Place Making

Mark keeps telling me I need to write to the newspaper and tell them why I want to move/live downtown. Apparently, he doesn’t realize how much that feels like an assignment from tenth grade English, “Write to the theme of what I did on my summer break.”

He also doesn’t realize that inspiration for that move, and for writing about that move, only comes in small doses, when I allow myself the luxury of thinking about that home, and not dwelling on the fact that I am not going to have my wood floors refinished this Spring because of an overlap in the kids’ breaks.

He even told me that other night he had a dream about our roof falling down. It was unclear in the dream which roof he was referring to, but my infinite expertise allowed me to judge him and our life, interpreting that dream implies that the we need to take care of the home we are presenting living in. He countered, that perhaps he was more concerned with putting the roof on our dreams, meaning secure the contracts that will lead us down that path. Half-empty, half-full. Backward thinking, forward thinking.

But that is the trouble, when dreams and reality blur. Because that is exactly how life feels these days. While watching Opening day from the stoop of the house we'd like to purchase in OTR, I imagined a time in the future when I would host many of the spectators. They would come to the same spot year after year, knowing I was baking bread, handing out OJ and coffee, popping popcorn. I hope however that the many of the politicians would have changed by then, and that the Reds would be carrying another World Series banner as well.

But then, I returned to my home in Loveland, the one where I sleep at night, however restlessly these days, due to allergies, dogs and kids up at all hours of the night. The roar of the crowd had dissipated. The smell of burnt coffee too. The Reds were no longer on the radio, and a hush returned to my life.

While I can articulate the many reasons for moving downtown, I would do so at the cost of diminishing the life we have had here, where I have raised my son since he was two, though pitcher’s mound is now overgrown. Our oldest daughter had her high school graduation in this back yard. Our four sets of grandparents (to the children) have all been dinner guests here on our back patio, surrounding by the warmth of a fireplace and family, sitting atop patio tiles named cappuccino. The Italian theme I worked so hard to replicate I would have to work hard for again.

But the purpose of moving to the city was to minimize our desire to be homebodies to grow old without moss so to speak, to be out in the city, such as Charles Baudelaire once conceived of in his meaning for flâneur—that of "a person who walks the city in order to experience it."

Ok. So the word also means loafer, but I like the idea of experiencing it. And I having been doing so for so long, that perhaps I don’t need to write about why I want to live downtown, we already do.

We read the blogs and papers connected to city events and development. We are keenly aware of all sides of many of these conversations. I am keeping tabs on A Tavola and the CityFlea market and everyday salivate over the offerings at Tom+Chee.

In support of the arts, we already do. We recently attended the gender-bending version of Julius Caesar. I attended the Cathedral for Ash Wednesday, because I wanted to feel the glory of the 40 days we were about to enter into. In support of city restaurants and businesses and markets, we already do. I have made special trips just to buy prosciutto at Findlay Market, and have sipped a light-hearted white French wine at City Cellars in the middle of a warm day in March, just because I could.

We attend OTR Foundation fundraisers and Mark drinks Bock beer. I donate a dollar to the Streetvibes vendor and sometimes stalk them if I cannot find them right away. I open the paper to read it with the vendor, usually because it is their writing, or their son’s writing or art. That is only the beginning of how I want to deeply listen to what is going on in the city.

Each conversation we have with each other, family or friends, yields a reference to downtown, the city, urban living, even when the evening news and op-ed pieces contain multiple references to drugs and shootings in downtown. Each response yields surprise, and curiosity, that we could envision a lifestyle different from our present.

Our kids, the ones around often enough to hear us speak, understand that is only a matter of time before their memories of “home” change. When my parents moved our family from a small three-bedroom ranch to a two-story six-bedroom home, I recall my mother often wishing for the confines of the smaller home despite having achieved bigger and better and newer. Both houses I still consider “home” and have written homages to the time spent in each.

My mother always had a dream home. One not related to the American Dream. She imagined living on a farm (yes, a woman who wore lipstick everyday!). She could also easily see herself living on the shores of Lake Erie. She even fell for Oregon, the way I did, gradually, deeply. But she always stayed put, a placeholder for her children. I loved her for that.

But there is a difference between being a placeholder and a place maker. For now, we will settle for the home in OTR holding our place, a contract or two will bind us to a life in the city. But with each step we take in that direction, our actions are shaping the place we will make home.

OTR: Beyond Imagining

In my times of troubles passed, I relied on the generosity of my neighbors. Thirteen years ago, my first husband and I bought a home in a suburban neighborhood in northern Cincinnati. The subdivision was new, and thus, we were all new neighbors to one another. As it happened, Devin’s cancer relapsed. For the past year, we had wanted so bad to be normal neighbors, ones not battling cancer or making ER runs in the middle of the night. But alas, we made a call to help from the outside.

Those folks who lived near me, cried with me, walked with me, celebrated with me, would go on to be some of my closest friends. Because of proximity, we built up our relationship over pizza dinners, watching the kids play in the backyard and moves across country.

When we eventually had to travel to Seattle for a bone marrow transplant, my husband and I vacated that home for four months. Towards the end of our stay, the water line in the refrigerator broke, leaving our neighbors who had been caring stewards of our home, to call the plumber and wipe the floors. When we returned on a late night flight, we found balloons and cookies compliments of other neighbors.

