Feeling Generous?

Author’s Notes

As the experiences with Margaret were daily in our six years at the house, they were not frequently visual or poltergeist. In fact, those will all show up in the manuscript. Margaret was more like a housemate you say goodbye to in the morning, go to work, and when you get home, may say hello, or just cohabitate. You may be watching TV in the living room, and you know they are up in their bedroom doing whatever they are doing. That was the real day-to-day of living as a guest in her home.

Thank you for your consideration.

Prologue

I knew nothing about 928 Live Oak Lane before the day we found it. No rumors. No stories. No warnings. It was just a house in the suburbs, one of many we visited while searching for a place to begin our next chapter.

At the time, my wife and I were living in Wrigleyville, in a modest apartment nestled in the hum of Chicago’s north side. We were in our mid-twenties then, young, working, and in love. The city was everything to us: vibrant, ever-awake, filled with the kind of energy that makes you feel like you're part of something alive. I was the executive chef at the Lyric Opera of Chicago, overseeing both the private Guarantors' Green Room and the public Encore Room.

My hours were long and irregular. I often didn’t get home until well after the typical dinner hour, but in those days, that didn’t matter. There was always a place open late, always a stool or booth waiting for us, always a cocktail to be made or a plate to be shared. The city fed us, in more ways than one.

But as much as we loved it, we knew that Wrigleyville wasn’t forever. Not for the life we were beginning to imagine together. We had begun talking about marriage in February of 1986. If we were going to have children, we agreed, we didn’t want to raise them in the noise and chaos of downtown. Both of us had been suburban raised. The city was the perfect start to our story. But we needed a setting that offered space, light, and quiet.

That’s how we ended up walking up the tree-shaded, gravel drive to a stucco house we knew nothing about 928 Live Oak Lane. That’s where all of this began. And where I met Margaret Kimball.

But I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t even know she existed.

I've had four influential women in my life, and one wasn't even alive.

This is not a ghost story, not exactly. It’s a memoir. What follows is a faithful recollection of what I saw, what I heard, what I felt. These are not embellishments. These are not legends passed down from neighbor to neighbor, warped and polished by repetition. These are my experiences, witnessed by others, and committed to memory over decades.

This is also a telling of portions of my life to 1992, and the people who interconnected and wove my tapestry. While some anecdotes may not address the title directly, they are all vividly connected, in my estimation, making them essential to the story.

I’m not here to convince you. You can believe what you like. I only ask that you read with the same openness with which I lived these moments. For six years, we shared that house with someone who was no longer alive, but was never, not once, truly gone.

Chapter 1: Not Empty, Only Waiting

The gravel drive crunched beneath our feet as we approached. It curved gently under a canopy of trees, hedged by overgrown shrubs that whispered old secrets to the wind. It felt like entering a different time. The house revealed itself slowly. Three stories of soft stucco and 1920s proportions, set well back from the road and nearly hidden from view.

To the north of the house stood a detached, single-car garage that had clearly been built long before automobiles. It had the bones of a carriage house... high rafters, wide swinging doors, and a gentle slope to the gravel apron. But now, it would house my sleek, Black Raven 1986 Fiero 2M6 GT. A two-seater with mid-engine performance and a body that turned heads. Damn, I loved that car.

The house itself welcomed you with a wide, screened-in front porch that stretched south from just beyond the dining room window, the length of the west wall, to the south wall, offering a broad, airy space for summer nights and late dinners. We would come to outfit it with wrought iron tables and a porch swing... perfect for sipping coffee, reading, or simply watching the light change through the leaves. You could access the porch roof from the second-story west-facing rooms via their windows. We didn’t use it much, but the option was there, like so much else in that house, quiet, waiting, full of potential.

The front door, a massive nine-lite slab of wood and glass, faced west. A period-correct, thick brass door plate - greenish-brown with patina - and a golden-from-use knob, worn smooth at the touch, completed the impressive portal, looking as though it might guard a vault or fortress. Step through it, and you found yourself at the start of a long, elegant room, nearly thirty-five feet deep and close to twenty feet wide.

