Now THAT'S a Great Idea

I love creative people, especially creative people whose work benefits a struggling community.  I read this article about Chris Toepfer's work on cleveland.com.  He is a contractor from Chicago who uses his creativity to lessen the blight that vacant or abandoned homes can bring to a neighborhood, such as the neighborhoods I visited in Cleveland this summer.  I reached back into my memory banks when I read this article and it struck me that I had actually seen his work in Slavic Village last month; I just didn't know it at the time.


In a nutshell, Toepfer places decorative boards over the existing boards/HardiPlank on houses that have become eyesores, like this:





I would have loved to have seen a "before" photo, but this guy covers up busted-out windows and holes in the siding with colorful boards.  This lessens the negative visual impact that such houses have on the neighborhood, thus increasing the marketability of nearby houses that are for sale.  It also discourages squatters and further vandalism to the properties.  Toepfer even puts faux stained windows in churches that have been closed - I'm sure that his contract in Cleveland will be secure if he chooses to also work on the area's closed churches.  The best part is that this only costs around $1,000 per house.  I love this guy!  I have particular interest in this as the wife of a real estate broker, but also as someone who appreciates creativity and hates to see once-thriving neighborhoods destroyed by homeowners and landlords that couldn't care less about the impact their properties have on their neighbors.


I don't know the ultimate fate of these homes, but I would venture to say that at least some of them that are too far gone will be slated for demolition.  In the meantime, maybe this will encourage people to invest in these areas (every big city has them) and rehab older homes inside and out in hopes that they will once again become viable neighborhoods.


Here's another article on this guy's work in Minneapolis.

Hello, Cleveland Part 7 (last one, baby)

That was it.  The walk down memory lane with my parents was over.  I felt as if I had just grazed the tip of the iceberg at breakneck speed.  I still had a lot of questions for my parents and wished that we would have taken it a little slower.  I guess it wasn't completely practical to actually get out of the car and walk the old neighborhoods due to my dad's knee problem, the heat, and potential safety issues, but I longed for something more.  I felt that we just whizzed by all of the old haunts without giving them their due respect.  I guess I had built up this trip in my mind so elaborately that nothing short of a two-day walking tour of the neighborhoods accompanied by polka background music and sausage street vendors would have satisfied me.


My parents' past had always seemed so glamorous, unattainable, and out of focus.  My dad's parents died when he was a teenager and his older brothers and sisters had taken all of the old family photos except for one very small, dog-eared photograph of my grandmother in which her face is barely visible.  I grew up with no tangible images of my grandparents and had only my imagination to rely on.  The past always seems more appealing because (1) we didn't have to live through it and (2) we have the luxury of romanticizing it and making it what we want it to be.  I had a more realistic view of my mom's family, however, because she had several photos of her family and also because I actually knew my grandmother and had a relationship with her until she died in 1978.


Oh, well.  Maybe it was best to live in my fantasy world with an idealized view of my parents' pasts.  I can't help but think that even though the times were tougher, the values were simpler and more ideal.  It was a slower and more focused way of life.  I have accepted the fact that technology is here to stay, but can't help but think that it has made our lives more complicated and impersonal in some respects.


We headed south on Warner Road and turned west on Granger Road.  I was a little concerned when Dad missed his turn onto I-77.


                              "I think I'll take 21 home.  It's a prettier drive."
                              "Sure, Dad."


Route 21 was beyond the scope of my handy-dandy Mapquest printouts, so Dad was on his own with this one.  I realized that he was right as we drove through Independence, a Western Reserve-style city with its white wooden street signs and Colonial-style buildings.  It was a refreshing respite from the highway, plus the speed limit was slower, thusly minimizing the risk of a potentially serious accident (see Part 2 of this series).  For some reason, we started talking about Mark, our youngest brother.  Julie asked me if I remembered where he worked.  I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of the company, but knew that he worked for a financial services company.  We were so proud of him because he returned to college after nearly 10 years and completed his finance degree.  He had attended the University of Akron (yes, I still talk to him even though our alma maters are arch enemies) after high school and left to play saxophone on a Carnival cruise ship.  He interned at a financial services company and was hired on a full-time basis after graduation.


My other sister, Mary, called me to hash out the plans for that evening as we entered the city of Richfield, which I remembered as the home of the Coliseum, where I had seen many concerts when I lived in Ohio.  Julie asked if Whitey's, where my brother moonlights as a bartender, was on this road.  I told her that I didn't know because I had never been there.  Suddenly, we passed a beautiful teal historic home that had been converted into a business on the right.  I quickly glanced at the white sign in front of the building.


