Housing Variety as a Path to Neighborhood Stability

In my last post, I introduced the idea that neighborhoods are more stable if the housing isn’t all of the same type.  I argued that homeowners are more willing to make investments in expansions, remodels, and even maintenance tasks such as painting if their chances of later recovering their costs aren’t inhibited by comparison with nearby homes that are nearly identical but unimproved.

Among the urbanist ideas I’ve introduced to people, the concept that neighborhoods need variety to thrive is the one that many find most puzzling.  Many have a mental image of 1990s subdivisions where they’ve always dreamed of living and where the rows of little differentiated stucco McMansions are doing just fine.

But twenty years is an inadequate time over which to judge the stability of a neighborhood.  I’ll instead ask those people to go back further in time and to consider two types of neighborhoods that co-exist in many towns.  The first is the neighborhoods that were built before 1930 and almost always include a variety of housing types.  The second is the neighborhoods that were built in the 1950s and late 1940s, in the first flush of the Levittown model for accommodating the post-World War II housing boom and are largely composed of what Malvina Reynolds called “little boxes made of ticky-tacky”.

In most towns, the older neighborhoods are doing just fine.  At any one time, a couple of the homes on a block might be showing their age, but then a young couple with energy or a older couple with savings will snap up the property and, with confidence in their investment, happily bring it up to match or to exceed the surrounding homes.  (Admittedly, the typical location of these neighborhoods in the more walkable parts of town is also a factor in their vitality.) 

My wife and I live in a house that was built in 1920 in a neighborhood that was developed in 1914 and observe that regeneration process constantly going on around us.

Indeed, in many communities, the concern isn’t the upkeep of the pre-1930 developments, but how to keep the pace of gentrification under control.

Conversely, the 1940s and 1950s neighborhoods, even if still mostly neat and tidy, aren’t showing the same robustness.  Perhaps the only improvements being made are the conversions of garages into spare bedrooms, modifications that are often illegal and will need to be unwound before the homes can be sold.  Nor are buyers with energy or deep pockets attracted to invest in those neighborhoods.  The neighborhoods may still be reasonable places to live, but they’re not progressing in a good direction.

And there is no reason to argue that the 1990s developments that some may admire aren’t on the same glide path, fifty years further out from the same crash landing, as the 1940s subdivisions which we now find unappealing.

There are ways to build more differentiated subdivisions, but first let’s look at why we moved from the 1920s model of land development to the 1950s model.

There were several factors that came together in the years immediately following World War II.  First, there was pent-up demand after the economic malaise of the 1930s and the commitment of all resources toward the military during the war years.  The generation of returning soldiers eager to resume their lives also added to the pressure for housing.

Furthermore, several economic reforms of the 1930s, including tax deduction for mortgage interest, which had only modest effect when first implemented, became significant drivers for new housing after the war.

To meet the new demand, builders found ways to apply the assembly line model pioneered by Henry Ford to the home-building business.  But assembly lines work best when the output is nearly identical, so there were financial reasons for homes to look alike.

Lastly, we began asking more of developers, a progression that continues today.  While a developer a century ago might have gotten by with a two-inch water main (good luck in the case of fire) and an expectation that the homebuilder would install a septic system at his own cost, we now require developers to build water systems capable of suppressing fires, to connect to municipal sewer systems, to bury all electrical, gas, and communication lines, and to contribute to the cost of infrastructure improvements elsewhere in the community.

Developers have shown that they can still make a profit with the greater requirements, but a primary strategy employed to stay profitable is to build homes efficiently and to sell them quickly, both of which require homes that are similar in style and details.  (A secret of housing development is that absorption rate is critical to profitability.  Holding a built home, or even an improved lot, for several years can wring all profit out of the development effort.  So building and marketing homes to a limited demographic segment that can be targeted effectively is a proven financial strategy.)

Obviously, I’m not suggesting that we should return to the days of two-inch water mains and septic fields because they would result in better neighborhoods for our ancestors.  But at the same time we should recognize that putting more financial demands on developers results in “little boxes made of ticky-tacky”.  If that isn’t the built environment we wish to leave to our children, it’s incumbent on us to change the rules.

(While it’s true that some developers try to ignore the incentives that we’re inadvertently created and to build projects that they think will better meet community needs, but for many it’s only a path to bankruptcy.  Whether building homes, toaster ovens, or toothpicks, employing suboptimal strategies is rarely a path to financial success.  Smarter regulation, not reliance on benevolence, is the only reasonable path to better outcomes.)

