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The place where I lay my head used to be a laundry room. The contractor who bought the house in the late ‘80s rehabbed it and flipped it to my grandma in ‘90. Down came the ivy wallpaper and up went a backyard deck. The laundry nook extended into the master bed and bath. Insulation went in the back half to weather sun and fog.

The day my grandma moved in, she planted a redwood sapling she stole off of the side of the highway. (She claimed its place on a housing construction site was precarious.) It stands in the backyard next to the garage, many limbs taller than the Meyer lemon and pagoda trees.

The typical Glenview houses are like my grandma’s—craftsman bungalows with a twist. They’re single-family homes, some with cement stairs painted in red, with the remnants of shared driveways. These came in off the road and forked a few feet back into separate garages. And while the couple next door razed theirs, ours still (barely) stands. It has the same pueblo-style beams like the house but squats on its haunches in slow collapse. My old friend Sawyer had this to say about the garage: “There’s gotta be dead bodies under there.”

None that I’m aware of. Perhaps under the hard earth there are remnants of an old farm or the bones of some beloved ranch dog. Maybe even the camp fragments of Ohlone Indians. What I do know is that the garage used to house piano parts.

They belonged to a Chinese couple who, so the story goes, bought the house when the Glenview tract first went on the market. The husband liked to build pianos and in the front room, play an old organ. He set up an amplifier in the window and blasted showtunes onto the street. Sometimes he’d catch a passerby with a peal of the pipes; each time (said his neighbor), he’d look out the window to see if they’d bust a move.

Exactly when this neighborhood Liberace and his wife moved into the house I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll do as City Homestead did and pay a visit to the Alameda County Assessor and Public Records office. Hopefully I’ll find a sale date and a name, even if I don’t find out what organ riffs blared onto Park Boulevard. Those details are left to the neighborhood’s muscle memory.