                                "Hey, Julie.  Doesn't Mark work at Hammer Financial Services?"
                                "Yeah, why?"
                                "Uh, because I think we just passed it."
                                "Dad, turn around!  We have to stop and see him!"


I wasn't sure about popping in on him because he was pretty new at the company and I didn't want to get him in trouble.  I thought that we could at least stick a note on his car, so I urged Dad to turn the car around, which he did.  He pulled into a neighboring parking lot while I scribbled something on a yellow sticky note.   Julie and I climbed the hill next to the house and found Mark's car in the parking lot.  I stuck the note on his windshield and started to walk back to Dad's car.


                                "Amy, he'll kill us if we don't stop in and say hi."
                                "I know, but I don't want to get him in trouble."
                                "We HAVE to at least go in and say hi."
                                "You're right.  Let's go."


We walked up the manicured path at the back of the house, which was apparently the main entrance.  We walked into a beautifully decorated sitting room.  It looked like the owner had preserved the original fireplace and decorate it in period-appropriate furniture.  We saw a reception window and voila!

                                  "What the....??!!"


I think it was safe to assume that Mark was surprised.  He came around the desk and took us back to the inner sanctum of Hammer Financial Services.  The owner wasn't in, but we met the office manager and a couple of younger Alex P. Keaton types.  Of course, Julie and I had to embarrass Mark with comments like, "So you really DO have a job..." and "We apologize for him.  We're sorry that you have to put up with him,"   and, "We're the NORMAL members of the Sterle family."                        


                                  "Are Mom and Dad in the car?"
                                  "Yep."
                                  "Tell them to come in!"


Mark walked outside with us and we got Mom and Dad out of the car for a couple photo opps:

"Mom, it's okay.  You can come in. The boss isn't here."

"Howdy!  I'm Flat Markus!"

"I'm trying to act happy, but I really want to split and have a beer with my sisters."

"It's only leaning a little."

Mark took all of us back inside the office so we could check out his digs.  The house was built in the 1800s and had been very well-maintained.  Mark introduced Mom and Dad to his co-workers and showed us the conference room:

....and did a presentation for us:

....and misspelled Sterles Rule....

He couldn't resist playing boss in the owner's office (I'm only posting this because I'm sure that his boss doesn't read this blog):

Not wanting to disrupt his work day any further, Julie asked him if Whitey's was nearby.  Mark said that it was just down the road and that we should stop in for a drink.  I'm in!


Mark paid homage to Lauren, his fiancee, as we were leaving:

We said our goodbyes, chattering about how happy we were that Julie had the guts to suggest popping in on Mark.  We got back in the car and headed south on 21.  Sure enough, less than a mile down the road we saw:

Whitey's Booze 'N Burgers.  Simple, catchy, and perhaps a little too honest.  I liked it.  Mark has worked two stints at Whitey's over the past several years.  My parents have always raved about their ribs and it seemed that I was the only family member (except for Mary) that had never been there.  Julie insisted on taking my picture outside the entrance:

I know you can't see it, but I have a very big smile on my face (in anticipation of a nice, cold brewski).  We walked in and took a seat at the bar.  Julie asked the bartender if he knew Mark Sterle and he grinned and said that Mark just called and told him that we were on our way.  (Julie and I later talked about all of the things we could have said, like, "Well, you tell that SOB that I'm having his child" or "That mother owes me child support," but we weren't quick-witted enough at the time, and we were also with our parents.)  I ordered a Labatt's while Julie and my parents ordered Coronas.

                      
It was nice to relax and review the day's adventures as we observed the other patrons' antics.  My mom was shocked when the bartender said the word "asshole."  I gently reminded her that we were in a bar.  We finished our drinks and headed toward Ashland.  I didn't want to leave.....I wanted more....more stories, more family history sites, and yes.....more beer.








                      

Hello, Cleveland Part 6

We sped south on East 55th toward Broadway Avenue and my mom's old stomping grounds as I tried to pull together my Mapquest printouts, notes, camera, and list of my mom's old addresses in some semblance of order.  Julie and I were very excited about taking my parents to their old date night hangout, The Cozy Inn.  Even though it did not have an official website, I was able to find some information about the restaurant, including hours of operation and diner comments.


