We’re Really Buying a Duplex?
The other day, I drove through my old neighborhood. I wanted to snap a picture of our first house — a duplex within walking distance of Miller Park.
The stadium was a feat of modern architecture with a new-fangled, retractable roof. We moved out of the neighborhood a couple of years before the first pitch was throw out in 2001.
From the outside, the house looks almost the same as when we left it seventeen years ago. When we took ownership, it was white with blue trim. We searched diligently for a company that would paint aluminum siding. We found one. I still remember the name — Tweety’s. That’s kind of a hard name to forget. The painters said we could expect the new paint job to hold up for about five years. It appears they sold themselves short. It still looks great twenty years later.
As newlyweds, when my husband strongly suggested we purchase a duplex instead of a single family home, I was — hmmm, resistant. I had grown up in a duplex. I spent my college years in a dorm and duplex. During my early years as a working girl, I lived in an apartment building. For my whole life, somebody walked above or below me.
I wanted my own space. {foot stomp} My own space, without sharing. {foot stomp — stomp}
His argument for a duplex made a lot of sense though. We could use the rent received to pay a lot of the mortgage. “It can be a five year plan,” he said. “We’ll be able to save and then afford a really nice house.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic. I stopped pouting and we started searching.
We made mistakes. With first time buyers excitement, we overpaid. The original owners were extreme hoarders (before there was a TV show about it). When they flew the coop, they took almost nothing. We spent months unloading the stuff to the strip of grass between road and sidewalk. The city would come twice per month for a special pick up and haul away remnants of the Greek immigrants discarded life. Why wasn’t there something in all of the pages of contracts to say, “You must take your stuff! The new owners are not responsible.” That was a great lesson
The house is what architects call a Milwaukee bungalow. There were decorative ceilings, built in China cabinets and a huge, wooden, built in book shelf in the living room. The enormous mantle was accented with two rectangular stained glass windows.
No doubt, the home had beautiful bones. For well over a year, we worked like dogs to bring them up to date. We tore pink plastic tiles off of the kitchen walls. We painted everything, inside and out. We replaced the water heater, flooring and tore out avocado green bath tubs upstairs and down. The house became an extension of us and I came to really love it. We planted our first small garden in the tiny back yard.
The five year plan worked. We saved enough to buy a six acre plot of land. For a year, we drove twenty-five miles each night and weekend, doing as much work as we could on the new construction.
On a cold and dreary mid-December day, we moved. The feelings were bitter-sweet. We left behind the home where we learned much about home ownership, ourselves and each other. We learned that we were a good team in that duplex.
In retrospect, it was a really smart financial and life decision. I would not change a thing.
I am thankful for the lessons and memories learned and made in the little tan duplex.
Maybe I should apologize to my husband for the foot stomps? Mine I mean, not the tenants.
That house was a great teacher! I learned how to paint— walls, not pictures. I learned a huge lesson about building confidence. You can read about it here. And, I learned a little patience and hard work can yield sweet rewards.
