by Sam Love

A story about real estate

            Poor Mrs. Foster never understood that the road to success didn't run through our neighborhood.    At first many played along with the "Get Rich Quick" schemes she learned from her $199 television course on making a killing in real estate. Using the techniques in the course she offered free assessments of properties that made long-time residents' eyes pop.   As each sale topped the last, it confirmed her understanding of human nature as greed waiting to be unbridled.       

            Many followed her tips on making minor cosmetic improvements and quickly unloaded their houses to buy "dream spots" in Florida .   As they left, younger couples acquired the properties so that within a few years the character of the neighborhood started changing.   Children's toys littered the lawns. Minivans and station wagons nestled next to the curbs.   Occasionally a Mercedes Benz even parked on our street.       In the beginning we assumed that the neighborhood would be "Yuppified" by this new group.   Some of the newcomers did begin to transform their time-worn houses into charming little bungalows with junipers, skylights, sun porches and neatly manicured lawns.   These "renovated" houses stood in marked contrast to the dwellings of some long time residents -- the neighborhood "characters".   Their unique, individual concepts of landscaping and outdoor sculpture clashed with the ideas of "curb appeal" espoused by Mrs. Foster's real estate course.

            The conflict was evident in a conversation I overheard between Mrs. Foster and an older man whose Ford van sported a bumper sticker that proudly proclaimed "Old Fart".  

            "Mr. Johnson," Mrs. Foster said as she walked up to Old Fart's front gate, "I can help you make some big money."

            "Oh, how's that?" Mr. Johnson responded.

            "I have been selling houses in this neighborhood and I think that with a few changes you could be sitting on a gold mine."

            "And what are those changes?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

            "Oh just a few touch ups," she suggested.   "For example you might want to remove some of these little statues, like the praying squirrel, that sits next to the terra cotta Virgin Mary.   And that Confederate flag on the porch turns off some groups."

            "But I like my little plaster friends,"   Mr. Johnson responded.   "Today so many yards look the same."

            "Oh these little houses can have their unique character depending on the paint color or the selection of plantings."

            "Doesn't sound like much character to me," Mr. Johnson replied as he turned to wash his terra cotta frog, standing guard in the front yard.  

            "Well, if you change your mind, please give me a call," she said as she sat down in her late model car.

            "OK, you can count on it," he said with a wry smile.     

            As she drove down the street I noticed she stopped at the couple's house which featured a front yard devoted completely to vegetable gardening.  

            I couldn't hear the conversation, but I can imagine that she was trying to convince them to plant grass instead of sweet corn and other edible plants.   She probably had no idea how much they savored the taste of yard-fresh produce.

            I have no idea whether she made any headway with them, but I'm sure she didn't even bother to talk to Bobby Maddox across the street.   Most of us suspected that Mrs. Foster had been the one who phoned in the complaint about his yard.   Personally, as long as he never cranked the monster engine it didn't bother me that he tinkered with his drag racing car in his driveway.  

            After she left the vegetable gardening couple I didn't see her for several weeks.   The fact that she didn't stop to talk to me didn't bother me.   I guess she knew it would be a waste of time.

            I am sure she hated the fact that I organized neighbors to testify against her attempt to get the city council to pass "The Yard Standards Act."   It would have imposed some very rigid standards on our yards.   I didn't mind the time limit on derelict cars left in front of people's houses, but I drew the line with her ideas about what constituted an acceptable yard.   That coupled with the Act's other ideas about acceptable neighborhood behavior would have created a very sterile environment.  

            After the Council defeat she seemed very distraught that we didn't let her impose the beautification standards described in her real estate course, but within days she appeared to recover.   She threw herself into her real estate business with a new resolve to clean up the neighborhood through real estate speculation.   She literally showered my mail box with her bleach blonde, full faced picture on flyers telling me how much she could get for my home.      

            The leaflets contained "valuable" tips on how to make little 1930's bungalows "charming".   High on the list were "cosmetic changes" that could cover up the defects or simple little tricks like putting a pot of water and cinnamon in the oven to make the kitchen smell "homey" when she "showed" the house to prospective buyers.    While these tips might be valuable in some markets, I'm sure whoever wrote them for the realtors never lived near "Stony", my neighbor who mounted a bust of Elvis on a pedestal in his front yard.   The King's airbrushed, concrete pompadour dominated his yard's design.       Although kids loved the statue and people drove for miles to see it on Sunday, it violated all of the rules for front yard decor in Mrs. Foster's pamphlets.       

            The writer of those pamphlet tips also never understand the herd instinct of human nature.   I'm convinced eccentrics attract each other so that in time they can form a "critical mass" that pushes a neighborhood beyond the point where a "Mrs. Foster" can ply her limited vision of a better world through real estate speculation.      

            Even considering our clash of tastes, I was sad to hear the news about Mrs.
Foster from my neighbor Mary.

            "Did you hear about poor Mrs. Foster?" she shouted across our narrow suburban street as I unloaded the groceries from my bicycle trailer.

            "No," I answered as I walked across our newly installed speed bump. "What happened to her?"      

            "She voluntarily committed herself to a hospital yesterday.   The woman at the bakery said she's had a nervous breakdown," Mary answered as she tossed her long straight hair over the shoulder straps of her overalls.      

            "Poor soul, I guess she just couldn't take the stress of watching her business fall apart as the neighborhood changed," I said.

     "I'm sure it was stressful," Mary responded as she trimmed the wild flowers growing out of the front seat of the car planter sunk in the center of her yard. "She just never understood our values and aesthetics."      

            "Yeah," I added, "I guess in any war there are always casualties, but I'm sure she'll bounce back and start hustling real estate."  

            "Hopefully she will find another neighborhood that's more susceptible to her ideas of making quick bucks--you know some place filled with lawyers and psychiatrists."      

            "I don't think she'll have any trouble finding a neighborhood that appreciates her values," I said. "Well, I would like to stay and chat, but I've got to go."      

            "Lets get together soon for a veggie cook out," she answered as she waved goodbye.

            "We'd love to," I said as I turned to admire the Cadillac tail fins protruding from the car buried nose down in my front yard.

Copyright 2005 Sam Love