Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar
by Laura Nagel

How did my husband and I come to own a piece of property on the beach in Monterey? I had thought that Monterey was permanently lost to me after I left for college. I grew up there, my parents having come when I was just a year old for the opening of the Naval Post Graduate School where my father was an instructor. After they divorced, 15 years later, my mother took her share of the proceeds from the sale of the home they had built together and bought herself a small tract house up on Del Monte Beach. I hadn’t thought it was a good idea at the time as that beach didn’t have a nice reputation because Fort Ord Army base was still open and soldiers would go there for late night drinking and carousing.

It was to this house on the beach years later that my husband and I came with all of our friends for our wedding . And after that, we would visit my mother there, our children in tow. For most of those visits, at some point I would find myself looking out over the bay fondly, and saying goodbye to the place, for I feared each visit would be my last. I certainly never thought I would be able to call it home again. Still, I carried Monterey with me. It was a refuge for me even when I wasn’t there. The places frequented there in my childhood, were the places to which I returned in my mind, when I needed a sacred place.

My frugal mother left the house to us, her three children upon her death. In addition to her not insignificant savings, she left us the house on the beach which had increased substantially in value from when she first bought it for what seems like a laughable sum of $32,000 in 1972. My younger brother was the first to say, adamantly, that we should never part with it; a place for us and our families, where our children and their children could always meet. This sounded like a good plan to my sister and me. We were in!

So, I was surprised a couple of years later when I arrived at my sister’s house for one of my  infrequent visits, and she greeted me at the front door with the news that my brother had just called to say he needed his cash out of the house, as quickly as possible. She and I spent the better part of the weekend weighing our options. Could she come up with her share of the money? Could I? We both thought we could do it, and things were set until, as I was leaving, again at the front door, she said to me, “I’ve thought it over, and I would like my cash out too.”

I was stunned. I flew home and went immediately to tell my husband Harry (who was sitting at his computer at his desk on the third floor of our townhouse in Houston). He wanted to try to get a mortgage to pay off my brother and sister. And we did. It was not easy. Interest rates were high and we already had a mortgage on our townhome. Fortunately, we already had a good property manager in Monterey who had kept the property rented for those first couple of years. Still the rent we were receiving did not cover the new mortgage. Years went by and I too began having thoughts of selling the place because every month we had to make up the difference between what we earned in rent, minus the property management fee, and what we owed on the mortgage. At one point I urged Harry to consider selling it after all. “No,” he replied, “the thought that one day I’ll be retired and walking on that beach is what keeps me going to work every morning.”

I didn’t need too much convincing. So we kept it. And over the past ten years, things have gotten easier thanks to his refinancing with a balloon, variable-rate mortgage. It has also helped that the house has remained rented I think because it’s right up the hill from the Postgraduate School. We are able to attract naval officers as tenants because they could roll out of bed in the morning and practically be in class.

Harry reminded me recently that if I had had my way, my mother would have moved to an assisted living facility years before she died, which would have required her selling her house, and we never would have had this opportunity. In looking back it makes me feel a little idiotic that it never occurred to me the property had appreciated so much in value. If I had known I might have urged Mom to stay put and look more diligently for home health care. As it turned out, she lived almost completely independently at home until age 87 when, after a brief illness, she died in hospice care surrounded by her three children.

What saved our view of the bay oddly was the sewage treatment plant that used to be at the end of our cul-de-sac. It is now closed, which saves us from the fumes that occasionally wafted over on a windy day. And, it will remain undeveloped property, providing us with a clear view of the harbor.

My mother loved her house on the beach. Her greatest pleasure was just to stand at the window and look out at the water and the waves. I cannot say whether protecting her investment was at the core of her decision to stay in the house instead of moving to assisted living. Money was certainly an issue then, as she had had to go back to work to support herself after the divorce. During those years she had seemed very tight-fisted as she insisted that the three of us would have to be financially independent of her and she would not give or lend us any money. This seemed pretty harsh to me, because I knew she had plenty of savings because she had taken me to the bank to show how proud she was of her balance.

My mother’s father was “a Scotsman” and she used to say, with a certain pride, that he and all his people could make a nickel squeak. My grandfather’s father, a coal miner, had immigrated to this country in 1873. He had met and married an English woman here and together they had had eight children, seven of them boys, all of whom had worked in the coal fields of Southern Illinois.  In the U.S. Census of 1880 my great grandfather recorded that he was employed only five months of the year. Perhaps for that reason he returned to Scotland, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves. My great grandmother reported herself as a widow in 1900, although he later returned to this country, perhaps looking for her. She was dead by that time. The children all stayed close, however, and looked out for one another. My uncle once told me not one of those brothers ever smiled. My mother was especially fond of her father, and he of her from reading his letters to her addressed to “Missy.” My grandfather rose in the ranks of Old Ben Coal Company to become mine superintendent at their largest mine, and ultimately to become Director of Mines and Minerals for the State of Illinois under Governor Adlai Stevenson.

I remember my grandfather, one of those brothers who never smiled, as a kind and gentle soul. He was a large and corpulent man who carried a silver dollar in his pocket as a talking point, gift piece, and general influential bit of property to have on your person. The time I can remember him visiting us in Monterey I must have been about four, though he had come once before when I was a baby. No one questioned his right to the largest chair in the living room, from which he rarely moved as everyone else moved about him. My grandmother took command of the kitchen and soon the smells of homemade foods began to pour forth. He and my grandmother, also not a small woman, slept on a foldout couch in the living room. It could not have been very comfortable, and they did not stay long. I did have a momentous experience while they were there because my grandfather took me in hand to get the haircut my mother wanted me to have, and I was willfully and persistently resisting–as I did with all things related to my wild and permanently snarled hair. He told me that if I came with him there would be a treat for me. And so we went. I don’t recall the barber shop; or having my hair cut, though there are photos to indicate the hair was properly bobbed. However, I will always remember holding his hand, walking down Alvarado, the main street of town, to the Woolworth’s. Once inside he pointed to the very top shelf, where all the most expensive items were kept, and told me I could have my pick of anything up there. This, of course, took some deliberation on my part, because I knew such an opportunity would never come again. After studying my options there was really no question what I wanted. It was a kitchen stove, just my size, and it worked. It provided me with great fun and hours of entertainment as I cooked up batches of crayon stew!

I am grateful to these thrifty people who knew the value of “a silver dollar” well earned, well saved, and well spent.