A Memoir of the
Early Years
1: My First Look Around
March 1968: House Hunting Is a Drag
My story began the first day Paul walked into our apartment and announced
that he had found a house for us. We had been house hunting
for several weeks. Each trip began with eager anticipation and
ended with the words, "We just can't afford this one." The houses I
loved were always out of our price range.
We were a one-income family, period. Although many wives and
mothers were carving out a nice spot for themselves in the workplace,
Paul didn't want me to join them. He had a troubled childhood
and seriously believed that children raised by a stay-at-home mom
would fare better than those with a mother who worked outside the
home. This meant less money, fewer material things, and the frustration
connected with both. I stayed home with our two small children
just to keep peace in the family, even though it meant living
without a lot of things we needed and many things we wanted-including
my dream house.
At first, we dragged the kids with us on the numerous househunting
trips. The weather was still cold and snowy, so this meant
boots, scarves, and lots of whining-and that was just me! Finally,
to simplify matters, Paul began going out by himself. I didn't like
that arrangement at all, but back in 1968 the assertiveness movement
was still in its infancy. Come to think of it, I hadn't even heard
the A-word yet. The afternoon Paul came home saying he'd found
a house, I was overjoyed, in a suspicious sort of way. "Where is it?
How much is it? When can I see it?" It was in Blaine, Minnesota,
and the asking price was $16,500. We could just barely swing it. Paul
called Jack, the Realtor, to set up a date for me to see the house. I
arranged for a babysitter. I was so excited.
By the time Jack and Paul took me to see the house, the FHA
people had already looked at it, given the owners a list of repairs
that needed to be made, and assessed the value of the home at
$12,500. When I called to share this good fortune with my best
friend, Carrie, she asked, "What do you think is wrong with it?" I
laughed and blurted out, "Maybe it's haunted!" Why I said that, I'll
never know. Those prophetic words just popped out of my mouth.
We cackled over my silly joke like our cartoon role models, Wilma
Flintstone and Betty Rubble, and then got down to the business
of discussing my long-overdue move. By this time, all my friends
had abandoned apartment living and settled in new or nearly new
homes in the 'burbs.
En route to my first tour of the place, the Realtor explained that
the house was an older, two-bedroom expansion model. This style
made its debut around the end of the Korean War, when these homes
sprang up all over the country to accommodate returning war veterans.
These structures were designed to be starter homes-built
quickly and cheaply.
Is This Really My Home Sweet Home?
I'll never forget pulling up in front of the small clapboard house. I
couldn't understand why anyone would paint this style of house in
two colors, since it only accentuated how small it is. It looked like
a sad little orphan in tattered clothes. Yet there it stood, proudly
holding its head high, adorned with peeling white paint on its top
portion and cracked aqua blue on its bottom half. I actually felt
sorry for it. This was the awkward child in the orphanage whom
no one wanted, the child always left behind after his pretty playmates
were placed in good homes. I've always been a sucker for a
hard-luck story, and now the orphan belonged to me. Although it's
difficult to admit, I was embarrassed to end up with the worst-looking
house in my circle of friends. Apparently, history really is destined
to repeat itself-especially my history-because I grew up in
a house that always looked shabby and rundown. My family never
had any money, and even though my darling dad did his best to
provide for the family, ours was the worst-looking of all my friends'
houses back in those days too. I'd hoped for something better when
I grew up.
Everything in Minnesota looks its scruffiest in March. I sighed
as I gazed at my future home sitting on its bleak piece of property.
There was no garage, but apartment living during the past six years
had rarely afforded us a garage, so that was no big deal. There were
a couple of massive oak trees in the front yard that looked pretty
friendly despite their dormant state. I pictured the gnarled giants
covered with leaves and flanked all around by green grass, flower
gardens, shrubs, and maybe a white picket fence. I'd had my heart
set on a house with a picket fence for as long as I could remember.
Here was my chance to make that dream come true. If only I'd had
a fairy godmother who could turn this melancholy property into a
sweet little cottage with one grand sweep of her magic wand.
Two huge elms stood guard in the backyard, surrounded on three
sides by an odd assortment of neighbors' fences. This poor little
house had to wear hand-me-down fences too. How unfair! There
were clusters of dormant shrubs around the property line. I hoped
they would magically become lilacs when the sun warmed everything
in the spring. The scent of lilacs wafting through the springtime
air is delightful, and it stirs up wonderful memories. The old
elm trees would give off lots of shade, and there was plenty of room
for a swing set and sandbox. I could finally have the vegetable garden
I'd always wanted. I made up my mind to dwell on the positives.
There was no other option.
As we entered the house, we found ourselves on a small landing,
looking down the basement steps; I wondered if we'd have to
put up a gate to keep the kids from falling down there. Then we
entered the plain-looking kitchen. The smell of coffee brewing on
the stove welcomed us. It actually made this dour little house seem
friendly. Years later, I learned that this was the oldest real-estate
trick in the book, designed to give prospective buyers a "welcome
home" kind of feeling. The friendly smell did nothing to change the
size of the room, however. I was soon to discover the kitchen was
approximately nine by thirteen feet. The area adjacent to the back
door was completely wasted space: possibly enough room for our
drop-leaf table and two chairs, but there were four of us! The fridge
wouldn't fit there because of the south-facing window. There was a
traffic area through the room that ended with a very narrow opening
into the hallway, flanked on either side by the stove and the
cupboards. This opening was eighteen inches. I made a mental note
never to gain weight.
The other window in the kitchen had been located over the sink,
facing east. It had been turned into a pass-through and knickknack
shelf when an addition was built. After stepping inside the back
door, it was plain to see the previous owner loved bland colors. The
floors in entryway and kitchen were covered with gray tile speckled
with white and pink dots-typical forties and fifties fare. The walls
were grayish taupe, and pink and white organdy curtains adorned
the window. It was certainly not my taste. The badly stained sink had
residue stuck in the drain basket. Even if you couldn't afford new appliances,
you could at least keep the old ones clean, I thought.
The addition was called a family room, and it was thirteen feet
square. This room was painted the same color as the kitchen and
sported the same organdy curtains and the same blah tile. It was furnished
with a couple of armchairs, end tables, and lamps, as well as
the kitchen table with chairs and a toaster. As we gazed into the dull,
drab room, Jack quickly pointed out that most two-bedroom expansion
homes didn't have a nice-sized addition like this. I had to admit
it had possibilities. A fireplace and a pair of wingback chairs would
look great in here. Maybe cozy shutters over the four small corner
windows-or better yet, larger windows could change this gloomy
living space into something more cheery and transform this room
into a perfect place for growing plants, since it got the morning sun.
The biggest drawback was money. So for now, we'd leave the ugly
tile, replace the curtains, and paint over the boring walls as soon as
possible. I couldn't say anything about the color scheme, because
the current owner, Agnes Miller, stuck to us like glue. Home owners
are usually not around when their properties are being shown,
as a courtesy to the prospective buyers. Apparently, Agnes didn't
know how to drive, had nowhere to go, or was just plain nosy, so the
chubby, rosy-cheeked woman was always in the way. This house was
so small that she became a hindrance during the showing. Our group
pressed onward as Jack walked us through the rest of the house.
Next, we moved into the living room. This room was roughly
eleven by seventeen feet in size. It had one average-sized window
on the south side and a large picture window facing west. This room
also had a tiny coat closet located opposite the front door. The doors
could not be opened at the same time without banging one into the
other. Although I'm sure the architect's plans were followed to the
letter, it's a structural aberration if you ask me.
This room was a mournful dirge of brown. A thin mud...
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