Friday, June 20, 2003
DREAM HOUSE, Sex and Lies continued... Tuesday, June 10, 2003
My family moved frequently and I never knew why. It would always go something like this. Dad would find a plot of land somewhere in northern New Jersey. Once he found the spot, he'd take us to see it. Not that we had any say in the process. Then he would pick some stock house plan - not a prefab - just some standard plan, in one case it was a flat, 3 bedroom ranch plunked on a half acre of swampy ground. Mom never protested. Dad let her have her say by deciding what colors the rooms should be painted and the style of knobs on the kitchen cabinets.
There was never any family discussion that I can remember about moving. It was my father's choice. It was a mystery. It's not that his company relocated him and we had to move. He had bought-out his boss long ago, owned the company and it was permanently ensconced in an industrial park in East Brunswick NJ.
These houses that we lived in were always brand new and devoid of character. Rectangular boxes with a roof. There was never any evidence that real people lived in them either. Order and cleanliness reigned supreme. Maybe we moved when Dad felt the house got too dirty. Or maybe it had something to do with his affairs which none of us were aware of at the time.
The only house that ever felt like a "home" to me was my Grams house on 198th Street in Queens NY. I was born in that house. It had been built in the late 1800's, had a staircase, an attic, a sun porch, a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a magical garden that had an ornamental fish pool where my grampa kept Koi.
In 1976 Pete got an offer to coach at Tufts University. He had been at M.I.T. for 16 years, long enough to pull a big chunk (for 1976) of money out of his pension fund ($30,000) plus get a monthly payment. He decided to make the switch. We were still living in a dreary rented apartment in Newton. We had talked about moving but I knew I'd have to act soon or the money would get peed down the toilet like so many cases of beer.
Pete was away on a long weekend. He and some buddies chartered a small plane to fly up to Canada to do some salmon fishing. It was a georgous, golden late September day. Erika and I were out on our bikes, just crusing around town when we saw this house on a corner with a For Sale sign out front. It had a mansard roof with bay windows and cornices and porches, front back and side porches. It had a garage that would make a perfect studio. It was my dream house. Erika was sold when I told her she could have pets if we lived there. We peddled home like speed demons, I called the agent and made arrangements to go back immediately and see the inside. Some hippy types had painted the walls with rainbows, but other than that it was in pretty good shape. It had a curved Bulfinch style staircase and partially renovated kitchen and baths. There were two working fireplaces. Price was $60,000. "Sold" I told the agent on the spot. I wrote a check from our joint account as a binder. I figured no problem getting a mortgage.
Later that weekend I hear the van pull in the driveway. I run outside and before Pete gets out of the van I hop in and tell him to drive. He's a little surprised but doesn't balk. The house is only 10 minutes from where we live. It is still light out, the sun was low and bouncing off the bay windows as it set. I tell Pete to stop in front of the house. "Do you like it?" I ask. "Yeah" he says. "It's ours, we bought it." "Fine by me" he says. And that was that
My family moved frequently and I never knew why. It would always go something like this. Dad would find a plot of land somewhere in northern New Jersey. Once he found the spot, he'd take us to see it. Not that we had any say in the process. Then he would pick some stock house plan - not a prefab - just some standard plan, in one case it was a flat, 3 bedroom ranch plunked on a half acre of swampy ground. Mom never protested. Dad let her have her say by deciding what colors the rooms should be painted and the style of knobs on the kitchen cabinets.
There was never any family discussion that I can remember about moving. It was my father's choice. It was a mystery. It's not that his company relocated him and we had to move. He had bought-out his boss long ago, owned the company and it was permanently ensconced in an industrial park in East Brunswick NJ.
These houses that we lived in were always brand new and devoid of character. Rectangular boxes with a roof. There was never any evidence that real people lived in them either. Order and cleanliness reigned supreme. Maybe we moved when Dad felt the house got too dirty. Or maybe it had something to do with his affairs which none of us were aware of at the time.
The only house that ever felt like a "home" to me was my Grams house on 198th Street in Queens NY. I was born in that house. It had been built in the late 1800's, had a staircase, an attic, a sun porch, a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a magical garden that had an ornamental fish pool where my grampa kept Koi.
In 1976 Pete got an offer to coach at Tufts University. He had been at M.I.T. for 16 years, long enough to pull a big chunk (for 1976) of money out of his pension fund ($30,000) plus get a monthly payment. He decided to make the switch. We were still living in a dreary rented apartment in Newton. We had talked about moving but I knew I'd have to act soon or the money would get peed down the toilet like so many cases of beer.
Pete was away on a long weekend. He and some buddies chartered a small plane to fly up to Canada to do some salmon fishing. It was a georgous, golden late September day. Erika and I were out on our bikes, just crusing around town when we saw this house on a corner with a For Sale sign out front. It had a mansard roof with bay windows and cornices and porches, front back and side porches. It had a garage that would make a perfect studio. It was my dream house. Erika was sold when I told her she could have pets if we lived there. We peddled home like speed demons, I called the agent and made arrangements to go back immediately and see the inside. Some hippy types had painted the walls with rainbows, but other than that it was in pretty good shape. It had a curved Bulfinch style staircase and partially renovated kitchen and baths. There were two working fireplaces. Price was $60,000. "Sold" I told the agent on the spot. I wrote a check from our joint account as a binder. I figured no problem getting a mortgage.
Later that weekend I hear the van pull in the driveway. I run outside and before Pete gets out of the van I hop in and tell him to drive. He's a little surprised but doesn't balk. The house is only 10 minutes from where we live. It is still light out, the sun was low and bouncing off the bay windows as it set. I tell Pete to stop in front of the house. "Do you like it?" I ask. "Yeah" he says. "It's ours, we bought it." "Fine by me" he says. And that was that
