Three: The Little House

Near the end of The Grass Menagerie’s third year, I received a certified letter from the Salt Lake Board of Education: The junior high school next to the shop was being demolished and rebuilt. The home of The Grass Menagerie was being taken through eminent domain.* I had six months to get out.

Stunned. Staggered. Paralyzed. Petrified. No single word can describe how I felt when I received that eviction notice. After almost three years, I was forced back to square one. I knew a little more about plants and a little more about business, but it didn’t matter much; I was homeless. My options seemed clear yet clearly impossible. I could get a job. (No, I couldn’t. My mind recoiled from the idea.) I could find another rental and move the shop. That seemed like an expensive effort at sliding sideways. But I wasn’t completely bereft. The school board had awarded me $10,000.00 for breaking my leasehold. I had seed money.

I was rescued by good fortune and good family. My brother Dan called. He’d seen a piece of property for sale on 20th East, and because it was zoned commercial, he thought I might be interested. I went to take a look. They were having an open house and several cars were parked in front, so I parked at the 7-Eleven lot across the street and headed down the driveway.

I couldn’t believe my eyes! The back yard must have been one hundred feet deep and fifty or sixty feet wide. I stared at it like it was hallowed ground. This yard was big enough for a greenhouse! During my buying trips to California, I had fallen in love with greenhouses. The warm, moist air and the smell of earth and growing things is transformative. I’m not a poet but being in a greenhouse moves you in the same way. The idea of owning a greenhouse hadn’t seemed possible. Now, I could visualize the whole thing.

The “just compensation” from the school board would cover the cost of a greenhouse or a down payment on the property but not both. My credit was good since I paid my bills on time, but I didn’t have a down payment, or for that matter, an income. Despite the Equal Credit Opportunity Act of 1974, banks consistently refused loans to women, requiring a husband’s signature or a credit card. I did have a credit card but it had a limit, and I didn’t have a husband. The bank insisted that my brother be on the deed as a tenant-in-common. Dan was ten years my junior. I used to baby-sit this kid. Now, he was baby-sitting me. But this was no time to feel shame or embarrassment. If I wanted the property, if I wanted a greenhouse, I had to swallow my pride. Sometimes that’s what you have to do.

Without my brother’s signature, I wouldn’t have gotten a mortgage, so I am forever grateful to him. Even with his signature, the loan process took a while. There were many evenings when I parked at the 7-Eleven across the street and studied the house. Did it have a bathroom? I couldn’t remember a kitchen. How many bedrooms did it have? While I waited, The Grass Menagerie remained open, and I continued my love affair with house plants.

In the fall, the bulldozers came to knock it down. I had taken everything I thought might be useful. I put the cash register and the “Open” sign in the van and left the key in the lock. It seemed a bitter end to a happy era. But it was not a hopeless ending. I had a place to go.

When I moved into the “little house” with the big back yard, I was relieved. It did have a bathroom. It had a kitchen, too. It was nice. Yes, I thought. I can live here. But I preferred to look out the back window—I can build a greenhouse out there!

But hold up. You can’t swing a hammer without dealing with the bureaucracy. All kinds of permits and variances and permission slips are required. The offices of licensing, building, and zoning aren’t complete stumbling blocks but they can slow you down. The rules can seem arbitrary and the inspectors unsympathetic. Even so, you can’t move forward without their written approval. I gathered my plat map, building sketches, and the roll of greenhouse drawings and approached the permit counter at the Salt Lake City and County Building with trepidation. The inspector looked at my papers first with disinterest and then with suspicion.

He said, “You’re not zoned commercial.”

“I am,” I said.

He went to check a tome of regulations.

When he returned, he said, “You’re right. You are zoned commercial but you don’t have any parking.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Then you can’t build. Sorry,” he said.

He walked away, leaving me speechless.

Out in the hall, there was a large bust of Brigham Young, Builder of Empire, resting on a tall pedestal. I cached myself behind it to consider next steps.

After a few minutes, I noticed the man at the counter wasn’t there anymore. He’d been replaced by another guy, so I thought, what the heck, I’ll give this guy a try. I went back to the counter and spread out my papers. The new clerk studied the engineering specs. He asked me questions about snow load and drainage. He wanted to know about wind whip, that is, how hard does the wind have to blow to tear the roof off? He said I wasn’t zoned commercial. I told him I was, so he went to check the tome. I got a thumbs up there, but then he asked about parking. When I told him I didn’t have any, he said, “Then I’m sorry, you can’t build.” He turned his back and went to help someone else. He was cold.

Back to the bust of Brigham Young. The strength and character in his face were inspiring. He never took “no” for an answer. Should I? I decided to give it one last shot. This time I had to wait quite awhile before another person came to the counter.

I explained it all again. The third guy was better. He smiled at the brochures and diagrams.

“I love greenhouses,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said.

“I live right around the corner from that house, so I know the property,” he said. “It’s weird because it’s zoned commercial but it doesn’t have any parking.”

“I know,” I said, looking dejected.

“That means you can only wholesale. Are you okay with that?” he asked.

“It’s just what I wanted,” I smiled. It was a positive ending, the result of persistence and dumb luck.

*Eminent domain: “The power of a government entity to take private property for a public use without the owner’s consent, conditioned upon payment of just compensation.”