a Metro Web site, which featured a sketch of my house. Well, don’t you know, sometime between 2004 and now, Metro gave me an extra bathroom and a couple extra bedrooms. They also made my house 11 years younger. So I’m expecting a slight reduction in my appraisal.

In the meantime, though, for the purpose of saving some cash in 2013, I’m going to put a few follies in my front yard, including but not limited to:
• A perpetually-overflowing sink. (Relax Greenies, the water will recycle.)
• A flower bed with an actual headboard and footboard.
• A gazing ball. Maybe two. Maybe 20.
• Enormous multi-colored Christmas lights — as big as I can get ‘em.
• Gnomes, gnomes and more gnomes.
• A bathtub Madonna. (You stick an old clawfoot tub in the ground vertically, then fill the niche with the Madonna of your choice.)

Helpful hint for like-minded folk: Check Google Images for “Bathtub Madonna” and “Real Flower Bed.”