Friday, July 24, 2015

What Dreams Are Made Of

The soon-to-be newlyweds took a friend to see their new apartment. They warned him it was small, and he said that was fine, just as long as it wasn't as small as his sister's first, newlywed apartment, because it was awful!

It was the same apartment.

While standing in my kitchen, I wondered if the upstairs part of their apartment (living room, kitchen and bathroom), was any bigger than my pantry. I walked into the pantry and said, "Yup, this pantry has more square footage."

But that's okay, because each time I think of her living in a hobbit-hole small apartment, I remember our first apartment. It was a horrible basement with a bedroom that really doubled as the boiler room for all three apartments in the old house, and there was only room enough for a double bed and a wire  for hanging clothes, strung from one apparatus to another. It seemed wonderful--but not to my sister, who told my dad he better give us some money to rent a nicer place. But did he?

No. Because he remembered his first apartment with a new wife and he remembered his first car as a newlywed was the bread truck from the business and that they used to put my sister in a bread box. He probably remembered how their first home cost $20,000 which was a lot of debt to take on, so they chose the house without the fireplace because it was $500 dollars less.

Proof that my daughter loves her first newlywed home is that she keeps proudly showing it to anyone who will take the drive with her to unload a few more boxes. Last night, it was her future husband's grandmother who also "loved" the apartment and like us all, had a few nostalgic moments. She remembered her first college apartment for $20 dollars a month, her job that paid one dollar an hour, and that a McDonald's meal cost only 56 cents.

The sweet seal to this story is that London, the fiancée, has promised my daughter if his entrepreneurial adventure is successful, after their one year lease in the small apartment is up, they will rent a loft in a fancy part of town. The dream, in part, is fueled by the condition of their first apartment, and who would want to destroy a dream? Because that first apartment, that first bread truck, that first dollar-an-hour paycheck, are what dreams are made of.