Maybe It’s In the Blood
APRIL 5, 2024 — Before I was born, my parents moved their young family, my older sister and brother, from the midwest to the middle of the southwest desert in Arizona. That was 1959.
The rest of their midwest family thought they were nuts. “Are there telephones there?” they asked.
There were new neighborhood developments being built in the east Phoenix metro area in the early 60s, with lots of midwesterners moving to a warmer climate away from urban congestion, allergies, and snow. I was born (60 years ago today, actually) in Scottsdale a few years after my parents and siblings moved there.
Mom & Dad c. 1950s; My sibs and me, 1965, Dad putting in a brick patio in our backyard, 1974.
Dad got a job at the steel mill, and then Motorola. Mom was a good typist and had an office job too.
“Back then,” Dad told me, “we put your mom’s paychecks in the dresser drawer.” I was a young teenager at this point, hanging out in his office with him, eating popcorn, talking business. He explained to me that when Mom’s paychecks added up to enough money for a down payment on a house, they cashed them in. They did that three times, purchased three new homes in five years’ time.
“Over the years, the income on the two rentals paid for the mortgages on all three houses,” he told me.
Air conditioning was new technology at that time, not widely used in single family residences yet. Most homes had swamp coolers. It was my job when I got home after school to turn the spigot located above the hot water heater in the hall closet, which released a trickle of water, and then flip the toggle switch to “on” for the fan. This allowed damp air to flow through the house to cool it off. Worked great. If I forgot, and the house was hot when my parents got home, ooo did I get in trouble.
I didn’t forget very often.
One of my part-time jobs back then was helping Dad at the rental houses. I did a lot of cleaning between tenants, and one time, when I was about 16, Dad decided we needed to replace a cracking concrete patio. Dad let me help with the demo.
Can you imagine five-foot-tall teenaged me with a sledgehammer? Oh yeah, baby.
Yours Truly demo-ing the patio in the backyard of one of Dad’s properties, c. 1979.
“Got any friends who would like to make a few bucks this weekend?” he would often ask. Of course I did! My friends and I painted, pulled weeds, and scrubbed a lot of floors, toilets and kitchens for a couple bucks an hour. He had a white board at our house, with to-do lists for each of the rentals, and front door keys dangled from hooks in the wall beside it. There were also three shoeboxes in the cabinet above the oven in our galley kitchen with the word RECEIPTS written in black marker, one for each house.
In the end, it was those rental houses that allowed my siblings and me to financially take care of our parents in their final years. I like to think they were a blessing too, for the tenants who rented from Dad, the families who needed good quality homes.
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Over the years of my life, I had believed that Dad was just at the right place at the right time, and happened to be smart enough to buy real estate in a new growing community. And, I also believed that it couldn’t happen for my generation. But this isn’t true. I have found a community to help me figure this out, (thank you WNN Properties) and they have helped me purchase my first rental property! I’m on my way.
It is said that the best time to plant a tree is 30 years ago, and the second best time to plant a tree is today. It’s the same for buying real estate.
Dad laid the foundation. Or maybe it’s just in the blood. Either way, I’m here and I’m doing it. Stay tuned.