Author: Brett

My in-laws and I take a stroll around the neighborhood, Madison, in Brooklyn, with the babies everyday. The name “Madison” is no doubt the wizardry of some enterprising real estate office put in place to give the area some caché. James Madison High School is nearby, so maybe that is the source as the area used to be part of Flatbush.

Marine Park, which is not far from Flatbush Avenue and the Kings Plaza Mall, is a welcome oasis for runners, Young People’s Day campers, and stroller-pushing moms. The attached houses on the streets surrounding the park run in the 500Ks and are along bus routes to the nearest subway stop at Kings Highway.

Sometimes, we head to Marine Park to walk the running circle. Other times, I run errands on Kings Highway, running into Dunkin’ Donuts or the local favorite, Crawford’s for coffee. Wherever we go, on the way home, we can’t help but play, “Look at this House”. We marvel, gawk, and grumble at the tasteful, unique, and sometimes downright ostentatious homes in the neighborhood. The houses that garner most of my disdain are the ones that have been built on two lots after the previous homes had been razed. “These houses must cost a fortune of money” my father-in-law, a retired public school teacher, remarks as we watch the gardeners and the maids at work. “Location! Build your mini mansion” one local real estate website boasts about one of their properties. Indeed.

Whether out of helpfulness, sheer curiosity, or both, my mother-in-law, who has lived here all of her life, has found a new hobby by keeping up with the real estate market. Her amazing memory at work, she stares hard at the house, then once home, combs the broker’s listings until she finds the asking price. The one we saw with the broken garage door and garbage in the backyard? $949K. The corner house on Avenue T? “Needs TLC and an imagination”, but the price is $879K.” The one on the next street? “$739K”. These are all nondescript, two-story, 3-bedroom Colonials and probably all need updating. It is hard to get past the idea that what the realtors are really selling is the lot rather than the house and that we are not the demographic (read: we are too poor) that they are looking for.

Two weeks ago on a Sunday, MIL looks up from the New York Times and informs us of an Open House on the next block. We planned to load the babies into the double jogging stroller and stop by, taking turns going inside, but by 2:30, only one baby was napping. Grandma to the rescue! My MIL told us to leave the tots with her and we slipped into our sneakers and raced down the block to see it before the OH ended at 3. This small Colonial had been completely refurbished from floor to ceiling. Even the banisters were brand new. To maximize the illusion of space, the front entry was lined with mirrors. And there were closets, many, many closets, all identical in their white magnet-closured doors and each one with the same shelving configuration. It soon became apparent that the rooms were so small that the closets were needed in lieu of actual furniture. An interesting concept, perhaps ideal for the Japanese businessman, or the neo-tenement building inhabitant, but a bit claustrophobic for us. And, how much for this shoebox? “$769 thousand”. The agent said that she would call us later in the week and we said goodbye, stepping outside into the street where we could breathe.

It’s been a couple of weeks now, and no calls from the agent. There is another OH this weekend in the same house. What? Still no takers? Maybe the owners are waiting for the right seller to swoop in, buy them out, and knock the place down. We are pretty sure that this is what they will do to the house next door.