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re:generation QuarterlyThe Art of Communiculture
Fall 1998

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Searching for Community in the City of Brotherly Love



Last year, at about this time, my husband and I were staggering around the Keystone State in a stupor.

We were looking at houses. Small houses. Houses we could afford. Houses built in the early 1900s before people needed bathrooms and closets. Houses that featured a whole host of 1960s upgrades, including dark paneling, yellow Formica, and avocado bathroom tile.

"Get a load of this," enthused our peppy realtor. "There's genuine wood floors under here! Rip up that carpet and, hey, this place sure has potential!" Kimon and I survey the vast expanse of lime green, plush carpeting. Egad, potential to do what? Breed fleas? While I grapple with my fear and loathing, choking on the musty fumes, Kimon is catching Renovation Fever—give that man a role of duct tape and he feels invincible. Soon he's off talking macho structural improvements with our agent.

"All you need," offers the realtor, sensing an imminent sale, "is to knock out that wall there; reposition that support beam, see? Add a couple of sky lights when you redo the roof. A little re-plastering here and here—wham bang!—you got yourselves a bargain!"

Kimon, convinced, searches for the check book. I'm still skeptical. We know so little about the neighborhood, the schools, our prospects of finding community in this Main Line Philadelphia suburb. "Where's the checkbook, honey?" asks Kimon, obviously sympathetic to my concerns. Worried about our marriage and his commission, the realtor decides it's time to play his trump card: "They just don't make them like this anymore," he gravely intones. They sure don't. Asbestos, lead, radon, treacherously steep stairways, blown fuses. It's almost too much to pass up. I began to vacillate. And when Kimon points out the adorable little ants ...



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