As sweet as a bowl of cherries
The one-square acre contained a house, an efficiency cottage, a garage that had been converted from a haybarn, and an attached single room for storage behind the barn.
In July 1962 the realtor was in his thirties, as was my dad. I had been on earth a year and a half. According to family lore, the paperwork was two pages stapled together, which Dad signed on the hood of Joe Bishop’s car. The cost was less than most people pay for a car today. Within 20 years, Bishop would become the largest agent in the area. I graduated high school with his son Bill. Ironically, Bill showed me a few house options when I became a buyer in 1984. Parallels such as these were common in small-town Berea, Ohio.
The house sat on Fair Street, where the county fair was once held. The first block was intersected by Race Street because the horse races at the fair were run there.
