Goodbye to 2630 Grant Street

(this is my “seller letter”)

In 1982, my new husband Lee and I decided to come to the East Bay from San Francisco with our one-year-old son to look for a house. We had been searching in the City for over 9 months, trying to find a property where we could assume an 11% or 12% mortgage or wrangle some other deal to afford a 2-bedroom place in Bernal Heights with a little yard. Everything fell slightly short or was just out of our reach. I resisted the trip across the bay, but finally, I agreed, and the first house we looked at that day was 2630 Grant Street. Our jaws dropped at the wide, wide stairway, the huge landing, and the gigantic rooms. We looked at other houses, but came back here.

Being a fixit maven who loves a hands-on project, I was completely undaunted by the hideous colors, the multi-colored, high-gloss pocket door and wainscoting, the painted shut windows, the flocked wallpaper, the tracked carpeting, and the nicotine-stained walls. We all thought, “It has such potential!” We offered what we could afford to pay on a 16 3/4% 30-year fixed mortgage, and they took our offer. I was 26 years old, and Lee was 29. 

Signing the papers was the worst part for me. But therein lay a surprise for us. The owner of the mortgage was a cousin of Lee’s from Los Angeles. That was weird, but we took it as a good sign. On the night we moved in, the Ides of March, 1982, the household across the street was having one of their ragers that we soon learned happened quarterly—as good pagan rituals should—the pounding bass and the hoots and hollers lasting long into the night. Fortunately, we were dead tired from moving all day and managed to sleep. But before sleep came, I very clearly thought, “Oh my god, what have we done?”

Fears aside, we just dug into the work of moving into this great big, wonderful house and eventually forgot the second thoughts. Those were the days of brick-and-board bookshelves and mattresses on the floor. We had some hand-me-down furniture from my father’s housing development and a lot of mismatched everything. There was work to do in every corner, inside and out. 

The home improvement projects were constant. We built the first deck—well, my father built it—a sandbox for the kids, raised beds for a vegetable garden (there was lots of sunlight in the yard back in those days). Outside, we removed the old asbestos incinerator, the rusty storage shed, the silver rocks mortared together, and the old corrugated fiberglass and broken concrete carport. It was a fixer-upper, to be sure. We discovered wonderful old cobblestones, purple bearded irises, a hybrid azalea/rhody, old-world roses, bamboo and blackberries galore, and what would always be the centerpiece of the yard, the magnolia—a mere seedling at the time.

Within a few months, I was pregnant again with our second son. The projects continued, stripping wood (wearing a high-grade respirator), sanding, spackling, and painting, getting new carpet on the stairs, making insulated curtains, installing the stairway to the attic that is still functioning now.

Number two was born the day after his older brother’s second birthday. There was a severe drought at the time, and February was warm, so I sat out under the blooming magnolia tree and labored until it was time to get into the bed upstairs, where he was born at 4:44pm in the front bedroom. At the time, that was one big room. 

The dining room (officially) was the playroom. There was a shelf full of toys, new carpeting, a low table on milk crates, a dial-up phone, a twin mattress on the floor, big pillows, and a stack of cloth diapers. We basically lived on the floor. Later, after we built the back deck, we changed the fixed horizontal window into the French door that’s there now. Other projects in the first ten to fifteen years were pouring the exposed aggregate driveway to replace the dirt and gravel one, painting the exterior to obliterate the hated mustard yellow with white trim, putting a solid, lockable door on the mudroom, and replacing the brick foundation with steel reinforced concrete after the 1989 earthquake. There was a room-by-room attack on the painting, and I was determined to expose all of the beloved redwood. The entire house is almost all redwood, in full dimensions, with floor joists that span the width of the footprint. I surmise that the house was built from trees logged in Sonoma County and floated down the Russian River and the ocean off Marin into the Bay. 

