My own father’s unsolicited comment, “I hope you didn’t overpay,” uttered in 1976 when Daphne’s dad and I bought our first home, still stings. My parents, living in New York at the time, had no frame of reference other than the brick row house they had purchased in Queens.
Happy that I had snagged a home in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts for $56,750, I could feel the air hissing out of my balloon after a telephone conversation with my father. He couldn’t understand why I would accept a wood structure, which he considered a fire hazard.
Though I know real estate has taken a hit in this recession, and the cost of living in Atlanta is lower than in the Northeast, I know little else. So when Daphne told me she and Etan have friends in East Atlanta, an up and coming area, and saw some renovated properties that could be promising, I said, “Go for it.”
My daughter was pleasantly surprised that I would support her decision to explore homes in a part of Atlanta that I imagine has more in common with Boston’s South End of the early 1970’s or Dorchester, MA today than Chestnut Hill. I felt proud that she and Etan, both journalists earning modest salaries, had managed to save enough for a down payment on a home.
If I told you I kept my mouth completely shut, as Dennis urged, I’d be lying. After my Google search of the area turned up an article about housebreaks leading to the loss of flat screen TV’s in East Atlanta, I e-mailed my daughter the link. She responded well, acknowledging the importance of taking certain crime prevention measures.
But I crossed the line when I sent Daphne the Zillow link to a particular home. The only reason I had the address was that she had e-mailed me pics of some properties she had seen with a buyer’s agent.
Daphne’s response demonstrated courtesy and maturity: “Thanks. Etan had the Zillow app on his iPhone, so we looked up all the homes while we were touring.” I’ve been put in my place, and I deserved it.
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