Pickle Houses
Summer walks in Cleveland Heights are a gamble. Sometimes you see a stray deer in the backyard of a long-forgotten mansion, and other times you almost get hit by a car speeding through a red light. In my latest adventure, I stumbled upon what I will now and forevermore refer to as “Pickle House.” Pickle House sits on the corner of a main thoroughfare, tucked back behind several yards worth of uncut grass and surrounded by a stone wall that looks like something out of a Medieval Times Architectural Digest issue. I wonder if they have a moat. They should invest in a moat.
Pickle house is so named because a couple of months ago when I walked by, the entire surrounding 100-feet of sidewalk next to Pickle House reeked of----well----pickles. I’m not that inventive with my house naming, so I’m sure that wasn’t a complete shock. I don’t know how they came up with names like Mount Vernon or Monticello. White House? Yep. The guy that named that is on the same page as me. Anyways, back to Pickle House. I truly did not know that owning that much vinegar was possible. What on earth could they be doing with all those pickling materials? According to the sign shoved haphazardly in the edge of their lawn, Pickle House “Believes in Science!” Was the scientific method being pushed to its vinegar boundaries? I may never know…
Fall walks in Cleveland Heights are a gamble. The pages of Instagram girlies posing in pumpkin patches and the propaganda of North Eastern United States will have you believe that fall foliage is abundant. The trees of Cleveland Heights demonstrate an excellent act of silent rebellion. Perhaps rebellion against the fact that they are living in Ohio, a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree. Most leaves simply alternate from green one day, to brown on the sidewalk the next, with no display of autumnal fanfare in between. A few of the trees put up a mediocre effort, glinting in the setting sun with muted versions of your traditional oranges, yellows, and reds. Every now and then, I’ll come across a tree with colors as brilliant as a brochure located in the Vermont department of tourism. I’ll pause. Take a closer look. Lean my head back and take off my sunglasses---only to realize I’ve been hoodwinked by the tint of my protective lenses. They’re not even rose-colored.