Buying My First Home - The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

In the early 1930s, our paternal grandparents bought a house on the Grosvenor Road in the East End of London.  I have no idea how they financed it, but I suspect it was through sheer weight of numbers.  They crammed 2 adults and 4 kids into the top floor and rented the ground floor to relatives, all of whom shared a kitchen and toilet.  Miraculously, it survived the Blitz but had degenerated into a hoard by the late 1950’s, when they sold it to Jamaican immigrants, who had no clue they were buying the property ‘as-is’.  Hopefully they still own it and lived to have the last laugh, because the homes on that street are now selling for half a million pounds. But the trend back then, was to abandon the slums, and relocate to the industrial new towns of Essex and Kent.

Most of the family went to the car factories in Essex, but for some reason we went to Dartford, a forgettable dump 18 miles south of London, which nevertheless produced Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.  Indeed, Mick was raised in a house our mother would’ve aspired to - bay windows up and down and an enclosed porch – while she was stuck with a flat- fronted, terrace that backed onto the Vickers factory.  We used to say that our father drove around until he found the ugliest listing in the worst neighborhood, without a thought to what our mother wanted, but this was probably unfair and he bought what they could afford.  However, the Dartford place was a total dud and, despite its current £300,000 price tag, remains so to this day.

My husband is the exact opposite.  It’s happy wife, happy life with him; the home is my business, and no need to consult him on anything.  He was active-duty military for 26 years, and, unless the couch is bright pink or noticeably uncomfortable, he could care less what I do with the decor.  I also got final choice on rental apartments when we lived abroad but, when we returned to the US and lost our cost-of-living allowance, we had to move into base housing to make ends meet.  This worked well for us, until his separation date loomed into view and I began to panic.  He was a Flight Engineer in the Air Force, but that slot was already being phased out in the late 90’s.  And where would we retire to?  His number one priority was no snow, so we traipsed up and down the East Coast in our spare time exploring options as far south as Georgia, but found nothing that suited us as an interracial couple.

As the clock ticked, therefore, we agreed to look locally and one Saturday, on our way back from the library, my son and I saw an Open House sign and swung into the development to investigate.  It was a sunny September day, the lawns were manicured, the flower beds freshly mulched, the home an elegant Colonial trimmed in dark green.  I knew from visiting friends that it was a diverse community with no HOA’s, and a lot of retired military, so what could go wrong?  Turns out it was for sale by owner, which struck me as a bit dodgy, but I pushed that aside and we went in for the tour anyway.

The downstairs was open-concept, stylishly furnished with over-stuffed sofas, discreet artwork, wood blinds, and ceiling fans courtesy of the Pottery Barn catalog.  But what really caught my eye was a brushed nickel pendant light above the dining room table, so beautiful it propelled me through the kitchen with barely a glance, to the built-in pantry running the length of the laundry room.  Another must have. 

Upstairs was a disappointment.  More of a work in progress.  The carpets were jewel-themed, ruby in one room, emerald in the next, the bathroom peach plastic with orange paisley linoleum, and my mood dampened until I got to the 4^th bedroom, which overlooked the back garden.  ‘Central Park!’ as another would-be purchaser described it.  A quarter of an acre with a 4-tiered deck and a host of mature trees, birds and squirrels.  A child’s dream come true.  Pooh country.  An enchanted place, that I immediately had to have.

But could we afford it?  Probably not; it was almost $15,000 above our limit, and my husband was on a NATO support mission to Scotland and unavailable for input.  So, I settled for taking the details and leaving.  But I returned the following day and repeated the tour at a slower pace.  The kitchen, which I’d all but ignored, was substandard.  The fridge was avocado green, the stove a vile mustard color, and grimy despite shiny new drip pans.  The cabinets were cheap and would have to be updated, along with two hideous valances framing the windows.  But – hey – this was normal stuff.  Easily fixed or replaced, right?

