The Dirty Secrets of Property Ownership

When asked by friends recently what my family was doing for Spring Break, I declared boastfully, “Oh, why we’re going to our beach house, of course.”

Leaving a pregnant pause, I hoped my friends would ask for more details, so I could brag that “my family” has owned a beach house in North Carolina’s windswept Outer Banks since the 1970s. I hoped that my explanation would conjure up visions of Kennedy-esque old money, and me lounging on a sun-soaked chase overlooking the sea, wearing a nautical-striped boat neck top, large sunglasses and a silk scarf blowing in the cool ocean breeze.

Little do these friends know that, although I am one of 12 extended Smith family members who own a beach cottage, our ownership experience is nothing like Jackie’s and John John’s days spent carelessly frolicking the grounds of their estate on Maaahtha’s Vinyaahd. I’d say our family vacation property ownership experience is more akin to what might happen if the Hatfields and the McCoys went in together on a timeshare on Lake Winnipesaukee.

There’s no question about it—the benefits of co-owning a vacation home must be balanced against the reality of sharing the property with relatives.

When the house was first built in 1979, I was most likely humming “Muskrat Love” in a pink halter-top while sipping Tang from the banana seat of my yellow Schwinn, so I was happily ignorant of the practical ramifications of my parents’ decision to invest in a vacation property with our quirky relatives. All I knew was that we had the grooviest beach house ever, and I claimed the loft bedroom with the gold shag carpeting at the top of the mod spiral staircase as my own.

It wasn’t until I bought my own share of the beach house in 1992 that reality slapped me hard in the face. I soon realized that “my” beach house was not really “mine.” I was sharing this place with a bunch of strange relatives, many of which harbored long-standing family rivalries, and some of which thought the upstairs loft bedroom was theirs too.

This was not the beach house ownership status that I’d envisioned, and I soon became aware of the secrets families who co-own keep.

Like, that owning an “equal” share does not necessarily mean sharing equally in the responsibilities. One owner might stain the entire deck on his vacation, while another might sacrifice only the amount of time that it takes to pencil into the beach house repair log, “New light bulb needed in bedside lamp.”

Like, that no co-owners’ cleaning standards are alike. One owner might think it completely appropriate to dump all the Scrabble tiles, Happy meal toys, and a few used cotton swabs into the utensil drawer, while another owner will spend an entire day of every annual vacation reorganizing the toys, linens, tools, cookware, games, cards and cleaning supplies. Oh, and she will spend a few more precious minutes wiping the splattered daiquiri someone left on off the wall behind the blender. (Not that I’m bitter or anything.)

Like, that co-owners never own up to breaking anything, and will think nothing of propping the foosball table up with the leg their kid just broke off, knowing full well that 150-pounds of wood-laminate-covered particle board might come crashing down on the next vacationing owner’s foot.

Like, that co-owners will take items that would not sell in their garage sales and unload them at the beach house. Ours has no less that 13 small pans that are meant for saut├®ing shallots, a plastic plant, seven used bedding sets in every floral pattern imaginable, nine toothbrush holders, and five Thanksgiving-themed tea towels.

Like, that co-owners will vote on strict Rules and Procedures prohibiting pets and smoking, but will do whatever they darned well please, believing the rules to only apply to the other owners, and knowing full well that no one will be able to pin the inhuman black hairs imbedded in the carpet on them.

Like, that co-owners never bother throwing anything away. Our house has a drawer full of owner’s manuals from every alarm clock, toaster, microwave, grill, washing machine, VCR and fan we have jointly owned since 1979. We also have over a dozen clickers that don’t seem to work with any TV. Additionally, our shared storage closet contains a discarded shoe, a bicep curl apparatus, an empty DVD case, a curtain rod, old saltshakers, a can of coffee that is at least 15 years old, and a bottle of cheap Asti Spumante.

Despite these dirty (and sometimes sticky, cluttered and tacky) little family secrets, we all feel fortunate to have something most people only dream about ÔÇô vacation property ownership. And just like the defunct TV clickers and old saltshakers, no one will ever take that away.