It was a cold Memorial Day weekend in 1987 and I was once again on the hunt for my dream second home. This “hunt” had been an off and on again effort for nearly ten years but by then I was eager to spend my weekends outside of the Big Apple.
In 1979, I had drawn a circle around NYC that indicated the maximum distance and/or time I would be willing to spend driving for a three-day weekend. I had then begun my exploration where many NYC dwellers do with the Hamptons, a well known set of quaint towns on the tip of Long Island. My typical routine was to rent a car and drive out very late Friday night when the traffic was lighter. On Sunday night traffic was god awful, so I usually returned in the middle of the night.
At first I purchased a half-share in a summer house in South Hampton; the next year I purchased one half-share in East Hampton and one half-share in Remsenburg. All these houses were “share” houses near the beach. The concept of share houses developed because young singles in NYC wished to play, party and socialize in the famous Hamptons on the cheap. A “half-share” allowed you to spend every other weekend during the prime summer months and share the total cost of renting the house. It was also a way for the house owners to make a return on their investment and still enjoy their home the other nine months.
A well-run share house would be an approximate mix of half men, half women, all single and all up for a party. It was a great time and I met a few people that have remained dear friends. However, my objective was really not the same as everyone else; I was on the property search. I could not very well tell my roommates that I was willing to spend a few million dollars to purchase and renovate a house. So, I embarked on the house hunting adventure at least one early morning most weekends. Mornings were great for looking at Hampton real-estate because nearly everyone was asleep or hung over. When I returned for lunch most everyone in my house assumed I had just arrived from the city or spent the previous night with some lady.
It was on these real estate searches that I began to formulate my vacation free thesis, the topic of this memoir. I did not try the idea for many years, not until that May weekend in 1987; however, the germ of the idea started right there in the Hamptons.
A very few real estate agents showing expensive homes are a little snooty; I especially like the ones that advertise the property as “price on request.” But when it came to looking at properties, I was probably more prepared than my guides. I had statistics on everything I could get and compiled more. I had square footage of lots, out buildings, homes, number of bedrooms and baths, taxes, comparable sales, the value of a tennis court and a swimming pool. I took pictures, notes and collected leaflets. On two occasions I even provided a bank reference to demonstrate I was financially capable. I made it clear I was willing to renovate and wanted a deal but that I was very choosy. The economy was weak in the early 1980’s and inflation and interest rates were high; I was eager but I finally concluded the Hamptons were not for me.
At the same time that I was spending weekends in the Hamptons I was pursuing my great love of backpacking. From the mid 1960’s until the mid 1980’s I had hiked a part of the Pacific Crest Trail in California and the Adirondacks in upstate New York. I had also backpacked the Appalachian Trail (AT) starting in New York and ending at the Maine border. I always wanted to become a “thru-hiker;” (a hiker that hiked the full length of the AT from Georgia to Maine in one summer). Alas, due to multiple injuries and the demands of my career, I never did.
On one such trip, I joined a couple of acquaintances on a week-long AT hike from a trail head in Connecticut to another trail head in Massachusetts. It was on this trip that I first really discovered the beautiful and pristine Berkshire Mountains. By any serious backpacker’s yardstick they are really only big hills, the highest being Mount Greylock at 3,491 feet and Mount Everett at 2,624 feet. I had been in the Berkshires before to attend concerts at Tanglewood and, once to attend a dance festival at Jacob’s Pillow, but this walking trip made me realize I needed to look at real estate in the Berkshires. Luck was with me.
Back at my share-house that summer were two women who expressed interest in the Berkshires. Karen was in the classical music business and knew Tanglewood well. Lorraine was an artist and worked in the fashion industry. Both were tennis players. Together we made a pact: I would provide the upfront money for renting a house in the Berkshires and they would recruit other young women and men to buy the shares. If done right, the three of us would have a free ride for the summer. Soon Karen and Lorraine found a log cabin house located in Alford, MA. The house was up a long driveway and positioned in a meadow on the side of a “mountain,” a beautiful idyllic spot. They even found tennis courts nearby.
