“Expectation
is the root
of all heartache.”
William Shakespeare

In June of 1979, I graduated from Santa Clara University and moved into a small, two-bedroom house on Lincoln Street in Santa Clara. It was yet another one of those undeserved gifts with which I’ve been blessed in my life. The owner, Mr. Edwin Moore, was the retired superintendent of the Santa Clara Mission Cemetery, the entrance to which was just two doors down from the front door of the residence. Mr. Moore lived in Santa Cruz, but he owned fourteen houses in all. He also had fourteen grandchildren. Upon his death, each grandchild would inherit a house. I lived in the home at 431 Lincoln Street for seven years.

The market-rate rent for the house at that time was about $750/month. Mr. Moore didn’t need the money. He just wanted to be certain that his tenants would take good care of the property. He informed me that the rent I would pay would be only $200/month, but asked that I take good care of the lawns (front and back) and the garden. I assured him that the landscaping would be well cared for. With the rent being so low, I hired a professional gardener to keep everything green and thriving. The property always looked incredibly nourished and well-kept. I used to enjoy coming home at the end of the day, sitting in the captain’s chair on the front porch, and watering the lawn. It was a time of solitude in otherwise hectic days.

I was out for a walk on Wednesday. I walked from our home to Santa Clara University, a fairly straight shot down Saratoga Avenue. When I got to Lincoln Street, I took a quick detour to check out the old house. All I can say is that Mr. Moore would be disappointed with the way it looks today.

The grandson who inherited 431 Lincoln Street eventually sold the property. I don’t know if the occupant today is a renter or owner. What I do know, as is evident in the photo above, is that keeping the outside of the property looking good is not a priority for them. To see the house in this condition generated a feeling of melancholy in me. I know Mr. Moore, who passed away back in the early ‘80s, no longer owns the home. Nor does his grandson. Still, I know how much pride he took in the appearance of the property. The grass in front of 431 Lincoln, which had been lush, thick, and brilliant green, is now overrun with weeds. Weeds have also taken over the narrow strip of garden along the front and side of the house, areas which used to be home to a variety of plants and vegetables.

I should have no expectations that the current owner or renter should care for the property the way Mr. Moore would have liked — and, yet, I do. I wish I could tell the responsible party about the history of the house (it was originally located on Market Street where Santa Clara University’s high-rise dormitory, Swig Hall, now stands.) I wish I could tell them about Mr. Moore, about his kindness and generosity, and about how much it meant to him that the landscaping of the property be well-maintained. I wish I could convince them that it’s not too late for this house to regain the charm it once had in the neighborhood.

Expectations? Shakespeare was right. As the writer, Richard Preston, wrote, “The ideal and the reality don’t always match up.”