At the far end, a white-painted brick wall and fireplace stood centered on the east, its opening framed by a corbelled brick hood that tapered upward in classic Federal style, stepped, symmetrical, and striking. It was flanked by built-in bookcases made of thick, ebonized walnut, stopping five feet up and leaving a display-like shelf and wall space above for tall or bulky decorative elements to be shown with pride of place. The tongue-and-groove wood floor gleamed and stretched out like a dance floor, one that had seen years of footsteps, maybe even waltzes. Crown molding finished the nine-foot ceilings throughout the first floor. Thick, Federal-style mouldings and capitals defined the transitions between rooms, stairway, and doors.

The south wall of that room held a massive, fifteen-lite window that flooded the space with light. The sill was deep enough to sit in, and we often did, cushions added for comfort, looking out at the garden, hedges, and trees beyond. The whole room breathed with openness.

Just beyond the entrance area, on the north wall, a ten-foot-wide, square-arched opening led into the dining room. That space, too, had character. The walls were papered in cheerful yellow pinstripes, dotted with violets. A four-inch-wide chair rail bisected the walls into beadboard below, paper above - exactly as it should have been. The thick, gloss-white paint on all the wooden surfaces shimmered when it caught the light.

Suspended from the center of the ceiling, a twelve-light chandelier with spiral glass arms and delicate bobeches cast a warm, welcoming glow. Its rosette medallion, pressed plaster with a floral motif, added a subtle touch of refinement without ostentation. This was the only built-in light fixture for the living and entertainment spaces on the first floor, and it was more than enough.

On the west wall, surrounding a large window that matched the one in the living room, stood two built-in, triangular-shaped corner cabinets. They ran floor to ceiling, ideal for displaying our china, crystal, silver, and holloware with doored storage below. The east wall of the dining room had the opening into the kitchen through a doored arch. Ample wall space was afforded for large, framed artwork and special treasures.

Behind The Door

There was a short hall to the kitchen that was very narrow, only six feet wide and eight feet long. It felt cramped. Claustrophobic, almost. On the north wall was a floor-to-ceiling, double-door pantry/utility closet with a mop sink. Seriously?

Across from this marvel of early 20th-century intelligence was the squared arch to the downstairs space. Just wider than a modern front door, this descent into the “cellar” felt comfortable. Sure, the ceiling was that same six and a half feet going down, but it didn’t feel cramped. Although walled to the west, it was open to the east, only a railing to provide steadiness if needed. That openness was the secret to its uncramped feeling.

The Basement

Down the stairs, it opened into an enormous space, the entire length and width of the house. No pillars. No posts. Let me stress that. This house was built in the nineteen-teens, or earlier. One listing had it being erected in 1911, another in 1909. The one that was on the paperwork was 1923. A renovation, I am guessing. But I digress. There were no supports in that vast space, and the walls were constructed of fieldstone. Painted white, of course. These stacked stones formed the foundation walls for this building.

The ceiling height down here was nearly eight feet. The joists and braces exposed. The subflooring was clearly visible. And it wasn’t full of knots. It looked planed. Finished. Of top quality, as did all of the joists and dimensional lumber.

What can I tell you about this space? Across from the stair landing was what I would describe as a craftsman’s area... defined by a squared, U-shaped built-in workbench and sturdy tables nestled into a dirt floor. It was compacted with years of use. Not a trace of moisture. Almost hardpack - local clay and soil, never having seen concrete or brick.

The sturdy, quarter-sawn oak tables showed the marks of labor, the calluses of decades of tools and hands. Above it, a ground-level window on the south wall stretched nearly to the ceiling, flooding the workspace with light. This wasn’t one of those squat, rectangular basement windows from the ’50s or today, it had both length and stature. I never measured, but guessed it was four and a half feet long and at least thirty inches tall. Hinged at the bottom, it folded completely down into the room, resting against the wall. You could move large pieces in and out without so much as a scratch on the paint.

I stood there, blinking slowly... and with each blink came a flicker of a vision, like a hand-cranked silent movie playing on the insides of my eyelids: me at that bench, measuring, sawing, sanding - building something lasting. Staining pine. Fitting joints. Dusting off the finished planks with the flat of my palm. Taking pride in the rhythm of it. In the hush of honest work. A quiet knowing, like I already belonged there, like I had for years.