‘So, what exactly comes with the sale?’ I asked the owners.  I indicated the blinds, the pantry, the ceiling fans.  ‘The property will be sold with the original fixtures and fittings,’ the husband said.  Something about the specificity of this answer worried me.  ‘And you’ll put that in writing?’ I pressed on.  ‘Yes!’ he assured me. ‘I’m happy to put that in writing.’  We stood in silence.  There was no question he was lying, although I couldn’t understand why.  However, my spidey sense was up, and I took a mental step back, thanked them for their time and left.

3 days later, on September 11^th 2001, the world as we knew it came apart at the seams.  My husband flew in the same week, as shocked and dazed as the rest of us, and in a moment of madness, or as an affirmation of life – call it what you will – we bought the house.  Initially I was euphoric, but I quickly nosedived into buyer’s remorse.  Like, what the fuck had we done?!  I lay awake night after night in a cold sweat, catastrophizing.  Savings spent in one fell swoop, support system destroyed, and what if we lost our jobs at any point in the next 30 years?  I accepted that the transition had to be made.  We had neighbors who’d retired from the military and wound up in a local motel, with nothing else arranged.  But who volunteered for such a drastic change on the edge of World War 3?

My husband saw it quite differently.  It was a house.  If it didn’t work out, we could sell it.  And why would he ever be unemployed?  He was 10 foot tall and bulletproof, with a Top-Secret clearance.  He could turn his hand to anything including submitting the mortgage paperwork and negotiating away half of the $15,000, before leaving for the Middle East.  In fact, we didn’t see him again until he took leave at the end of October, to get us through closing, and help unload the moving van.

It was only then that we discovered what the sellers had been up to.  Everything about the interior I’d liked was either staging or purchases for their new home.  ‘The original fixtures and fittings’ - the things they were happy to donate to us - was the crap they’d been living with for decades.  The wood blinds, ceiling fans and pendant light were gone, swapped with ancient facsimiles that had probably come with the place when it was first built.  80’s builders specials: the ceiling fans covered in cat fur, the Venetian blinds spray-painted in greens, pinks and blue to match the upstairs jeweled carpets, the pendant light replaced by a monstrous chandelier with hanging glass pipes, some of which were broken.  And, of course, there was no pantry but, as compensation, they'd left the hideous valances.

Adding insult to injury, they’d moved whatever furniture and personal belongings they wanted, and stacked the rest in the garage for us to wrestle to the curb on garbage day.  A tiny taste of what my family did to the Jamaicans, who were front and center in my head as I dealt with my own ‘as-is’ situation.  Because, like our grandparents, our sellers had done no cleaning on the way out; not even the vacuuming and mopping required by state law.  Having just weathered a white glove inspection on base, I was in no mood to start over.  But I had no choice, and set to work in the kitchen, while our helpers came and went around me.

The fridge and stove were in bad shape.  Out of an abundance of politeness, I’d opened neither on my walk throughs only to now find years of grease in, on, under, and behind the stove.  And the shiny drip pans had disappeared!  Perhaps taken with them, but more likely returned to Walmart after the sale.  These had been switched with 4 used ones, pitch black with baked-on food that no amount of Easy Off could clean.

The top of the fridge was also covered in cat fur, along with a large pool of blood in the crisper, and multiple broken plastic fittings.  At this point I refused to go any further.  I demanded that we buy a new one, and that my husband call the previous owner to pick up all his discarded junk and wrestle it to his curb - which he did.  But, needless to say, there was no money for new appliances and I was stuck sanitizing the old fridge, during which I gashed my hand on a jagged piece of plastic, adding to the blood pool.

By then, my husband was back in the Middle East.  On his 48-hour turnaround he’d set up the computer, two beds, and the washer and dryer, and left us to it.  I already felt duped and cheated but, left to my own devices, slipped into self-pity.  The sellers had sold us a pig in a poke, and a filthy one at that.  And yet, I don’t know why I was surprised.  My intuition had warned me they were dishonest and, logically, why would they give away accent pieces that gave the place that extra wow?  Staging is a decorative prompt that, in my purview, does not include things bolted to walls and ceilings but, if I’m honest, buying your first home is more romance than business and I’d wanted to be dazzled.  I’d wanted to be starry eyed rather than practical, and the end result of that was snapping up a shabby fixer upper, during a national emergency.    

