There was an article in the New York Times a couple of months ago with this headline: “Stuck in a Starter Home.” The story described people who bought small houses when they were just starting their families. Now, some years later, these people want to buy larger homes, but high mortgage interest rates and soaring real estate prices are forcing them to remain in their cramped dwellings.
One young couple lamented the fact that their two daughters have to sleep in bunk beds, since there are no extra bedrooms in the house.
I can just imagine what my dear old mom would have said if she were still alive. “‘Starter home’? What the heck is a starter home? It’s called a home. You buy a house, you raise your family there, you live in that house for 60 years, and then you die. That’s what life is all about.”
That’s a formula that worked quite well for my parents, along with a number of other folks I know, some of whom are still with us and many who’ve passed on. The common denominator for these people who view home ownership the way my mom and dad did, is the fact they grew up during the Great Depression. When you were not sure where your next meal was coming from, and when you spent a few years living in an apartment with 11 extended family members because two of your uncles were out of work, you developed a powerful “attitude of gratitude.” The idea that you deserve to live in a house where everyone has their own bedroom with a walk-in closet is simply not on your radar screen at all.
When my parents purchased their first home in 1960, a tiny 3-bedroom ranch with one bathroom and no basement, even calling the place their “first home” would not have made sense. It was their home, period. When two more kids were born, bringing the total number of residents to seven, there was no talk of buying a larger home. What they did was buy bunk beds.
That’s a formula that worked quite well for my parents, along with a number of other folks I know, some of whom are still with us and many who’ve passed on. The common denominator for these people who view home ownership the way my mom and dad did, is the fact they grew up during the Great Depression. When you were not sure where your next meal was coming from, and when you spent a few years living in an apartment with 11 extended family members because two of your uncles were out of work, you developed a powerful “attitude of gratitude.” The idea that you deserve to live in a house where everyone has their own bedroom with a walk-in closet is simply not on your radar screen at all.
When my parents purchased their first home in 1960, a tiny 3-bedroom ranch with one bathroom and no basement, even calling the place their “first home” would not have made sense. It was their home, period. When two more kids were born, bringing the total number of residents to seven, there was no talk of buying a larger home. What they did was buy bunk beds.
My three brothers and I were crammed into one room with two sets of bunk beds. It was, shall we say, a cozy arrangement. We once heard a comedian on the Ed Sullivan Show say, “My apartment is so small I have to go outside to change my mind.” We didn’t laugh. We just nodded our heads, as if to say, “Yup, we can relate.” My brothers and I envied our sister, the only girl sibling, who had a room to herself. But on the other hand, her room was no larger than a mid-sized tent, except with less head room.
Even though our house was bursting at the seams (and with seven people and one bathroom, the word “bursting” also applied to our bladders), my parents never would have agreed to be interviewed by a Times reporter and whine about being stuck in a “starter home.” That house was simply their home. They loved it, and we loved it, too. My dad ended up living there for 58 years until his death; my mom for 62 years.
Even though our house was bursting at the seams (and with seven people and one bathroom, the word “bursting” also applied to our bladders), my parents never would have agreed to be interviewed by a Times reporter and whine about being stuck in a “starter home.” That house was simply their home. They loved it, and we loved it, too. My dad ended up living there for 58 years until his death; my mom for 62 years.
It’s not that my parents thought there was something wrong with selling a small house and buying a larger one. If someone could afford to do that, great. But the idea that someone “deserves” to get a larger home, just because they want one, is an attitude my mom and dad would’ve set straight without hesitation. Here’s Mom: “Don’t be so ungrateful! Thank the Good Lord you even have a home!” And my dad would’ve employed his patented silent glare, which was scientifically proven to be able to melt steel. I miss them.
No comments:
Post a Comment