P Money

 When my sister, M, got married, her groomsmen, impressed with each new detail of the celebration, would say "how did you ever. . ." and as the answer was always that my dad, Pete, had footed the bill to make M's wedding dreams come true. Thus, the groomsmen dubbed him "P Money". 

Fast forward to 2020, a global pandemic, and a family emergency. We needed to move Tim's mom to Cleveland from Nevada, but not into the 1600-square-foot bungalow we'd loved for 14 years. No ma'am. A temporary home might be made in the main floor sunroom/playroom/home office/guest room, but for our family of six, plus three dogs, it was not a long term solution. 

The perfect* house came on the market. We'd decided, out drinking to our anniversary, to take a look at it in the fall of 2019. It was being marketed as a multifamily, and several sales had already fallen through. (Multifamily properties require a more substantial down payment than single family homes that will be owner-occupied, sometimes as much as 50%.) And it needed work. 

We worked with a neighborhood realtor who knows our market very well, having raised her own children here, and she helped up put a bid together in case the latest offer fell through. It did, in late May, and we rejoiced!

I was already jumping into renovation planning, but the mortgage people were just not ok with things. Ultimately, it was decided that the simplest and best way to do the renovations needed, in the shortest amount of time, for the least cost, was to buy it for cash, do the core interior renovations ourselves, and then repurchase it with a Choice Loan, which allows the purchase plus up to three contractor quotes for specific scope of work that, when completed, will equal the mortgage amount. It helped to have a semi-retired loan officer on our side, one who likes a challenging project in the way some retirees enjoy a crossword puzzle with their morning coffee. 

But who has $77k to buy a property like this outright? Just write a check from their home equity line of credit?

P Money. 

My dad has worked since he was 8 years 10 months old, when he finagled an open Plain Dealer route in his hometown of Solon, even though the advertised starting age was 9. But as I worked on the sunny front porch of the new house all through the summer of 2020, I realized how that P in P Money also stands for privilege. 

Women on both sides of my family were part of the (white) ethnic mercantile class. They owned not only their homes, but also businesses that allowed them to give their children a good start in their married lives, with homes of their own, education rooted in their Catholic faith, and lots of love, judging from what I got to know of in my grandparents. Both of my parents were raised in homes purchased after World War II with the help of federal programs available almost exclusively to whites.  

My great-grandparents and grandparents left a legacy to my parents that allowed them to buy their first home as newlyweds, on Nancy Drive in the Euclid-Green neighborhood of Cleveland. And, after a few years of moving around Ohio for work with a national company, back to town to Lakeshore & 306 in Lake County to raise me and my sister M, and a few years later, our baby sister B.  

They improved every home they owned, and they traded up—ranch in the city, ranch in a small town, ranch in Mentor, and finally a brand new colonial near the lake. Home equity is the secret ingredient of this success, and I think it's important to note that systemic racism has provided an unfair advantage in the accumulation of home equity by families like mine. They accessed credit and insurance based on their success, and were not hampered by redlining, or covenants that excluded them or their parents from buying in up-and-coming areas.  

So as proud as I am of our work on this project, it's important to acknowledge where the power to do it comes from, and what I think we owe our community as a result of that advantage.

 

 

*Debatable, but as in improv, I need you to just say 'yes, and.' and go with it.  

 

Read more on The Lasting Legacy of Redlining  and efforts to Undesign the Redline here in Cleveland.

Prologue: A Reading List

It was August of 2005 when I first clapped eyes on R Bungalow. It was Tim’s weekend off at the Coast Guard station at Marblehead, and we were visiting my parents. They kept S, who was a busy toddler at the time, while we went to church. Alone! We probably hadn’t been to a Mass at St. John Vianney as a couple since our wedding day. If you’ve ever tried to sleep through an alarm, you understand the extreme contrast of going to church without your kids. It’s heaven itself.  

After communion, as the ministers ‘did the dishes’ I just enjoyed the presence, my mind blessedly at rest. Tim was finishing his night school program in Sandusky, and reaching the end of his enlistment. So we were looking forward to moving home, and starting to think about looking for a house. 

As the entire congregation sat in quiet reflection, I looked over at the Holy Family statue, and felt the word “Rosecliff” come through my mind. I leaned over to Tim and whispered, “Maybe we could leave a little early today, drive through the old neighborhood?” 

We got home, packed up S, and headed west, exiting at 185th. There happened to be an open house at a Tudor right across the street from the church on Neff, with a huge tree mounded up in the front yard. It needed a lot of updating, a reconfigured bathroom, and those tree roots were maybe snaking through the foundation. At Lakeshore, I asked him to go east a ways. We got to Rosecliff, where there were two For Sale signs, so we turned up. One was in front of an impressive white bungalow with a green tile roof. 

The other was in front of an empty-eyed beige thing with a cement stoop, two yucca plants, and a jalousie front porch. It reeked of vacancy. I was undeterred, though as I recall Tim didn’t actually want to get out of the car. The backyard was private, and the front room, when I peeked through a window, ran the whole width of the house—all you had to do was look past the empty wheelchair by the front door!