The rest of the massive space was finished in poured concrete. No cracks. No bulges. Two floor drains ran the length of the centerline of the room, adding to the sense of readiness. It wasn’t painted. It didn’t need to be. It was complete in its rawness - not hiding its flaws under a layer of paint or laying of tile.

On the east wall stood a full bath with its own floor drain. It had been poorly paneled over, sometime in the ’60s, I’d guess. But it worked, and beneath the aging veneer, the brick walls were clearly protected. Yes, brick beneath the paneling. Of course.

Under the stairs and along the north wall was the utility room: washer, dryer, double soapstone sink, water heater, and forced air furnace. Utilitarian, plain, perfect. 

Another window here, too - matching its mate on the south wall. This one lit the space just enough to see the rust rings beneath the old galvanized pails.

And then, against the west wall... a room. Ten by ten feet. Walled in fieldstone, solid and sealed. A six-panel oak door, heavy and white-painted like the rest, closed it off from the open space. Inside, a small vented window on the north wall, set high near the ceiling, barely let in light, even if you slid off the tin ceiling tile someone had nailed over the glass.

It was a canning room. A root cellar. The kind of space built for survival and pride. Vegetables from the garden, lined in jars, stored in rows, waiting for winter. The stone walls kept it cool, about sixty degrees year-round. Not ideal for fine wine - too warm by ten degrees - but just right for everything else.

I loved that basement. Its unfinished nature was its identity. It was real. It was nurturing. It was built for a purpose, and even if that purpose had dulled with time, it still hummed with the dignity of intention.

A Return To The Surface

Back in the hallway above - the claustrophobic space between the dining room and kitchen - I began to understand that it was tucked beneath the stairs leading to the upper floor. But more than that, it served as a sound buffer: the clatter of the kitchen muffled before reaching the serenity of the dining room. Frank Lloyd Wright used that very technique: constrict them before the reveal.

The Kitchen

And then the reveal: the kitchen. Enormous - almost too big for its time - with those soaring nine-foot ceilings again. From that cramped, narrow hall, you weren’t just entering. You were born into that space.

It was equipped with the very best the 1930s through the 1950s had to offer: a Magic Chef six-burner range featuring three ovens, one broiler, a plate-warming cabinet, a center grill, and a built-in top shelf running its entire width, alongside a massive, white porcelain Kelvinator refrigerator/freezer boasting a 30-cubic-foot capacity.

Sturdy wall cabinets, white-faced with stainless steel trim and hardware, so tall they required a ladder to reach the top shelves, even for 6'2" me. All of it hung against white-painted brick walls.

Sprawling, one-piece countertops in jet-black porcelain anchored the space. The double-wide, extra-deep sink was even incorporated into one of these monolithic surfaces. Never inexpensive, and not anything I’ve ever seen before or since.

I’ve cooked in some of the finest homes and estates as a private caterer. Names from the Chicago, hell, the global 500. Ones you’d recognize. So many stories. So many fabled architects. And no, I had never seen a one-piece, jet-black porcelain countertop before.

Yes, there was one - one - small flake near the elevated rolled edge by the sink. But I knew how to repair chipped porcelain, so who cared?

The built-in butcher block work surface? Sure, I’d seen those. And now I would have one in my kitchen too. That became my domain. It may not have been state-of-the-art, but it was real, well-loved, and functional.

There was a large, double-hung window on the north wall with a heavy nine-lite, solid oak door directly to the west. It led to the back landing and the walkway to the front. This would also be where I placed the garbage receptacles that needed to be brought to the street on pick-up day, as we all would come to find out, no garbage truck could get back there.

There was also a purposefully laid out vegetable garden space behind the garage, the 12-foot by 12-foot patch of soil was in plain view, across from the kitchen door and window.

The floor? Well, the floor would need new tiles. These were clearly worn and screaming 1950s linoleum. Their original gloss-black finish - I'm guessing - had long since dulled to a tired, weathered charcoal gray.

And somehow, already, I was right at home.

