Welcome to How Many Bedrooms.  There should be a question mark behind that title because it really is a question — one that I hear every time I take a client out to see properties.

The second question?  How many bathrooms….

In this blog, I’ll be bringing you up-to-date real estate information, trends, market place information and well, my own opinion.  Mixed in will be stories – my own and maybe once in a while a story about a client and their experience buying or selling their home.

In my maiden blog, I am compelled to bring you a story of my own – a memory of my childhood, my parents and their first home.  I think my parents’ love of architecture and the very existence of a home is what shaped my interests and eventually my livelihood.  So, here we go – maiden blog.

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On the day I was born, my Dad started building our family home. It was 1959 — Dwight Eisenhower was the President, the average yearly income was $5,400 and the cost of a new home was $12,000. My Dad by trade was an accountant but in mind, he was a frustrated engineer so drawing the house plans was a natural and necessary process for him.  Mom and Dad loved contemporary, clean lines – the sixties esthetic with Danish style furniture and brushed chrome hardware.  They also leaned towards Japanese architecture, so our home had subtle Japanese influences – shoji style closet doors, large overhangs, floor to ceiling windows and a pre-curser to what we call today ‘an open floor plan.’

The house was completed in stages with the hardscapes coming several years later.  I remember the day the big cement trucks came – they lumbered down the driveway, and large, burley men unhooked and drug the big hoses to the backyard. My Dad and my Uncle Jimmy’s job was to contain the grey ooze that gushed from those hoses – they looked like they were fighting serpents and neither one would give up until the serpents were vanquished.  By day’s end, the cement was down but there was one more thing to do – Dad wanted my hand and footprints embedded in the backdoor step.  Shoes off, hands clean – I remember stepping onto the cement and feeling the cool grey ooze squish between my toes – it actually tickled.  Then, my handprints and Dad’s handwritten “1963.”  That bit of cement meant everything to my Dad – so much so that when Mom and Dad moved into their new house in 1981, he dug up that chunk of cement (weighing close to 100 pounds) and drug it to the new house where he placed it in the backyard.

Both of my folks are gone now, as is Uncle Jimmy.  The chunk of cement still resides at the house my folks bought in ’81 but sadly, the impression of my tiny feet and hands has all but washed away after 50+ years of exposure to the elements.  Fortunately, my memories haven’t washed away and I now know why I have gravitated to homes in such a strong way – because of my parent’s love of the house they built.

Today, I’m a Realtor and I sell homes throughout Southern California.  Every once in a while, I run across a back stoop with foot and handprints and I smile – remembering my sticky toes and my Dad’s pride.  A house is comprised of nails and wood and cement steps but a home encompasses who we are.  And, sometimes a home even predicts who we will become.