I was a little anxious because my dad was depending on me to navigate, and I had only been to the Union-Harvard neighborhood once as an adult (and I wasn't driving).  My mom never drove while she lived in Cleveland because she, like many other downtown commuters, rode the bus everywhere.  She worked for Halles department on Playhouse Square while she was in high school:





It was quite the fashionable department store at the time and was compared to Marshall Fields and Lord & Taylor.  My mom remembers having to share a bed with her older and infirm sister, Helen, until she was in high school.  She saved the money she earned at Halles and her first major purchase was a full-sized bed, which is still in our family and is somewhat of a symbol (to me, at least) of independence, hard work, and determination.  My brother, David, used this bed while we were growing up and then my mom gave it to me when I got my first apartment on South Water Street in Kent after I graduated from college.  I slept in this bed (although not always alone) during my single years and then bequeathed it to my stepson, Baylor, when Lance and I got married.  My daughter, Natalie, is its most recent occupant as I gave it to her when we built the house we're in now and bought matching beds for Baylor and Connor.  I must admit that I defiled its shiny maple finish (and the matching dresser) by painting it off-white to match Natalie's room.  I know.


My mom graduated from Marymount High School, a private, all-girls Catholic school.  She attended secretarial training and eventually landed the gig that would enable her to meet her future husband, my dad.  She went to work for the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and Trainmen and was in the steno pool until she was promoted to an executive secretary position.  My dad's brother-in-law, Bill, was one of the union's head honchos and introduced my mom to his wife's brother, my dad.  My mom got to travel with the executives and even conned her way in to President Kennedy's speech when he came to Cleveland by fabricating a press pass (go, Mom!).  Her dad died of lung cancer when she was 21 years old and she remained at home to selflessly support her mother and sister.  Her brothers did little to help them as they had moved on and started their own families.


My parents didn't get married until my mom was 33 and my dad was 32 years old, which was quite against the norm at the time.  Ironically, my brother, David, and I followed in their footsteps (and Mark as well when he gets married next year) by marrying in our 30s.  My grandmother and aunt weren't too fond of my dad because he robbed them of their sole means of support, but it was time for my mom to start her own life.  Even though she had a very successful secretarial career, and was making more money than my dad when they met, her main ambition in life was to be a mother.


Julie and I had planned this trip especially for Mom.  Julie had never been to her neighborhood and I had only been there once before, but my mom didn't have the correct addresses at the time.  I had gone through some of my grandmother's old papers when I was home last summer and taken a few pieces of correspondence such as utility bills and letters, to document my mom's former addresses.  I wrote these addresses down on a small piece of paper (I hadn't thought about entering them into my Blackberry), which I scrambled to find in my purse as my dad neared my mom's first house.  We turned onto Broadway and then Union, both streets war zones due to all the road construction.  We were looking for East 82nd Street, where my mom was born.  Not all of the numbered streets went through all the way to Union Avenue, so I relied on instinct and led my dad through many sharp twists and turns as we wormed our way to East 82nd Street.


To our delight, Mom recognized her house, which was one of the better-kept houses on the street, immediately:

She started talking about how her mother always kept a garden in the back yard.  Miraculously, the current homeowner is also on the same page and I felt like I was stepping back in time, peeking at my grandmother's garden:

My mom lived here with her parents, brothers, sister, maternal grandmother, and a whopping assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins totaling 19 people.  I admonished myself for ever thinking that my four bedroom 2500 square foot home was too small for my family of five.  Times were hard during the Great Depression and families were happy to just to be in the United States, regardless of how much living space they had.  I felt duly humbled.  My mother is the last person alive in her family that has knowledge of the house's true provenance.  My grandfather moved his family out of the house after his mother died and his brother and family remained in the house.  My mom's cousins still do not know how their parents ended up with the house since my grandfather was the oldest son and the house should have gone to him.  I can't divulge the secret of how this came to be out of respect for my mom's cousins, but I can say that a priest was somehow involved.