Most days I house hunted alone, although Lorraine was becoming enamored with the idea of moving out of NYC and living in the country. She was an incredibly talented and artistic person and was able to see space, color, landscaping and architectural design in a way that I could not. On one trip, we found a once lovely home, badly in need of repair. It was a beautiful sunny day, late morning and we had arrived just before lunch, brown bags and soda in hand. I told the real estate agent, somewhat flippantly; that we wished to wander around the property, eat our lunch and that we would lock up the house if she would tell us where we could leave the keys. The agent readily agreed, but told us she would be in contact later to get our thoughts.
Sadly, that was my last house hunting trip with Lorraine. She had met a man, fallen in love and they were doing their own house hunting in the Berkshires. She remained a close friend until her recent untimely death due to cancer. Her art adorns the walls of three of my homes and my thoughts about that last house hunting trip still bring me pleasant smiles.
Returning now to that cold Memorial Day weekend in 1987, I am in Vermont with my fiancée looking at real estate. Our practice was to plan well ahead of time by contacting local real estate agents in towns of interest. We told them what we wanted: a lot of acreage, a lake or large pond, some meadow, woods and a view. We were prepared to build or renovate. We also wanted a nearby town or village where we could purchase food and find a doctor if needed.
The property we were seeing that day was on the top of a mountain looking east to the New Hampshire White Mountains. It was over 300 acres, had two very deep quarry ponds filled with trout and its own cemetery. The house was a brick Georgian style built in the early 1800’s containing two fire places, one upstairs and one down stairs in the living room. The main house and the out buildings were well maintained but with uninspiring furnishings. The property was wonderful, but a little too far from New York for a three-day weekend. There also was zero culture in the area, an aspect that had become more important to me over the years.
We had spent about an hour wandering the property, peering into the pond and examining the out buildings. We were now in the main house, looking across at the spectacular view of the White Mountains. The real estate agent was getting more than a little impatient and his behavior, quite frankly, annoyed me. We had made an appointment a couple weeks in advance; we had driven over four hours from New York the previous day. We were serious potential all-cash buyers of a substantial property at a not insubstantial price. All my looking at real estate over the years and dealing with real estate agents all over the world just like him came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. I never treated potential clients the way we were being treated.
I said “Ethan, we like the place very much. I can see you are eager to leave and we are not yet finished looking. Why don’t you leave us the keys and go on your way.” Ethan, clearly uncomfortable said “I cannot do that, I have to lock up.” “Listen, Ethan,” I responded, “we drove all the way up from New York City. I would like to go into town, grab a bottle of wine and a couple of steaks, some eggs and bacon and coffee. Then, I would like to have dinner looking at the mountains. Tonight I would like to build a fire in the fireplace, make love to my fiancée in front of the fire, curl up in the bed upstairs and go to sleep. Tomorrow morning I would like to wake up with the birds and watch the sun rise over the White Mountains while I have a leisurely breakfast. In short, Ethan, I would like to see what it would be like to live here, if even only for a night.”
Ethan stammered “…ah, well, that is just a little bit unusual; we do not do that here in Vermont. I mean, really, no one does that anywhere. We are a high end firm with high end clients.” I knew I had him; he was nervous and losing that cocksure attitude. “Look, Ethan,” I said “when I wish to buy a Mercedes, I go to the dealer and, the salesman says, without hesitation, ‘here are the keys, the tank is full, enjoy the car.’ And Ethan that is just a Mercedes; we are talking here about purchasing 300 plus acres, a house and out buildings. Hell, Ethan you should be providing the steak, wine, eggs, bacon and the keys for a weekend, if not a week.”
My fiancée did not look at me aghast; she was use to me by then. He gave us the keys and drove away. I had a moment of temporary angst as he climbed in his expensive car and I looked at my Mazda RX7; five months later I took delivery on a Mercedes 300SDL.
EPILOGUE
We did not spend the night, but wandered around until sunset, locked the house, left the keys on the kitchen table, went back into the village and had a lovely dinner. The next day I found the property of my dreams; 147 acres, a pond, great views; lovely town and culture. I bought in the Berkshires.
I came to realize that if you wish, you could travel the world and probably spend many free nights in lovely homes for sale by desperate owners. It probably works best with upscale places and haughty real estate brokers. Your demeanor is critical; the richer you act the better it works. My advice? Ask for the keys.
Labels: Memoir