The Ascent

The staircase to the second floor rose along the north wall of the living room, a graceful, broad ascent that curved slightly to the right at the top. There, a large double-hung window overlooked the garage and faced north. It flooded the stairway and hall with light and offered a welcome cross-breeze in warm months. A very intelligent placement.

Unfortunately, the risers and stretchers were clad in a mottled harvest-gold short-shag carpet, vintage 1970s. You know the kind. That “dirty diaper” yellowish-brown that somehow managed to look both stained and scratchy, even when brand new. 

Who - who - decided this was a good look for a home?

Parquet flooring laid throughout the entire second floor, uninterrupted. Federal-style crown moulding and trim reappeared here, echoing the elegance of the first floor. Eight-foot ceilings and period wall sconces lent a sense of hominess to the family space - as if the architect meant for the first floor to showcase your travels and collections, and the second to be where real life happened.

“as if” - who am I kidding? That’s exactly what the architect was doing.

Upstairs

At the top of the landing, along the east wall, you arrived at the upstairs bathroom - generous in size, with classic one-inch black-and-white floor tiles and four-inch white tile surrounding the built-in white, porcelain lined, cast iron tub. A pivot-out window on the north wall made quick work of venting steam from long, hot showers or soaks.

Above the vanity sink on the east wall hung a large mirror flanked by lights. On the opposite wall, the west wall, a larger-than-normal mirrored medicine cabinet allowed you, brilliantly, to see the back of your head, a small but thoughtful design feature. 

Nothing palatial, but perfectly adequate.

Beyond were two linen closets. The first, a double-door setup, much like the one in the kitchen hall, featured shelves behind one door and space for brooms, mops, a vacuum, and other tall items behind the other. Further south stood the second linen closet.

All the solid six-panel doors were fitted with heavy brass escutcheons, aged to a soft brown patina, and the faceted glass doorknobs - true to their era - were flawless. No chips. No cracks. Perfect.

Continuing along the landing to the south, on the east side of the home, was one of the bedrooms we used as a guest room. It was a dormer room, but generously sized at 14 by 11 feet. Along the north wall, a deep closet with the signature six-panel door and original fixture. A ceiling light had been installed, cut glass and period appropriate. The walls were straight and solid. The window dormer was double-hung, flooding the room with warm southern light in the afternoons.

This east bedroom would become the starting point of our journey, but for now, I just wanted to lie down on the floor and never leave.

I don’t know if you’ve ever lived in a stucco home built at the beginning of the twentieth century, but let me explain: these walls were nearly a foot thick. Heavy frame lumber, insulated, lathed, and plastered. They held their temperature and were dense enough to muffle the sounds within them. They offered a sense of fortitude. 

Inside them, you were safe.

Just west was the master bedroom. This was not a dormer room. It was large - 18 by 16 feet - quiet, and full of western light through two double-hung windows. Spacious enough for a full suite of furniture. Something we had in triplicate.

There were his and hers closets, another period-correct ceiling light, and a faint floral aroma. I expect a potpourri sachet had been left hanging in one of the closets to freshen the space. It was a nice touch. Very quaint.

Directly across from the master, an additional closet... possibly for seasonal clothes or linens. There was also attic access here: a narrow door alongside that opened to a staircase leading up to the third floor. The second access was in the east bedroom. 

The attic space was vast - more than enough room for two bedrooms and a bath, if one were so inclined. But it needed work: decorating, insulation, better lighting. We didn’t use it much. Still, I’d always imagined it becoming something more, if we’d raised our kids there. A project for another time, one we never quite got around to.

To the west of the master and the closet was the third bedroom. Another dormer room, cozy, and tucked into its own little nook. It had a good-sized closet and a charming layout. This was the smallest of the bedrooms, 13 by 11 feet, but it didn’t feel small. It felt cozy and inviting. The dormer didn’t require you to crouch to walk. 

Yes, the ceilings angled, but never to anything below six and a half feet. The ceiling height along the door wall was the same eight feet as elsewhere, extending just beyond the period glass ceiling fixture. But that was the centerpoint, and the apex of the dormer’s angle maintained that height all the way to the double-hung window.

