And the winner is the Heights, but not Shaker

 

Well, this past week brought yet another trip to Cleveland. This time for a house inspection.  Yes, we have selected the next roost. And, it is not, with a pang of regret in Shaker Heights.  

Darlings when I say that, it hurts.  I really wanted to return to the place of my childhood.  I wanted the spirit of my mother, who loved her time in Shaker like no other, to be at rest. And I dearly wanted a place in Lomond, Sussex, or Onaway - and we came (stop thinking dirty thoughts) very close, alas no cigar. The houses were all charming, but each came with its faults.  

You know: This one had no backyard. This other one had a backyard but was on a busy street that you lived on but not a neighborhood you lived in.  Another one held promise, but the neighborhood could be in transition as "developer urbanization" takes root.  Still, another had murals painted on the walls depicting happy Europeans toiling in the fields. 

"What say you about this?" asked Relator. 

The artistry was one step above what happened to Ecco Homo, just barely. 

"But the seller claims it was done by an artist in residence."

"A grandchild spending the summer with their bubbie isn't an artist in residency," said I.

Next, then there was the house that felt rusty. 

Rusty you say? 

Door knobs, the wrought iron on the staircases was rusty, the basement was damp, the doors wouldn't shut, on and on and on. The kitchen needed a redo. We could have housed the King Family, but alas, they have all passed on their reward. We got out of that one pronto when we saw the electric setup.

Many suburbs have something called POS repairs. Some sellers take care of them, while others want the buyers to assume them.  The house cannot sell until someone fixes them or signs a contract promising to fix them. The houses that pass POS and are perfect sell quickly.  And we weren't quick enough.  Others, well, someone younger with deeper pockets. 

We went through faded mansions, cruddy colonials, and a ranch house that smelled like a ranch. 

In that same ranch, we found a laundry room that was wallpapered in foiled silver, lime, and yellow wallpaper - something that was very Morgan and Hirshfield.*

"Sometimes I wonder," said the Realtor, as she looked about.

"Nonsense - who doesn't want their Norge to feel pretty?"   

"Let's look at one more," she said.  

I was going to beg off - looking at houses is tough work - but she insisted.  

And boy was I glad. It was the perfect house for us.  It hadn't sold because it needed work, but at the same time, no one had tried to shit Chip and Joanna Gaines all over the place.  The wood floors are fine, the woodwork is the same fumed oak of our first house. The staircase is just grand enough so I can make an entrance, with my eyes bulging and my eyebrows arched on Halloween. 

It's not in Shaker, but the street is boffo, and the neighbors are wonderfully nice. And soon, it'll be ours.  It needs work. But the floor plan can easily be reconfigured to the way people live today without ruining its charms. And we can add on a first-floor master without a problem. With some money and careful planning, it will be a good place to spend our golden years. And the best part? No glitz. 

So farewell to the pipe dream, but what this offers is something better: a place not for my mother, but for us. 

*My people from the east side of Cleveland will know what and who I mean.