No other experience has taught me so well in life to reach out and ask for help. And the stubborn independent middle child Italian that I am, I learned to do so boldly. There was no other way.

Mark too, was the recipient of much kindness in his neighborhood, establishing close male friendships that are difficult for most men. When Mark’s wife was diagnosed with cancer, these friends jumped in the waters with him, helped him find a small lake house where the family could be “normal”, took on care of Mark’s three daughters when needed and today, are the most ardent lovers of those girls.

This came to mind when recently Mark asked me, “Do you think we’ll be able to have/find the same support living downtown that we had when our spouses died?”

Many items have been up for consideration during our contemplation of buying a home in OTR, vacating our lot here in the suburbs for more cement, less grass. Safety, jobs, transportation to name a few. But support? We were in our forties, healthy, four strong growing children, rapidly becoming adults. Even the puppy was growing fast. Though for now, he rested often when not at play with his stuffed girlfriend.

Our four sets of grandparents, all of whom were part of our support network during our spouse’s challenges, were now moving into the fourth quarter of their lives, some a little more quickly than we had hoped. Some were in town, others a car drive, and still others, a hop on a plane. Yet we didn’t anticipate that any of them might be “moving in with us” anytime soon. They would age in the place where they were.

I had written recently about the local Anna Louise Inn, a transitional housing unit for women in downtown Cincinnati, “It’s essential for the women to be rooted in a neighborhood where businesspersons and residents can model new perspectives for them, where women can develop relationships, find diversity, and establish connections to some level of normality. They require “people living near one another.”

But now, I wondered, had I been writing that from the perspective of a client at the Anna Louise, or penning that from my own subconscious worries.

How would we become “in relationship” with one another, given the conflict and diversity of the neighborhood in OTR? In the past, our children all went to school or played together. This helped establish a common bond, from which we all grew and some even grew apart.

A friend once asked, “Why is it important for you to be connected to your neighbors, why isn’t enough to just be in the presence of diversity?” I grew up in a large Italian family, Sunday dinners at Grandpa’s house. Every Christmas at Mom’s. Besides, her food was better. Connection, familial and primordial, is important whether one is struggling or striving. It is in my makeup to link all my lives together, that trait a gift given to me by my parents. I want to pass it along.

To do so, I would have to come out of my shell even further, provide an even deeper show of my true colors, in order to find, or seek out the commonalities with a neighbor in the city.

I should note, that we are not reinventing the wheel, we are not pioneers, or at the cutting edge, as one might consider the context of the designation. But we believe we are, because it is outside of our imagination, one rooted in our past lives, to imagine we could do this. But we are open. The Japanese have a term for “outside our imagination” – sotegai - which has been used recently to describe the tsunami and its devastation. This is where we are on the spectrum, it is beyond our imagination, not that of the mass media or urban planners trying to woo us, or homeless advocates that might point at housing partners as trying to run them out of the neighborhood.

When the term mixed-use is used, planners are referring to high density v. low, retail v commercial, restaurant v. business, locally owned vs. out of town. Even the streets become mixed use with cars, taxis, buses, shuttles, and possibly streetcars.

But how do you portray mixed population? A few weeks ago, we drove past “the house,” stopped the car and walked around, sharing the sights with Mark’s parents, who may still be a little shocked, but are supportive nonetheless. Four young African-American children who had been playing on the front stoop three or four doors down. It was evident we were prospective homeowners. One little one shouted across the street, “Hey, do you have any children?”

Mark laughed it off, and told them, “Yes, but they are older.” Though either of the ones at home, who hear us speak candidly about this move, would not have held back from offering their time to the young children.

After that visit, I could finally answer Mark’s question about support. “Maybe we will have to work harder to create that support.” Like sharing our time with those young children. I could easily envision us spending a Sunday afternoon eating ice cream with them. Or the older gentleman who, in the midst of winter while walking his dog, invited us to view his condo, of which he was very proud. Little did we know he would be a potential neighbor, as the view from our third floor window looked diagonally upon his. Weeks after we toured his home, we spotted him at the bank machine nearby Findlay Market. We were both delighted at having recognized each other. Would he have my back? I believe so. Could he cook a mean tenderloin? I believe that too.

The podcast program I produce recently hosted Sister Alice Gerdeman who works in OTR and has for years. And as much as she is concerned with development ousting those who a need a place to call home, she also realizes there is good that can come from development too. When I shared with her that Mark and I were considering this move, I stated our reasons for wanting to do this, “We love the feel of the city life, the varied events, the proximity to Music Hall and Washington Park and a walk to the Reds games.” Then I absentmindedly mentioned, “We liked the idea of living in a diverse neighborhood. We feel we would have a lot to offer. She responded in kindness, “And you could learn from others there too.” Yes, Sister, I would have a lot to learn.

Mark and I are realists. One has to be when experiencing the death of a spouse at an early age, becoming single parents, and more to the point, raising four teenagers, well, three now. We harbor no illusions or agenda to come in and save the day. While we expect to be beneficiaries of the centuries of wisdom accumulated within Over-the-Rhine, we feel called to do this, precisely because it is beyond our imagination.