It never really hit me until just now how big these rooms actually were. It doesn’t seem possible. Thinking back, weren’t these 1920s-era rooms supposed to be smaller? And as I’m typing this, I find myself answering my own question. The stately homes I catered had rooms of these sizes, and they were built around the same time. And if I had a magic lens, I have a feeling that if I looked back at some of the architectural drawings, I'd find a similar stamp on a few... 928 Live Oak Lane included.

Chapter 2: A Second Chance To Make A First Impression

The Neighborhood

Live Oak Lane is just two blocks long. That’s it. Flanked at either end by fifteen-foot-tall gate piers, each topped with a two-foot stone sphere, the road announced itself quietly, but with authority. They were painted white when we lived there, imposing, dignified, and a little mysterious.

Lined with elegant homes on both sides. Not the overwrought McMansions of today, but true architectural diversity: Swiss Chalet, French Provincial, Mid-Century Modern, Spanish Colonial Revival. Manicured lawns. Old-growth trees and well-tended hedges. This wasn’t a street that changed on a whim. It was a community, steady, refined, a place where like-minded people came to nest and to stay.

Neighbors knew each other. Watched each other’s homes. Helped when needed. Respected your privacy, celebrated when called for.

I hadn’t known about this little stretch of land until we found our home. I was familiar with the greater community - had a childhood friend nearby - but I didn’t frequent the area.

Well, that’s not entirely true. In high school, we’d drive up this way for the game arcade in the next town over. It had all the latest: Sea Wolf, Space Wars, Night Driver, Gun Fight. And the best pinball machines anywhere. Spotless, pristine. We got to know the attendants. Sometimes they let us try out new games before they hit the floor. All on their dime. Quarter, actually.

That town was the one just south of where Live Oak Lane was situated. The movie theaters in both towns showed different films. So we could catch Wizards in one town and Slap Shot the next town over.

The town north, that town with Live Oak Lane, also had a Porsche dealership. The one that later took delivery of the 928 from Risky Business - the one they pulled from Lake Michigan.

One night, in 1977, my buddies and I were walking around, just admiring cars. I was never a Porsche guy. Not a Corvette guy, either. Even back then, I had a soft spot for Lamborghinis and Alfas.

But there was always one that stood apart. The one that wasn’t just a car - it was an apparition.

The 1936 Cord 812 Phaeton - my dream car, always - pulls you in before you’re even aware you’ve fallen. It isn’t just the infamous “coffin nose,” though that long, low hood sweeps forward like something designed to pierce the veil between worlds. It’s those symmetrical, ribbed chrome fins - wrapped with impossible precision around the prow - that do it for me. They don’t merely accentuate the car’s shape, they declare it, reverently. They whisper of movement even when the car is still.

Then come the exposed manifolds, gleaming like open veins, arcing backward through the hood vents with a kind of mechanical eroticism. The whole machine is impossibly composed, curvaceous but never soft. Art Deco in the way good jazz is sexy, offbeat, dangerous, irresistible.

Cream over Chocolate Brown. Saddle brown interior. Front wheel drive. Predictive shift. Disappearing headlights. Why weren't the cars of the 70s built with that style of panache?

I think what I’ve always loved most about the Cord is that it never begs to be looked at. It simply appears, and you look, whether you meant to or not. It is grace, it is growl, it is grandeur on four perfect wheels.

I was driving a beat-up, red and rust, 1971 Camaro 307 at that time.

But the Porsche showroom was impressive. We passed it and headed to the used lot. And there, parked right at the corner, was a chocolate brown 928. Saddle brown interior. Quiet menace.

I don’t know if it was the color, the presence, or the hush of it - but something in that 928 felt...familiar. Like a dream I’d had before.

All I do know is it whispered to me.

“Pssst. Jude, komm her.”

I heard it as clear as day.

And yes, I’m Jewish.

I turned to my buddies and made a joke about it, I don’t even remember what I said, but I wasn’t offended. Just... awestruck.

The car had me. I’d never seen anything like it. This was still five years before Risky Business, so it was like seeing a spaceship. And damn, did it ever haunt my dreams for years.

Now, in 1986, I had my Fiero and was thrilled with it.

And the house we were looking at? That, too.

Nearly a decade later, I’d fall for another 928.