So, how do we incentivize better outcomes?  I’ll offer three possibilities, although none of them are easy or universally applicable.

First, the Pittsburgh reader who asked the question that triggered this topic writes that he grew up in a neighborhood that was a builders’ showcase of 55 years ago.  The lots were improved and individual builders were then solicited to build their best homes in exchange for marketing benefits.  The reader confirms that the neighborhood has stood up well over time, better than other nearby monolithic neighborhoods.

Second, in his book “The Last Harvest”, Witold Rybczynski tells of a greenfield development near Philadelphia where the local authorities required a certain number of the homes to be built by a home builder other than the developer.  The goal was to broaden the demographic span of the project.  But facilitating an agreement between the builders wasn’t easy.  Early in the process, the intention was to have three builders for the project, but when the third builder opted out, unhappy with his prospects in the deal, and no replacement could be found, the authorities let the development proceed with only two builders.

Lastly, smaller projects help.  Twenty homes of similar style and vintage have a less stultifying effect than two hundred similar homes.  But our entitlement processes actually encourage larger projects.  The costs of conforming to local regulations and CEQA aren’t proportional to project size.  The two-hundred-home development would have less than ten times the entitlement cost of the twenty-home development, so the larger project has lower entitlement costs per home and therefore more potential profit.

The same problem applies to more walkable urban projects.  Economies of scale in both entitlement and construction argue for ten-acre walkable projects, even if long-term city financial health argues for ten one-acre projects.

Over fifty years ago, Jane Jacobs made her case for “fine-grained development”.  She was absolutely right, but we’ve only moved away from her ideal in the years since she expressed it.

A few years back, I was involved in an entitlement process that showed the difficulties of trying to break the monolithic mold.  Next time, I’ll tell the story.

As always, your questions or comments will be appreciated.  Please comment below or email me.  And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)

Urbanism and Senior Living: Shedding the Extra Bedrooms

In recent weeks, I’ve been writing about the intersection of urbanism and senior living.  Thus far, I’ve largely focused on the forms that senior living can take in urban settings and the steps needed to encourage downtown senior options.

But I’ve also written that many seniors, even if they find walkable urban life appealing, are nonetheless stuck in drivable suburbia because there are few suitable urban options or because they can’t sell their current homes at a price adequate to support a move downtown.

Today, I’ll begin writing about how to bring touches of urbanism to those living their final years in drivable suburbia.

I don’t recall the speaker, but there was a particularly insightful moment on the subject of senior living at CNU 22, the most recent annual meeting of the Congress for the New Urbanism.  The speaker was digging into the statistics showing that many seniors prefer to “age in place”.

The aging in place sentiment is generally understood to mean that seniors wish to remain in the homes where they raised their families.  This understanding has launched many businesses focused on modifying homes with grab bars, providing essential in-home services, and otherwise facilitating seniors remaining in their long-time homes.

But as the speaker dug more deeply into the statistics, he found that many seniors weren’t necessarily thinking about the homes as the “places” where they insisted on “aging”.  Instead, they didn’t want to leave behind the neighbors with whom they had long friendships, the coffee shops where they spent Saturday mornings, or the butchers who cut their Christmas prime ribs.  Perhaps not all, but many seniors no longer cared about the five bedrooms and quarter-acre of grass where they’d raised their families.  They didn’t want to leave their neighborhoods.   Their neighborhood was their “place”.

Of course, in the American version of land use, there are rarely alternative homes within large-lot single-family neighborhoods that are suited to the elder years, so it’s not surprising that the seniors were unable to express their preference for neighborhood over home.  But it’s nonetheless a preference that should be recognized.

Of course, the problem with the preference is home size.  Even if seniors no longer have an interest in dusting and vacuuming 2,500 square feet of house, most neighborhoods don’t offer reasonable alternatives.

However, there are people trying to rectify that deficiency.  In classrooms at the New Jersey Institute of Technology, students are looking for ways to more gracefully accommodate aging.  One idea is to construct duplexes configured so the second unit can be rented out in the early years of marriage, occupied during the child-rearing decades, and then again rented out during the later years of life.

On a similar track, Witold Rybczynski wrote in his book “City Life” about his role in developing Grow Homes, narrow, shared-wall homes that are sold with the upper floors open and unfinished.  The intended buyers are young married couples who can divide and finish the upper stories to suit as their families grow and their specific needs become evident.

Of course, Grow Homes, as their name implies, are more suited to expanding families, but the flexibility to reinvent the upper stories can also meet senior needs, from convalescent rooms to apartments for caretakers to living accommodations for other seniors, creating a “naturally-occurring retirement community” or NORC as I described in a recent post.