Encouraged, I directed my dad to the next stop, St. Lawrence Catholic Church, where my parents were married 45 years ago:

My parents wedding was epic.....not that I was there or anything, but I've heard the stories.  They broke up for a while after my Uncle Bill first introduced them.  My dad wasn't ready to settle down yet, which my mom sensed.  They went on to date other people and several  years later, in a Providence-fueled coincidence, my mom's sister saw Dad's photo in the newspaper and at the same time, my dad's friend just happened to ask my dad whatever happened to Rose...you made a great couple....why don't you call her?  My dad took his friend's advice and, needless to say, the call was well-received.  They were engaged within months and a full-fledged Slovenian wedding was planned.  Over 200 people attended the wedding, which included a Catholic Mass, champagne brunch, a sit down dinner with a full bar, and a polka band.  The reception was held across the street at the Slovenian Home (one of many in Cleveland) on East 80th.  My grandmother's friends from the "old country" offered to cater the dinner for somewhere around $150.  Some of my cousins remember the wedding and still talk about it to this day.


As I mentioned in a previous blog, the Cleveland Catholic Diocese recently closed tens of parishes this year.  St. Lawrence had just celebrated their last Mass just a couple of weeks before this picture was taken.  I was grateful that the church hadn't already been boarded up.  It was built in 1939, over 40 years after my dad's parish, St. Vitus, which still stands and was fortunately not one of the churches the Diocese closed.

My mom attended St. Lawrence Catholic School, which has been boarded up for years:

I couldn't help but think of my mom playing on the playground as a child or walking across the parking lot to the church for weekly Mass.  We sensed the stares of the neighborhood residents and we got back in the car, not wanting to be intrusive (or piss them off and get shot).  We headed toward Union Avenue, where my grandfather moved his family after his mother died.  I just found out recently that my grandfather never owned a house in his lifetime because he was too afraid to accept the risk of owning a home.


We passed a boarded-up building that used to be a candy shop:

....and then the Union Avenue bridge that my mom walked over many, many times on her way to school and church:

I reflected about how most neighborhoods, particularly in the suburbs, are so pedestrian-unfriendly.  I miss the culture of a walking neighborhood, where you actually have to work to get somewhere, but don't mind because you notice all of the little shops and nooks and crannies that you wouldn't notice if you were in a car. If you really want to get to know an area, get out of your car and walk it.  You will have a completely different and refreshing point of view.


We crested the hill on the bridge and saw my mom's next house on the right:

The front of the house was a bar before my mom's family moved in around 1939 and they lived here until my grandfather passed away in the early 1950s.  My mom had a disapproving look on her face as we approached the house.


                            "I never liked that house."
                            "Why, Mom?"
                            "I just never liked it.  The front of the house used to be a bar and the entrance was on the side of the house.  You went in through that door and were right in the kitchen.  I was always embarrassed about that house and never wanted dates to see where I lived."


It sounded like there was more to the story than just an inconvenient entrance, but I didn't press her for details.  Perhaps she recalled the fights with my grandmother that my grandfather would initiate when he came home drunk.  Perhaps this is where she was abused.  I knew that my mom had experienced some forms of abuse when was young and that the memories still haunted her.  We didn't linger and I quickly snapped this photo as we drove by:

....and this one of that unsavory side door entrance:

We backtracked on Union Avenue and turned south on Broadway, passing Holy Name Catholic Church in Slavic Village, where my parents used to attend Mass while they were dating:

The traffic became congested due to the construction as we headed toward Warner Road and the house that my mom purchased for herself, her mother, and sister while she was working for the Brotherhood.  My sense of direction became muddled, as did my mother's memory of the more recent houses.  She did, however, remember a market she used to frequent:

The last three houses were in the same neighborhood:  the house that my mom purchased on New York Avenue, the house that my grandmother lived in briefly after the New York Avenue house sold (Vineyard) and the house where I remember visiting my grandmother (Rosewood).  My mom didn't recognize the streets, let alone the houses, and the addresses I had culled mostly from utility bills didn't match any of the house numbers on the street.


We drove up and down New York Avenue and couldn't find house number 7878.  It baffled me, since I had gotten the address off an old gas bill.  I didn't think that a city would re-assign addresses, so maybe I had the wrong address.  This appeared to be the case with all of the houses in this part of Cleveland.  We think that this was the New York Avenue house that my mom purchased and where she lived until she and my dad got married:

Vineyard was our next stop (how appropriate a name, for I was certainly ready for a glass of wine at this point).  Warner Road was a mess and the buildings that had once housed restaurants, beer joints, markets, butcher shops, and clothing stores were decrepit and dilapidated:

The residential streets directly off Warner Road were surprisingly quiet and peaceful.  Here's a shot of Vineyard Street:

It seemed that I had another incorrect address and my mom had no earthly idea of where her mom had lived. It could have been this house:

....or this one....

