Eighteen years ago, the house was a disaster, a decaying relic of ’60s meets ’70s in a 1940s home.
We fell in love.
Actually, it took my wife some convincing. I saw the house first, in a Delmar neighborhood we wanted to live in, for a price that was shockingly low.
As we walked over the carpeted porch, into a main room that had semi-shag and wood paneling, she shot me that You-are-such-a-moron look that is basically, and often justifiably, a default expression.
I pulled back the carpeting to show her the hardwood floors. And pointed to the carriage house out back. And explained we could build new stairs to replace the winding, narrow staircase with uneven risers that everyone tripped on.
There is even a great pub 202 steps away. I later counted; it came in handy.
Plus, it’s a Sears home. They would come in parts, delivered to a property. Ours is a Concord, built in the 1940s on a 1905 foundation that never leaks, unlike the cinder block foundation on the addition that is a sieve.
It originally cost a couple of thousand, but for an extra couple of hundred somebody would come and actually build it for you.
Think about it: That means there were people who were unwilling to fork over four or so C-notes “just” to have someone build their home.
My wife came around, we put in what we thought was a joke bid … and it was readily accepted on spec until we could sell our starter home. (This was during the 1998 housing downturn.)
When someone else put in a bid on what was now our dream home, we panicked: How could we carry two mortgages?
A friend provided a moment of clarity.
“If you don’t buy this house,” he said, “I will and will invite you over every weekend.”
We bought the house, and for nine terrifying, financially draining months owned two homes.
In some ways it was just as well. Walls had to be put up and painted, staircases built, the kitchen totally redone as well as the electrical.
Those hardwood floors had to be restored after decades under rugs. Contractors did much of the work, me some.
My rule regarding home repair is simple, yet sacrosanct: I don’t do anything that can kill me, or kill my family if I screw it up.
The house has always evolved. Before we bought it, the home was a single-family, and a duplex, and even an antique store. Now it was our turn to remake it in our own way.
We planted a magnolia tree out front the first spring, and another the second. They dominate the front yard now, which has stone paths I built after ripping up a cement entryway.
Out back, we had a deck built and planted trees that now also tower above the house. Windows and that carpeted front porch have been replaced.
We finished the carriage house to create extra space.
Cosmetically, we don’t overly stress the little stuff. We did install a gas fireplace after buying a 19th century mantelpiece in Ballston Spa. (We went up there to buy an old picture frame. Long story.)
I built bookshelves in several rooms, not all of them perfectly straight. They fit: The house has never been about perfection.
It’s always been askew, scratched up, dinged. In other words, lived-in.
When we moved in the oldest had not yet hit 2; she is a sophomore in college now. The youngest came going on 13 years ago.
Thanks to kids, and their friends, and the dog, the house is chipped, battered and beaten.
Oh, and the years. Blame the years. Work still needs to be done — or done again.
Part of the roof has been replaced. The rest? Well, we better get to that, or we may soon not have a choice.
The driveway looks good, if it was gravel. It is not. And we only got around to replacing the siding on one side of the house.
In addition to needing a new roof, driveway, kitchen and upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, rooms have to be painted, floors have to be redone, and some electrical work is in the offing.
And that siding … maybe next year.
Truth is, if someone looking to buy walked in today with a real estate agent, they would think our house is a disaster, a decaying relic of ’90s meets ’00s in a 1940s home.
We still think it’s perfect.
Reach Executive Sports Editor Mark McGuire at 395-3105, [email protected] or @MJMcGuire on Twitter.
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