A Return to the Homestead

From 1970 to 2007 my parents lived at number 86 Idlewood Drive in Stamford, Connecticut. It was the first home they ever purchased. My father made the deal with his commuting buddy on the train. They agreed on a purchase price of $67,000. In a full circle, poetic moment they sold it for $967,000.

If you think that means they made a great investment, think again. Aside from inflation and the time value of money, the place was a money pit. Plus, the house was my father’s favorite child, so he was always investing in upgrades. A solarium. A basketball court. A circular driveway. A hot tub in the go-go 90’s. The list went on. In four decades, the house grew from a three-bedroom, one bath ranch to a five-bedroom, four bath Cape Cod.

When we were dropping our kids off at camp last week, traffic and timing had us eating dinner in Stamford. I lost the vote on where to eat dinner, but the family agreed to a Rob reality tour of the old neighborhood. We drove by my elementary school, middle school, the Little League field, Newfield Swim and Tennis Club. I showed the kids the childhood home of my two best friends, told all of my old stories and eventually we landed at 86 Idlewood Drive.

In an even more poetic end, a former camper of mine recently bought the house. Incidentally, his father and my father were also commuting buddies. He is a general contractor and has done an outstanding job of modernizing the house. He saw me snapping a picture from across the street and we were able to catch up for a few moments. I wanted to say something sentimental, but was at a loss for words.

When we got back in the car, my son commented that everything was so close and peaceful and how intertwined our lives were with friends and neighbors. He was right. The door of our house was always open to friends and family. My widowed grandmother lived with us for over a decade. My uncle moved in post-divorce two times. My sister’s college roommate spent summers with us when her parents moved overseas.

So many good and bad things happened in that house – big and small. Totaled cars. Health scares. Shivas. Business partnerships gone bad. Bad decisions and subsequent consequences (I was generally good at not getting caught, but when I was it was usually pretty epic). But they lived alongside the good things. The engagements. The weddings. The clambakes. The surprise parties, Passover Seders and acceptance letters. Meeting the parents, and welcoming grandchildren. And there were the quiet moments in between. The smell of Sunday morning bagels fresh from Liz Sue. Games of Pig. My grandmother reading a book in the solarium. My dad playing catch in his dress shirt and underwear.

When my father made that deal on the train, he did not set out to make a great investment. On the surface, the additions and enhancements may give the appearance of someone chasing ego – the creation of a dream house. And it felt that way sometimes. But with the benefit of time, I realize he was working to create a dream home. There is a distinction. A dream home has nothing to do with size or structure. It is about setting a tone and what happens inside.?He was creating a canvas for his family to tell their story. Although it was never perfect, it sure did strike a balance. Life may not have always been happy, but it was fulfilling and meaningful.?