Just A Question

It was a snide remark made many years ago by one of the “mean girls.” As a group of us sat at a round table in a Childs Restaurant, someone mentioned the upcoming nuptials of a classmate. Gloria (aka “mean girl”) said with venom, “Who is marrying who?”

For some unknown reason, the question has remained in my memory bank despite the fact that our paths never crossed again after that long gone Katie Gibbs luncheon in the Grand Central Terminal.

However, the question came to mind again this week, not relating to a marriage, but rather to a possession, my house, and I wondered aloud, “Who owns who?” And there was no immediate answer.

Several weeks ago, my thoughtful friend, Mary, gave me a clipping from The NY Times. Mary, who also grew up in NYC, knew I would be interested in the current escalating prices of real estate especially in the Hells Kitchen area.

She was right. The article displayed a brownstone nestled in the same neighborhood my parents had lived in most of their lives with an accompanying picture. Possibly not the same address, but it was almost identical to the home I had known for so many years.

What was different, however, was the current real estate value. I was amazed to learn that an apartment in the building was now available for $450.000. I tried to remember how much rent my Mother gave to Mr. Grauh, the rental agent, who knocked on our door precisely on the first of every month.

I thought it was $35.00, but when I called my sister, she corrected me. “No,” Ellen said, “it may have been that originally, but the rent was raised to $45.00 after you were married.” And she continued, “I never understood why none of the tenants ever tried to buy the property.”

Her reminiscing brought another memory back. My parents had an understanding. We would live during the school year in the neighborhood that my Mother loved, close to her family, but each summer we would leave for a 3 month vacation. In my earliest years, it was Staten Island, a block from the beach.

Then the locale changed, for reasons I never knew or cared about. During most of my adolescence, we departed early in June to spend the summer months at a glorious mountain lake in New Jersey. Dad would come down on Friday nights and return home late Sunday afternoon. Some of my happiest memories are of those vacations; a crowded cabin filled with cousins, laughter, wet towels, and the smell of bacon frying every morning. The voices of my older cousins also remain, asking “Uncle Bill, why don’t you buy one of these places? You spend so much money each summer. You could own one.”

Dad always smiled and said he wasn’t interested in owning property, and the question was dropped until the following year.

Eventually, the cabin became less crowded, the cousins had married, and I commuted with Dad on the weekends in order to accommodate my summer employment. I never really thought too much about Dad’s rational about being a property owner until I looked at the recent real estate section.

And then the question I had heard so long ago popped up into my thoughts. Do you own property or does it eventually own you?

Yes, real estate is a great investment. Still the relationship is not static. Children require total dedication until they grow older, and responsibility lessens. Real estate is quite the reverse. I miss my children, all living out of state, but I don’t miss the responsibilities four youngsters required. It is marvelous knowing and respecting their independence.

On the other hand, the relationship with my home is the reverse. It was new, young and shiny when my husband and I bought it. It is far from that now.

I cringe when I hear a strange noise emanating from one of the pipes, or see a random drop of moisture in an odd location. I worry about doors that don’t close properly or trees that begin to sicken.

Recently I was thrilled with introductions to two men. No, not dancing partners, but rather skilled workmen. One, with expertise in roof repairs; the other, a carpenter. Shamelessly, without embarrassment, I quickly asked each of them for their phone number.

And while I remember Dad’s decision never to be a homeowner, I know at this exact moment, at this precise time of my life, my home is my castle even though it may own me.