So, I plodded on, cleaning room by room until the place was spotless, unpacking, hanging my pictures and filling my bookcases.  I even spray-painted the Venetian blinds white, and rehung them. I spent my downtime in the garden raking leaves and delighting in the wildlife, but secretly it felt like falling out of love on my honeymoon.  The house was a massive disappointment, and I wished we’d never bought it.

6 months later the furnace, which had passed inspection with flying colors, died on us; a major expense and, because my husband was again TDY, my problem to deal with.  And yet, it was the breakthrough I needed.  For in taking responsibility for the repair, I accepted ownership and, in an act of bravado, ripped up the moldy carpet in the dining room, with no idea how to replace it.  In fact, we lived with the concrete slab for 4 months before installing a wood floor, but a line had been drawn in the sand.  My mood had softened and I was back in charge of my life.

By the summer of 2002, the property’s value had also risen by $75,000 and it was obvious to both of us that, had we waited, we would’ve been priced out of the market completely.  This allowed me to reframe a huge mistake into a sound financial investment, and we agreed to loosen the reins on our spending and begin renovating.  Indeed, over the next decade we made so many changes our son now likens the makeover to Odysseus’ ship: ‘every rotting plank… replaced, one by one, until no original wood remained’ leaving a third party to wonder if it’s still the same boat or, in our case, the same property we purchased? 

From the roof to the doorknobs and hinges, it’s all new.  We did a lot of the work ourselves using our tax rebates and my husband’s per diems but, for the most part, the vision was mine.  Initially I gutted the kitchen, chose the cabinets, and repainted the walls - then waited for him to install it.  But then I signed on for classes at Home Depot and learned to lay floors and put in baseboard and trim, after which there was no stopping me.  And it was through this extension of myself that I came to love the place and finally put down roots. In fact, the only thing that still bothers me is the 4 for $6 drip pans. The drip pans were my ‘should’ve bought a squirrel moment’, and I’ll take that grudge to my grave.

But if property buying was a nightmare in 2001, it’s worse today.  Earlier this year our son bought his first home, half the size and double the price of our 4-bedroom Colonial and, even from afar the process was terrifying to watch.  For a start, it’s done online, and there is no loan officer in a bricks and mortar bank.  Not to mention, enormous sums coming and going by wire transfer.  I mean, what if your 20% deposit is winging its way to the Russian mafia instead of your credit union.  And, is it just me who worries about that?

What my son and I shared, however, was the instant buyer’s remorse and, in the last few months, he’s faced many of the challenges I did.  He loved his rental, but was forced out by rising costs.  His mortgage is less than his rent, but his apartment was in a more desirable neighborhood.  Never mind that the old neighborhood is only 2 miles away, and has an appalling school district, things are not as good.  He can’t walk to bars and restaurants and his new house is boring.

I see myself in all this.  We are both prickly with exposed nerve endings, and none of my husband’s bounce back.  I keep telling him it will pass, and that his current place will become home.  I tell him he is lucky to have a roof over his head when others can’t get a foot on the ladder.  I remind him that real estate is safer than the Stock Market, that he is building generational wealth, and that our property has tripled in value in the time we’ve been here. 

I tell him this because it’s true, even though my own experience was equally upsetting.  And there are definitely some unscrupulous people out there.  Indeed, how you behave during a house sale is a pretty clear indicator of who you are. I was a whiny complainer, which is not very attractive, but that’s still better than lying by omission, or sticking some poor rube with your hoard, then laughing about it at every family gathering for 50 years.  

As a financial investment however, property is almost always a good move, and buyer’s remorse is usually temporary.  So, make the leap!  It will make a good story in 25 years, and, on the off chance it doesn’t, just follow my husband’s advice – It’s a house!  You can sell it!