...or this one:

I was pleasantly surprised to see how well-kept the houses were, considering that the average price of a home in that area is around $50,000.  There are even homes that are selling for $20,000 on this street.  I would love to snatch one of these homes and whisk it to Fort Worth.  They really don't make houses like these anymore.                


                           "Let's go to the East 82nd house now!"
                           "Mom, we just went there.  We're going to Rosewood now."
                           "Where are we?"
                           "Mom, do you know what city we're in?"


Sadly, Mom had many Aunt Bethenny moments during our trip.  Julie and I hoped that she would remember the last house my grandmother lived in, where we used to visit her when we were kids.  I remember my dad parking the car in the driveway; walking to the back entrance; and climbing up a narrow, steep stairway to an old, mahogany-stained door with a crystal door knob that led to my grandmother's kitchen.  The door would open and there would stand my grandmother in all of her 5 foot glory, coke-bottle glasses, and an ear-to-ear grin on her face.  Looking back, I don't think that I understood much of what my grandmother said due to her broken English, but I recall that she rolled her "r"s a lot and was always smiling.  I knew that she loved us more than anything and I was very sad when we lost her to a heart attack and subsequent stroke in the summer of 1978.


Rosewood splits off to the east and west of Warner Road.  We turned onto the bricked section of Rosewood that I swore I remembered as a kid, but did not look familiar to either of my parents:

We backtracked and tried the other portion of Rosewood, which looked more familiar to my dad, who had made the trip to my grandmother's house many times.  We saw a line of houses, any of which could have been my grandmother's house:

I remembered that my grandmother occupied the upstairs of a typical, Cleveland double-styled house.  My brothers, sisters, and I would open the door that was off her living room and stand on the porch, surveying the neighborhood.  I recently had a flashback memory of a heated conversation between a lackadaisical teenager and his loud, raven-haired mother that involved him going to the market to buy some RC Cola.  My mom was surprised that I remembered that and confirmed that a very vocal Italian lady lived next door.


We think that this was my grandmother's house but again, the address I had didn't match any of the house numbers:

Now, onto the Cozy Inn for a cold brew!  Julie had pointed it out to me before we turned onto Rosewood and our conversation turned into a Abbott and Costello-type moment.


                            "Amy, there it is!"
                            "What?!"
                            "The Cozy Inn!"
                            "Where?"
                            "Right there!"
                            "Huh?"
                            "Right there!"
                            "Where?!"
                            "Right THERE," Julie uttered through clenched teeth as her index finger and forearm brushed the side of my head as she reached between and my dad and pointed.
                            "Ohhhh.  Right."


I still didn't see it, but aimed my camera in the general direction she was pointing.  I gathered my papers and tucked them inside my purse, happy that my navigation responsibilities were over. We were all anxious to sit down and relax over a pitcher of beer at my mom and dad's Friday fish fry, date night hangout.


                            "Do you see it NOW, Amy?"


I was never one to pull one over on my sister.


                             "Yes, I see it now," I said as we pulled into the parking lot.  We noticed that the parking lot was empty, with the exception of one car where a guy was sitting and talking on his cell phone.

It didn't look very open to me, but it WAS the middle of the day on a weekday.  I tried to maintain an optimistic outlook as Julie and I asked Mom and Dad to stand under the sign.

I was a little teary-eyed as I thought about how much time had passed between their first date and this day, and how special it was that at least the building was still standing and wasn't boarded up.  I don't know how my parents felt about it, but they really made our day by going along with our excursion.  I know that they don't like to look back very much, but am touched that they did it for our sake.


We walked around to the front of the bar and saw that the lights were off and no one was home.  It was still fully furnished and the chairs had been stacked on the tables.  It WAS cozy, with a small bar to the left and no more than six or seven tables.  I don't know how long it had been closed, but it looked like time had stood still inside.  I imagined men in steel-toed boots at the bar, gregariously conversing and laughing off a tough week at work.  I imagined couples like my parents, dressed in their date night finery, sitting head to head and maybe even holding hands as they perused the menu.  Blinds were on the windows and the glare made it impossible for me to take a photo of the interior, but I did snap this photo of Julie and Mom (I wonder what she was thinking):

If the "Genny on Tap" sign is any indication, I'd say that this place has been closed for quite some time.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that a beer just wasn't in our immediate future....or was it?  Dad decided to take the scenic route home Route 21, which led to a perfectly delightful surprise...


Stay tuned for Part 7, the final blog in this series....