I guessed that the sand might have also come from the Bay, because the mortar just scraped right off of those old bricks after the workers pulled them out from underneath the house. I watched them do it. They only needed crowbars. The only damage from the ’89 quake was a slight slippage on the western wall of the dining room, which we remedied immediately with a four-foot deep, steel reinforced perimeter foundation. But you can still feel the curve of that floor.

Our third child, a daughter, came along in 1987. By that time, we were using the SW bedroom as ours and had the two kids in bunkbeds in the other back bedroom. The back of the house had an addition that was at least 40-50 years old. Upstairs it was a sun room that I really liked, but it was always either too hot or too cold. Below it, attached to the west side of the kitchen, was a laundry room, toilet, and cold storage closet (vented to the north side of the house).

Once the baby was old enough for the crib, we moved all three kids into the front bedroom and used the back room as an office/den. The front room was so big that we put up a swing on the ceiling, and the kids had a ball in there. One of their favorite places to play indoors, however, was the stairway. Silky sleeping bags sliding down, balls thrown up and down, pillows, and whatever else. Many parties ended up on the stairway too.

Through it all, we had our friends over regularly. We had an open-table policy at our round table in the kitchen. If you show up at meal time, you better eat. I am italian-american, and, well, you must eat. Many, many dinners, parties, evenings, holidays, brunches, kids’ birthday parties, the Italian group dinners, the college friends over, the music rehearsals, the jam sessions, the movie nights…. And always, the endless home improvements squeezed in between school, work, and shopping. 

When our oldest was about 8, so also around 1989, we had to install a new cast iron sewer. That was a trying time for many reasons. Later on, I built a new fence along the south property line, and new gate, laid sprinklers and sod, and planted the lemon tree that is now so very prolific and the Italian cypresses. Lee built a geodesic dome in the NW corner of the yard that lasted for probably 25 years. That’s where the tiny house is now. The dome served as a storage shed, a playhouse, and a welding shop.

I think all in all, I have painted the entire house at least three times. And I have refinanced probably 8 or 9 times. There have been two full rebuilds of the deck, two complete solar arrays (the current one was installed in 2018), two generations of on-demand hot water heaters, and two kitchen remodels. Oh, that kitchen. When we moved in, the sink was where the current laundry room sink is (the “scullery” as we called it). The fridge was where the peninsula is now, the stove was where the doorway into the dining room is, the hot water tank sat right next to the stove, The doorway into the kitchen was where the desk is now, and there was zero counter space. The walls were a dirty yellow, the chest-high wainscoting was circus peanut orange, and the floor was a linoleum with a brown and yellow pattern so busy that it could spin your head. One day I was sweeping and didn’t see an entire piece of bread that one of the kids had dropped until I moved it with the broom.

When we finally got into a position to do the remodel that we wanted, we incorporated the sunroom upstairs and the laundry room downstairs to make a much bigger bedroom and a much bigger, lighter, and airier kitchen. We removed the old fireplace, which dropped a brick now and then and installed a woodstove, which has since been removed. There was a newspaper behind the old mantel mirror dated April 16, 1906—two days before the big one. That’s where you enter the kitchen now. 

That was the dream come true. A bedroom for each child, a spruced up bathroom with a refinished clawfoot tub, and the major kitchen redo. And we lived IN the house while it was going on, first downstairs, then up. I know now that we found—through a friend—the one contractor that would ever agree to that scenario. I worked right along with the crew almost every day, going to get stuff, rehabilitating the salvaged moulding, reclaiming old light fixtures, laying tile, sanding and finishing floors, and painting. Sweat equity, I have.

Ever since, we have lived most of life in that kitchen and have eaten around a big wooden table.

Lee had launched himself into the computer industry as an engineer and always had full-time work. But we lived quite simply in our big house. Our kids went to public school and made dozens of friends right in the neighborhood. After the remodel, I started doing sewing projects for friends. That eventually became a quite bustling custom dressmaking business that I operated out of the dining room for enough years to eventually dress 40 brides, restore beloved garments, fulfill specialty needs, and make curtains and slipcovers for dozens of pieces of furniture and windows. There once were 12 kids just on this block (9 of them boys) and street hockey games that went on for hours, plus a lot of running back and forth, making cookies, eating watermelon, running through sprinklers, all of it.

