As I haven’t had time for an evening constitutional in over a week, I thought I’d live vicariously through… my recent past (10 days ago?). Around 6:30 I wended my way up the road, intent on photographing a house at the top of the hill. As luck would have it, the neighbor across the street, Stephen, was having an aperitif on his front steps, and shared with me the story of this remarkable building.
It was built in the 1930s by one of two German emigré brothers (the second of whom built a very different looking brick home on the other side of the slope — coming in another entry, I promise). This explains why the lot size is so large; there were probably no, or at least very few, other houses here at the time. The first brother — Kurtz was their name, I think — was trained as an architect in the Old Country (very Bauhaus, as you can see, with a little Deco flair along the edges). He lived in this house with his wife until he died; she continued to live there until the early 1980s. Stephen bought his house in the late ’70s, so he still remembers her. Eventually, a realtor bought the house, lives there but is rarely around. Curtains are always drawn. And, well, check out his lawn. Stephen said it’s been like this for years now.
Weirdest of all, the Kurtz’s name is still painted on the mailbox.
If it comes on the market any time soon, I’ll let you know. Of course, I’ll have to get back to those walks…