It was the worst house on the best street. That’s the dream! (No, I am not too liberal with that phrase.)

We worked with a nice, city-focused realtor (meaning he did not once ever even try to show us a home in a suburb). Tim wrapped up his enlistment, we hung around Norwalk long enough for the midwife I’d picked to catch D in late January 2006, and we closed on the house two weeks later.

But it was Jim Jagger, a longtime home inspector in the neighborhood, who handed me the keys to the house months before. I greeted him in the driveway, he nodded at the front porch, clicked on his tape recorder, and began, “What we have here is an American Craftsman bungalow” With those words—those elegant, unlockable, researchable words, our adventure began.

Weeks later, on another “off” weekend, we took a trip to the Sandusky Library. I built a pile so high, I nearly went into labor carrying them all—Tim was busy chasing S. 

Here are the books I’d gladly have gone into labor for, right there in the reading room: 

Bungalow Kitchens and Bungalow Bathrooms by Jane Powell. She describes these two volumes as “what-to, not how-to” books for and period style from roughly 1900-1940. Filled with photos and helpful illustrations, I wore out the binding In the kitchen book going back to it so often for ideas—layout, cabinets, trim, details. In reading these, it will help if you have a healthy tolerance for puns.

Working Windows: A Guide to the Repair and Restoration of Wood Windows, by Terry Meany. In summation, your wood windows have survived many decades of abuse; just think how well they’ll work if you just show them some love. 

Bungalow Colors by Robert Schweitzer. I found out later that a neighbor hired Mr. Schweitzer to consult on their exterior color scheme. I got the book second hand, and we picked the color scheme on page 166, since the roof was the same color.   

The Magic Toolbox by Mie Araki. This is a children’s picture book about an ambitious bunny and an extremely prescient toolbox. 

I actually found a Magic Toolbox recently, but that's a story for another day.

First, the credits.

In the spirit of old movies where they credit all the key players at the beginning of the film, here are the folks who give us so much of what we need that we *actually think* we can pull this whole ‘let’s rehab another house’ thing off! 

Vilija Nasvytis Klimas is both a licensed Realtor with Keller Williams, and has a degree in psychology—a phenomenal asset. She and her partner Neris Klimas have been with us on this journey since before the beginning. We’re only where we are thanks to the grace of God, and this mother-daughter team’s kind professionalism. 

Sutton Industrial Hardware. For quality Benjamin Moore paint, bits and pieces, presents for that hard-to-shop-for loved one, and great customer service. 

Other Ace Hardware stores, including Dunn in Richmond Heights and Willowick/Shoregate. You know that disoriented, wandering, did-I-just-turn-invisible feeling at big box stores? That just doesn’t happen at Ace—try not to be alarmed when they greet you. Their jingle is correct; they are the helpful hardware folks.

Leslie Rossi’s design perspective and Pat Rossi’s installation advice at North Coast Floor Coverings. 

Cleveland Lumber. They don’t advertise. (It sounds like a tagline, but no.) If you have an old house, and need to fix something made of wood, they know what you need and either have it or can get it for you. And they’re pretty nice about it.

Christopher@Architects. Forensic architecture —it’s a thing! Beware that you may not be entirely excited by what you learn. 

Habitat for Humanity ReStores in at least 5 states. 

Kris and Jessica at Rebuilders Exchange, aka RBX, inside the Hamilton Collective near 55th and St. Clair. Featuring an amazing array of architectural salvage from every era in local housing. I never fail to fall in love with their heaviest objects d’art. 

Nook N Cranny, a formidable hole in the wall in the Lorain Avenue antiques district that has old house hardware and lighting treasures crammed from floor to ceiling, and out on the patio.

Construction Junction at the Pittsburgh Center for Creative Reuse. Bonus points for being explicitly women and queer friendly. (Hey, anytime an organization takes the time to welcome the most marginalized folks, we all benefit from a richer experience.)

That one social media giant’s marketplace feature. You know who you are, and you don’t need any linking-to. Also that one guy who's known for his list. 

Our friends and neighbors, new and old, who have stopped by to check our work and shape our plans. We love you and appreciate you. 

Our parents. 

 

Now, I do have a story for each of these, but I smushed one of my fingertips today and it's throbbing, so I'm going to go ice it with a medicinal bowl of Emerald Necklace, and then get some sleep. More to come.

 

Before the before...

I started this blog to capture the victories and “learning opportunities” along the way to restoring our 1916 bungalow on Rosecliff in Cleveland’s Collinwood neighborhood. We had  two in school and a toddler at home, so beyond some good intentions, it never got rolling. 

Fast forward to the spring of 2020, and those little ones have outgrown our beloved D.M. Renton-designed, Colonial revival style Craftsman. Add Tim’s mom and her dog Toby into the mix, and it was time to literally move on. Hence the move to Neff Road, into a 1915 Colonial that has served as a multigenerational household for more than 80 years. 

Now it’s our turn—ready or not.