In May of 1997, disaster struck when my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. He was 44. He survived another 15 months, with intensive treatment. During that difficult time, friends came and stayed with the kids, brought meals to us, and supported us in uncountable ways. I know that he waited the entire day—even though he could no longer speak through the morphine—because I told him I’d be taking him home early in the morning, didn’t get there until after 4:30 pm, then died a mere 20 minutes later. The backyard filled with family and friends after his funeral in September of 1998. Even then, that big house seemed to open its arms to us and keep us safe while we tried to figure out how to live without our papa. 

The kids made it through high school, their friends being frequent visitors at 2630. I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t even know about, but they were always welcome at Grant Street, and it was a safe place for them to be. Many of those friends, as well as my own, have great memories from our house and are now bidding it a fond farewell in their own way

I studied at home to become a technical writer so I could support my family once insurance and survivor’s benefits ran out. The dot com bust put an end to that, but I landed a great job at a nonprofit and worked there with increasing responsibilities and compensation until 2010. While I was a working woman with the first 9-5 of my life, I realized that the sewing room had to  transform. I needed to walk in and see a place of comfort and relaxation rather than a pile of sewing work. So I made that my sitting room and moved the sewing upstairs. Living mostly in that room and the kitchen helped spawn the notion that would later turn into the tiny house. 

I also fell in love again, with a prince of a man named Ron. He was a San Franciscan, so we commuted for many years to be together. Sadly, he too became ill, in 2006. So that I could take care of him, we transferred his medical care to Alta Bates, and he moved into 2630 Grant full time. Ron survived three years under the care of some of the same doctors and nurses that Lee had had. A few days before his imminent passing (we made it to courtside seats for the Warriors, and he saw Obama elected), dozens and dozens of close and loving members of his music community filled the back yard and for hours played and sang their beloved friend to heaven. Once again, this house was haven and therapy for me, my kids, and my community.

Each of the boys circled back to the house with their spouses-to-be during the “revolving door” phase of their early adulthood in the 2000s. But, once the nest was well and truly empty, I decided to try hosting on Airbnb, which was fledgling at that time. They even sent over a professional photographer to help me complete my listing. Those early days were really fun, sharing my too-big home with like-minded travelers from every continent. Somehow, it was never a problem to have only one shower—even with four Russians. The extra income really helped, because by that time I was doing freelance writing and editing, and, well, I wasn’t earning a ton.

I gradually started renting out the whole house and housesitting for other people or visiting my mother. That’s when I realized that another unit, a tiny house, just for me, could be a viable retirement plan, and I set to work conceiving of it, researching, designing, getting permitted, and hiring the professionals I needed. We broke ground in September of 2016. Once the tiny house was livable (on the Ides of March, exactly 35 years after the move-in), I began renting out to sabbatical professors and visiting nurses, for 3-9 months at a time. Eventually, I had a long-term tenant, who stayed for about 3.5 years.

As a friend recently pointed out, I have used this house in almost every way imaginable. It has been shelter, artist’s palette, workshop, safe haven, financial resource, preschool, hospitality house, music venue, comfort zone, playground, therapy garden, and all-around pleasure palace.

I have seen this house through many chapters, and built a home and a life here at 2630 Grant Street. In turn, it has seen me through several reinventions of myself and my life. In its current state, you might not have a chance to feel that energy and that love. But please believe that life has seeped into the walls, all of it—the laughter, the strife, the music, the sorrow, and the love, above all, the love. 

My sincerest and heartfelt wish is that you—the new owners of 2630 Grant Street, Berkeley, California, 94703—enjoy what this lovely old house and garden has offered for decades to me, my family, and my friends. Even if you only feel a fraction of what we felt, it will be tremendous. This house will always be a beloved place to many, many people. I wish you all the best.