Down the Rabbit Hole
Forgive me for writing about writing, but a great diner gets some well-deserved love too.
State of the Stack
I hate it when I follow something, and the creator starts making excuses for why the updates have tailed off. I just think to myself, I don’t care if you’re late. Just post something! But here I am about to commit the same crime.
I’ve fallen into something of a rabbit hole with my research about my old neighborhood, but I think that’s actually a good thing. I don’t know if I’m Alice or the rabbit at this point. The more I learn about it, the more I believe the subject deserves more exposure.
Turns out, the development wasn’t as unique as I suspected, but it did play an important role in propping up the fortunes of Springfield, Massachusetts as it entered a prolonged period of decline. One could say that the program that made it possible showed your tax dollars at work, but I found a Department of Housing and Urban Development study from 1974 that called into question the return on that investment. In short — and I’ll enumerate later — it was a mixed bag.
Expect two more articles on this topic. One about the history of the federal program that allowed it to happen, and another about the people who took advantage of the opportunity and built productive lives for themselves.
So far, I’ve connected with many of my former neighbors, some who purchased those homes and others who grew up there from the time that they took their first steps. I can report that despite the overall state of the city, Sixteen Acres in general continues to generate the bulk of the city’s residential real estate tax revenue, and the Keddy-Vadnais development enveloped within that section, stands solid, friendly, and well-cared for — at least according to those who still live there.
Yesterday, I had an illuminating conversation with a local historian who painted an even more detailed and colorful picture of the history and politics that led to the construction of the home my mother spent half her life, right up until her death in 2012. The historian agreed with me about the significance of this neighborhood and sounded excited about my focus on it. She asked me if I planned a book.
“No. Not yet, anyway,” I replied.
Kissing Frogs
One big impediment to the progress of this and other ideas I have clinking around in my noggin, is the process of prepping our house for sale while shopping for a new one.
Only yesterday, a listing came over our digital transom that looked like everything I described as my ideal home: Small house in good condition, an acre-plus of land with an outbuilding for my shop, only an hour away from Louise’s work. The listing indicated an open house in mere hours. I had planned to meet a buddy for beers that night, but after apologies and a rain check issued, Louise and I high-tailed it for a closer look. Spoiler alert: We passed.
This entire undertaking began during the pandemic when a Facebook friend and real estate agent promoted rural living with a posted photo of the quintessential country farmhouse, complete with front porch and slathered in charm. Until then, we strived towards a more modest goal of finding a house equivalent to ours but in a lower-taxed community. With my daughter soon graduating, school district quality didn’t matter. In fact, the worse, the better, since that potentially meant lower prices.
This should surprise no one, but house hunting involves kissing lots of frogs. If you don’t believe in magic, then you’ve never looked real estate listings. Photographers for this industry can adjust the light or shift the angle to make even the slimiest of frogs look prince-like. While I’d never accuse realtors of misrepresenting properties, they craftily omit the warts, sending the hapless house-hunter to confront old furnaces, ill-considered renovations, sketchy neighborhoods, and other potential issues buried in a minefield of hidden money pits. Had yesterday’s listing displayed the interior of the outbuilding or the basement, I would have enjoyed that beer with my friend instead.
I’m here to tell you not to believe the news about the a real estate market downturn thanks to higher interest rates. We kicked this search into high gear not only because my daughter finally graduated, but a house on our street virtually identical to ours sold for a price well above what I thought possible. Venturing out, combing Zillow, and connecting with realtors, we entered a red hot market in southeastern Pennsylvania of low inventory coupled with strong demand — rising interest rates be damned.
So, our house now fills up with boxes as we pack, while we purge and prepare for a move we hope to make before the fall. Into all this activity, I shoehorn nuggets of time for interviews, research, and travel back to my hometown.
I promise you, your patience will be rewarded.
Kuppy’s Diner to Celebrate 90
I’d like to send a shoutout to Bill and Carol Kupp at Kuppy’s Diner in Middletown, Pennsylvania who are now two months away from celebrating the restaurant’s 90th anniversary — all under the ownership of the same family.
Admittedly, I haven’t warmed a seat at this Keystone state institution in nine years, but online reviews remain overwhelmingly positive.
It’s still breakfast and lunch only at Kuppy’s. The space is tight in this little Ward & Dickenson diner, but it’s practically a guarantee that you’ll walk out with a smile on your face. It’s everything a diner should be and more. Congratulations, guys!