Some of us live in a complex and some of us live in a development. Neither of those words really sounds like home to me. I have enough complexes already, thank you. And “development” always strikes me as a medical euphemism (“I’m afraid there’s been a development in your grandmother’s condition”).
Development-living is inexplicably popular. A lot of people don’t seem to mind living in a neighborhood where they’re older than any of the trees or buildings, and where the street names seem to have been randomly generated by a committee with a thesaurus. (The original meaning of boulevard is probably a lost cause, but is it asking too much to suggest that a perfectly straight street without a single tree shouldn’t be called “Poplar Circle”?)
I’m also not sure how realtors manage to show these houses without forcing their perspective prospective buyers to drive there through the same heavy traffic that will become part of their daily lives if they make these developments their homes. Here in the Philadelphia area, Route 422 curves away to the northwest from Valley Forge and into Development Land. It’s a lovely stretch of highway at four in the morning on Christmas Day, but pretty much any other time it’s bumper-to-bumper gridlock all the way from your driveway in Hidden Valley Estates to where it intersects with the just-as-congested arteries of U.S. 202, the Pa. Turnpike, the Schuylkill Expressway and the King of Prussia Mall. This is the Nexus of Road Rage. There were rumors that PennDOT crews working there found a Hellmouth, but the papers covered it up.
As I write this, late on a Sunday evening, radio traffic reporters are announcing that “422 is backed up approaching the St. Gabe’s Curve.” (I don’t have the radio on, but this phrase is part of every radio traffic report — a boilerplate mantra recited six times an hour, 144 times a day, by announcers making the sign of the cross and offering a silent prayer of gratitude that they don’t have to drive that road.) And yet, somehow, prospective home buyers continue to slog their way through this traffic to visit yet another new development in Royersford or Limerick and, inexplicably, decide that this experience is something they wouldn’t mind doing twice a day, every day, for roughly 500 hours every year.
As USA Today reports, it’s become increasingly common for people to begin their commutes before 6 a.m.:
Americans are leaving home earlier and earlier to beat the rush and get to work on time. Census data released [last week] document the ever-lengthening commutes: In 2000, 1 worker in 9 was out the door by 6 a.m., the new data says; by 2006, it was 1 in 8. That might not seem like a big change, but it has put more than 2.7 million additional drivers — for a total of 15 million — on pre-dawn patrol.
But set aside the prospect of hours-long commutes. Set aside my particular objections to development living, and set aside even the more pressing question of whether these homes in sprawlville will be sustainable in the coming decades. What I really want to get to here is the matter of caveat emptor — “Let the buyer beware” — and to suggest a prudent course of action for anyone considering buying a home in one of these new developments.
“The old part or the new part?”
I heard that question dozens of times years ago when I was dating a girl who lived in a town-house development out in Exton. The guys who asked this question had all done work out there: plumbing or electrical, sewers or septic, paving, decks, drywall or landscaping. They all seemed to know a good bit more about this development than any of the people who lived there. They weren’t terribly impressed with any of the construction in the development, but the “old part” was generally understood to be better built than the new. They also all knew something of the history of that development that the brochures for the place failed to mention. The old part, at the top of the hill, used to have a septic system. That was replaced with a sewer system hookup just before the development expanded at the bottom of the hill, with the “new part” built on what used to be the leach field.
More recently, an acquaintance of mine moved into a new development even further out in Chesco sprawlville. Those McMansions were not built on a former leach field, but this development, too, enjoys a certain notoriety. I’ve already begun hearing the question, “Across from St. —-‘s?” They always ask with the same tone of voice — partly pitying, partly amused, partly offended by what passes for craftsmanship nowadays. I built a deck there, they say, or installed a pool, or paved a driveway, or dry-walled a basement. And then they shake their heads.
So if you’re considering development living, my suggestion is this: Before you buy that new house, hire your own inspector to double-check what the builder’s inspectors tell you. And then triple-check by spending a little quality time at the neighborhood bar. I mean a real bar — if there’s anything fancier on tap than, say, Yuengling Lager, then you’re in the wrong place. I mean the kind of neighborhood bar that you find in actual neighborhoods as opposed to in developments. Go in and find the guys in the landscaping or drywall or paving company T-shirts, buy them a round and ask what they can tell you about The Village at Shady Lake.
That $20 investment might just keep you from making a $400,000 mistake.
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