My First Home: Her silent stamp of approval
'As we rehabbed and modernized our abode, Pauline's silent approval was received.'
Our first home was in Beverly, an antique handyman’s special one block from the beach. Newly married, we were excited to provide our expected newborn a home of his or her own. Pauline was the previous owner, a hair stylist by trade and smoker by avocation. The walls came covered in tobacco stains, the lighter colors bleeding through where pictures had been removed. When we entered our new home following the closing, there was a bottle of sherry on the counter with a note written on the back of an envelope with a canceled 15-cent stamp. Pauline’s slanted cursive read: “This is not the proper stationery to be writing a little note, as all my stationery is at the other house. Have a little bit of wine to relax you and hope you both will be as happy in this home as we were. God bless you both. Please excuse mistakes and misses.’’
For the next 10 years, I often thought of Pauline. When each of our three newborns made a first journey through the front door, Pauline was there in spirit, welcoming them. I knew she would be happy as they made friends with neighborhood children and our front stoop became a place to share stories. With extended families in other states, we were adopted by the neighbors. Our children were welcome visitors, and our doors were open to them and theirs.
As we rehabbed and modernized our abode, Pauline’s silent approval was received. She appreciated and was warmed by the insulated walls, new heating system, and windows — and understood when we replaced the pink plastic tiles and poodle wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom. Pauline was proud to see the peeling white exterior replaced with a subtle gray stain and topped with a new roof. The conversion of the downstairs coat closet into a half bath was clever, the move of the washer and dryer from the kitchen to the upstairs hallway genius. Mostly, Pauline marveled that my husband made all of the modifications. An engineer by trade, Bob faced each challenge with a limited budget and an unwarranted confidence that often scared us both.
When only the kitchen remained in need of renovation, we had to make a difficult decision. Adaptations to accommodate a wheelchair for our middle child were not possible given the postage stamp lot and house’s location on a busy corner. With aching hearts, we knew the only prudent undertaking was to locate a home that was easily accessible and had bedrooms on the first floor. Our realtor worked her magic, finding us suitable accommodations and a buyer for our house.
At the closing, we sat across from the couple who would reside in the home we had nurtured and had sheltered our growing family so graciously. Molly and Alan were transplants from New Jersey who seemed delighted with their purchase. Signing the customary heaps of papers, we chatted easily before shaking hands and wishing one another well. In honor of Pauline, a bottle of sherry and welcoming note sat waiting on that same yellow Formica countertop.
Shortly after their stewardship began, Molly and Alan welcomed a daughter. We hoped they felt our blessings as they walked up the stairs and across the front porch Bob had so lovingly rebuilt. And those of our dearest Pauline.
Judith T. Heerlein, a speech/language pathologist, lives in Georgetown. Send comments to [email protected] and a 550-word essay on your first home to [email protected]. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue. Subscribe to our free real estate newsletter — our weekly digest on buying, selling, and design — at pages.email.bostonglobe.com/AddressSignUp.
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