Up From the Co-op: On Our Way to Suburbia

by Robin Starr

In 1977, I got married at the tender (and ridiculous, looking back) age of 20½. Hey, that’s what you did in those days. I had graduated college young, and if you weren’t married by 22 you were considered an old maid. Seriously.

My new husband, Bruce, at age 25, had just started working for the Long Island Rail Road, the largest commuter rail in the country. He’s an accountant who later got his CPA and MBA degrees, and I had just graduated college and was working at a job that had nothing to do with my major—communications with a specialty in mass media—the major that gets you nowhere. Maybe in today’s world, with 854 cable and satellite stations, but not then, when the entire broadcast world consisted of ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS, along with a few indies. My dreams of being the female Geraldo Rivera never manifested themselves.

Before we got married, there was a lengthy decision process on where to live. Since Bruce worked for the Long Island Rail Road, there was no sense locating ourselves anyplace but on Long Island—Brooklyn and Queens, the two of five New York City boroughs located on Long Island, included. We checked out apartments in the suburbs, but they were so pricey there was no chance we’d ever save money for a house, which was the ultimate goal. Finally, after looking at numerous locales in Brooklyn and Queens, we settled on a 3½-room apartment in Brooklyn—living room, bedroom, eat-in kitchen and bath. I could not wrap my head around the fact I was moving to Canarsie, the dreaded place my father always threatened to send me and Nathan to if we misbehaved (the trajectory being that of a slap, although he never actually slapped me, nor did I end up there, prior to 1977).

Robin, Bruce and Twinkle the cat, Summer 1981, after we resurfaced the nauseating
moss green and white exterior; the result being brown paint and new shingles.

Bruce, however, had grown up there, and it was a nice place, contrary to the pictures of hell my father had painted. The deal was unbeatable. We were in the bottom level of a two-family attached home; our landlord was a NYC cop, married with young children, and they were warm, inviting people, who were like family within a few months. The subway to take me to work in Manhattan was close by. Our rent totaled $215 a month, which even in those days was cheap. We had washer and dryer privileges, storage space in the basement, and a welcome invitation to use the grill and back yard. Our friendliness with the landlords reached the point that we left the interior stairwell and doors between the two apartments open, in case someone had to borrow milk or cookie sheets when the other wasn’t home. They remained so happy with us as tenants that they refused to raise the rent in the three and a half years we lived there, and had we stayed there forever, we’d be millionaires now (and probably dead millionaires, given how the area has changed).

However, in 1979, with the desire for more room, equity, and a place for future little Starrs, the search for a home of our own began. We had saved enough money for a down payment, so off we went to our suburb of choice, Nassau County, to do reconnaissance and find a home. Bruce, in his infinite accountant-minded wisdom, researched the schedules of the LIRR lines in various communities, and selected three that we would want to live in, given the good train service, and the fact I still had to commute into Manhattan.

We spent nearly two years house hunting, because there was a certain subdivision we wanted, called Merrick Woods. It was an older area, filled with tree-lined streets and distinctive houses. Very country-like atmosphere, as opposed to many of the Long Island communities where trees had been razed in order to fit as many homes as possible in. The school district was excellent, which was an important part of our decision, given the anticipation of those little Starrs sometime in the future.

Me, our copper stove, and hideous kitchen wallpaper.

The market in Merrick Woods was so hot that every time a house came up for sale, there was a binder on it within a week. Not to mention the minor fact that we could just not afford the area. Yet, every other time we went house hunting, somehow we found ourselves driving back to the community we wanted, gazing at homes and feeling at home ourselves.

Finally, at the end of 1980, we took the leap and put a binder down on a home. It was a disaster area, easily the worst house on a beautiful street, and our parents frankly thought we had dropped some brain cells like Hansel and Gretel’s crumb trail along the path of our search for houses. Almost every wall was covered with white paneling with gold streaks (which we later found out covered two layers of hideous 1950s and 1960s wallpaper). The carpet was a sculpted Kelly green, the in-floor radiant heat did not work well (ultimately, the first thing we replaced), and the kitchen was a mess, metallic copper appliances and all. The main bath had pink and black tile with red fleur-de-lis flocked wallpaper. The exterior was painted moss green and white, and the natural brick had been painted over.

However, we had seen the same model of home in the area, and knew its potential for growth and remodeling. And we would never have to move, since it was large enough for a family. We were also young and very dumb, mistakenly thinking we’d fix it all up quickly.

The grand total for this home and its 80x100 property was $74,000. That may sound low, but this was 1980. The property taxes were ridiculously high at $3,600 (today, over $10,000 a year), but it wouldn’t have been much better anyplace else. Welcome to Long Island, desirable suburb of New York City.

The biggest hurdle, though, was the price of a mortgage. Interest rates at that time were sky high, the average being 17%. We had no idea how we were going to be able to afford it (we had already backed out of one earlier deal for fear we couldn’t handle it) when somehow we got very lucky and the owner (who saw we were getting antsy, and wanted to sell his money pit) proposed that he hold the mortgage, 10% payable over 20 years. We grabbed that offer and ran with it, and in January of 1981, became proud homeowners.

In the early-to-mid-90s, rates started going down into the single digits and it might have paid to refinance, but we realized at this juncture that we could scratch enough cash together to pay off the mortgage. This saved us money in the long run, and we owned our home free and clear.

Over the years we did tear down paneling, scrape wallpaper (my first target being the red bathroom paper, which my mother-in-law and I ripped down week one, it was so hideous), paint, replace windows, knock down walls to open things up, remodel the kitchen and bathrooms, vinyl side the house, and raise two children in our home. We even survived Hurricane Gloria in 1985, when one of our 60-foot oaks crashed down and missed the corner of our den by a foot.

The 2008 version.

Bruce rose up through the railroad and retired last year as Director of Information Systems, having left the fun-filled world of accounting for computers. We are now rattling around in our home, pretty much empty-nesters, as Andrew is in college and summer interning, thus barely home, and Gary has purchased his own home (another story). We have dreams of moving, perhaps for half the year, to a warmer climate, but we would have to sell this home and downsize in the North to do this. Bruce whiles away the hours of his retirement looking at Florida homes on the Internet (how did we ever search for a home without it?); there is one community we really like, but find ourselves back at the point of lack of affordability. Until Andrew graduates next year and the market becomes more seller friendly, we aren’t going anyplace. It’s a Catch 22 for us; we could get a home in warmer climates at a great price now, but would not get enough for this one to enable us to afford that second home and a smaller place in New York. So we debate the idea loosely, and stay on Long Island, enjoying the beautiful blossoming spring and summer (although my allergies despise the season) and praying the upcoming winters don’t necessitate too much snow shovel action.

Was it all worth it? Absolutely. We made a great investment; beneath the horrible décor there was a solidly-built home. The area is still desirable and has a great reputation, although houses now sit on the market unsold. Five years ago we could have sold for a lot more than we can now. One just hopes that the the country’s economic situation takes a turn for the better (can it get worse?).

Meanwhile, we stay contently in this house, which is now, truly, OUR home.