Last month I said goodbye to my all-original, 1962 coppertone kitchen. And the process was – for a moment or two, at least – surprisingly emotional.
Backstory: I live in a 3-bed, 2-bath ranch built 62 years ago by an African American family in College Hill, one of a few areas where affluent black citizens were allowed to live before housing discrimination was outlawed.
When I moved in seven years ago, the house was almost completely unaltered. Stunning bathrooms – one yellow and blue, the other pink and green – in mint condition. Intercom. Beautiful hardwood floors. And a 1962 kitchen – coppertone cooktop, wall oven, and dishwasher, along with linoleum floor, original cabinets, and original Formica.
This kitchen and I saw a lot of good times together: friends, food, cocktails and – during covid lockdown – cocktail videos posted on Facebook. I loved it! But when the dishwasher finally ground to a halt and the wall oven caught fire, I knew it was time to start over.
So, what’s the real estate connection? There are two: holding on, and letting go – and they both go back to the meaning of a house. What is a house really?
I’ve said this many times before: a house is more than the sum of its parts. It’s more than shelter from the weather. It’s more than dollars and cents. It’s a place to do your life. As both container and stage, it’s where so much of our lives unfold. And that’s why there’s often a great deal of emotion tied up in a real estate deal.
The existence of this kitchen represented a significant achievement for the Driver family who built it. In 1962, the odds were stacked against African American home ownership. In addition to being barred from living in many areas, they often had to borrow at higher rates – assuming they could get a mortgage at all. This kitchen was a testament to the Drivers – they had beat the odds!
For me, it was a refuge from a storm. My business went bankrupt during the 2008 economic collapse, and I lost everything – including my house. It was a tough time, both financially and emotionally, and getting into this house was a signal that I was finally coming out of the woods. It felt great! I just loved my coppertone kitchen, and it was hard to say goodbye.
For both those reasons – and for just a few minutes the day before demolition started – I found myself wanting to hang on to the kitchen just as it was. However …
On the flip side there’s this: when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on.
In spite of the legitimate and the totally understandable emotional entanglements we have with our houses, too often I find that sellers place too much value on these entanglements when it comes time to sell the house.
Buyers care about their own lives, not about yours as it occurred in the house. Your attachments are not theirs. And no one wants to see closets and a garage crammed with your stuff – even if you promise to move it before closing.
Treasure your memories, but keep on moving.
As for me, I’ve said goodbye to the coppertone kitchen – both for myself, and for the Drivers. But a little bit of that coppertone will always reside in my heart.