The neighborhood was diverse. In white-speak, that means black people lived there, too. Or, if I were speaking the truth, black people had always lived there since World War II and white couples were moving-in, fleeing the first dot-com in San Francisco, seeking cheaper housing.
The wave of gentrification had been going on for a few years, and houses that sold for under $100,000 ten years ago, were now getting close to $400,000. At the time it seemed like a fortune; 15 years later it seemed like a steal. That’s the way housing worked in our area: $1,000,000 starter homes and $800,000 houses sold as-is, with dog crap on the living room floor when touring the house. I’ll take two, please.
With the new wave of homeowners came disparity in age: new residents were under 40 with young kids, and existing owners were over 65. The new residents were teachers, social workers and office workers, driving Hondas and Toyotas. They removed security doors and windows, planted drought-resistant succulents and unofficially adopted local schools, determined to “make them better.” I love you, Oakland, now change.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, bought her home in 1966 and raised her family there until she passed in the 2016. When Mrs. Jackson purchased the house, she said it was where all the black professional lived at the time. “If you lived here,” she said, “you made it.” Anytime I drive through the neighborhood, I think of these words.
Her son tried to keep the house but they owed a $400,000 balloon payment that was due in two months. He didn’t seem to worry about the huge payment. He told me this while talking about adding a second story to the house, and asked if I would object to adding a second story. I shrugged it off for later, knowing they were going to lose the house.
The house was foreclosed on a few months later and bought by a house flipping group for $550,000. Unlike most house flips, where they feverishly work and re-list the house a few months later, this group took their time, finishing the flip 18 months after purchase. They listed the fully renovated home for $920,000 – the highest priced home in our neighborhood. 6 months later it was down to $720,000 with no buyers in sight.
Our other neighbors were Evelyn and Norman Franke. They bought their home in 1948 – first home on the block. Both were born and raised in Oakland and were Cal Berkeley professors before retiring. When I met them, they were in their mid-80s, still driving (recklessly) and enjoying a good life.
The day we moved in, Norman came over and welcomed us to the neighborhood. He was tall, gangly, and spry for his age. His clothes were a size or two big for him, which I figured was due to old man weight loss. He told us about the year he spent in a sanitarium for TB and a story about finding three magnolia tree saplings while hiking up the street. He said he gave one to a doctor as payment, gave one to a friend and planted the other on the border between our houses. 55 years later, the mature magnolia tree towers over our house, shading the house on warm days. Before he left, he asked if he could speak to me in private. I was intrigued. He informed that an 18-inch strip of lawn of his property butted up against our lawn, and asked if I would mow it when I mowed our front lawn. I said I would, of course. In return, he offered to rake the hardy leaves of the magnolia tree. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he insisted. We shook hand and he said it was a gentleman’s agreement. I liked that.
The next morning Norman was raking leaves in our front yard. It was a bad look for me, but telling him to stop would be worse than my bruised pride. A few days later Evelyn told me that he likes raking leaves and for me to let him do it. His adult children, when they visited, echoed the same sentiment.
Evelyn and Norman lived until their mid-90s – Evelyn went first and then Norman a few years later. I assumed their health was declining when Evelyn told me they were taking a cruise to Colorado to visit their children. I didn’t correct her because she once looked at me and said the goats were coming, while looking at the meadow across the street. A few days later, a flimsy electric fence appeared across the street bordering the meadow. A day later, 500 goats devoured the meadow.
When they died, and the rest of the elderly homeowners in the neighborhood perished or moved into assisted living, they were replaced by a second wave homeowners. Gone were the Toyotas and Hondas, replaced by Volvos, Subarus and Teslas. Housing prices had doubled and some tripled, so gone were the teachers and social workers. The new crop was younger, pedigreed and mostly worked in tech as Social Media Managers, Lifestyle Photographers and Directors of Diversity and Fun, but even with the high salaries of tech, they still needed generational wealth for a down payment.
One morning I was talking to our new neighbor next to the magnolia tree. It was mid-June and the grass in the meadow across the street was waist high. As cars races up and down the street, making it hard to hear, I looked toward the meadow and said, “It’s almost time for the goats. They should be here in a few days.”
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