Three: A Place to Go

Stunned. Staggered. Paralyzed. Petrified. No single word can describe how I felt when I received the eviction notice from the school board. After almost three years, eminent domain was taking me 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 for breaking my leasehold. I had some 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 look. They were having an open house. When I parked, I could see people inside, so I decided to wait until the crowd thinned out. Instead, I walked down the driveway.

I couldn’t believe my eyes! The backyard must have been 100’ deep and 50’ or 60’ 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 are transformative. I’m not a poet but being in a greenhouse moves you that way. The possibility of owning a greenhouse hadn’t seemed a possibility. Now, I could picture the whole thing.

The ‘just compensation’ from the school board would cover the cost of a greenhouse but not a down payment on the property. My credit rating 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 Fairness in Banking Act of 1972, 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 required that my brother be on the deed as a tenant-in-common. Dan was ten years my younger. I used to babysit this kid. Now, he was babysitting me. 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 thankful for that. The loan process took a while. There were many evenings I parked at the 7-11 across the street and studied the house. Did it have a bathroom? I couldn’t remember a kitchen. While I waited, the Grass Menagerie was still open and I continued my love affair with houseplants.

In the fall, the bulldozers finally came to knock down the beloved Grass Menagerie. I took down the signage and the light shades and anything else that 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 backyard, 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. “Yes, 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, 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 crouched 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. Why should I? I decided to give it one last shot. This time I had to wait quite a while before another person came to the counter.

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

“I love greenhouses,” he said.

“Me, to,” 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.