Although not widespread, with most of the 10,000 units near Montreal where they were invented, Grow Homes have received wide acclaim.

Also in “City Life”, Rybczynski wrote about the town of Mariemont, Ohio, where the walkable core includes apartments suitable for young couples, small-lot single-family homes for child-rearing, and eldercare facilities, all of which combine into a place where one can live an entire life.  (Before someone else offers this fact, I’ll note that Mariemont was originally intended as whites-only, proving only that our forebearers were better at urban planning than at social justice.)

Accessory Dwelling Units (ADUs), commonly called “granny flats”, can also widen the range of housing options in a suburban neighborhood.  Whether stand-alone units adjoining primary houses or additions to existing homes, such as flats above garages, ADUs can provide a place where empty-nesters can make more suitable homes for their later years.  I’ve heard of seniors who have moved into a newly-added ADU and then rented their former homes to a young family.  (Personally, I once spent 18 months living comfortably in an ADU over a garage in a suburban neighborhood.)

The biggest impediment to ADUs is often impact fees.  Much like small downtown units, as described in my previous post, ADUs can have impact fees that exceed their true impacts, as unenlightened cities try desperately to balance books teetering precariously from the failed suburban experiment.

Lastly, I’ll refer back to an idea I offered in the spring, about reconfiguring under-used neighborhood parks to add, among other elements, small blocks of residential apartments.  At the time, my goal was to raise resources to make the parks more relevant to contemporary life, but a side effect would be creating places for elders, who no longer want their outsized homes, to remain in their long-time neighborhoods.

Adding smaller residential units to a suburban neighborhood doesn’t make it urban.  But it’s one small step in the right direction.  Having defined that step, I’ll write in my next post about adding non-driving mobility to suburbia.

As always, your questions or comments will be appreciated.  Please comment below or email me.  And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)

A Passionless but Comprehensive History of American Urban Design

Many years ago, I had a meeting with the community development director of the small Oregon city where I lived and worked.  Our business completed, I made ready to leave, but she asked me to wait a moment, pulled a book from her shelves, and offered it to me, suggesting that I would find it insightful.  She and I had often discussed the philosophy and history of land use, so her recommendation of “City Life” by Witold Rybczynski was in keeping with our previous conversations.

(At a later time, she also recommended a perceptive tome on the evolving role of labor in an increasingly technological world.  We need more community development directors like her.)

I read “City Life” quickly, then bought my own copy and read it again.  I was fascinated by the presentation of the full historical scope of American urban design, from the Massachusetts colony to our world today.  It was the beginning of a long-term relationship with Rybczynski, all of whose books I read.

With this blog up and rolling, it seemed time to return to my old friend “City Life” and reread it yet again, with an eye to sharing my thoughts here.  Unfortunately, my third reading disappointed slightly.  Rybczynski remains as careful and comprehensive as ever.  And he offers keen insights.  But compared to the urbanist writers of more recent times, he lacks passion.  He writes more like an academic, which he is, and less like someone who wants to change the world.

His writing style isn’t a bad thing.  Not everyone needs to carry around a flamethrower.   But reading him when writers like James Howard Kunstler are on the shelf is like hanging with the bookish guy at the party when a guy in the other room is dropping bon mots like firecrackers on the 4th of July and attracting all the girls.

However, there is value in listening to the bookish guy.  You gain a deeper knowledge that puts the Kunstlers of the world into better perspective.

You also gain the occasional insight that connects together the history of American urban design in new and perceptive ways.  The City Beautiful movement grew out of the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago.  Spearheaded by Daniel Burnham, it proposed the revisioning of American urban cores to look more like Paris, with vast areas of midrise office and residential buildings and with civic buildings providing the focal points.  Despite broad public interest in the concept, the desire of business to construct ever higher skyscrapers overcame the City Beautiful vision.

Rybczynski describes the end of the movement as City Profitable replacing City Beautiful, a turn of phrase that evokes the pivot point perfectly.

Rybczynski also provides an expanded perspective on Ebenezer Howard, the eccentric Englishman who is often credited as the inventor of the suburb.  In my review of “Pocket Neighborhoods”, I expressed surprise at the praise author Ross Chapin offers Howard, especially compared to the brickbats thrown by Jane Jacobs.

Rybczynski offers a transitional view of Howard, bridging the two perspectives.  He notes the excellent land uses that were developed in the early 20th century and, although he had disappeared from the scene, were based on Howard’s ideas.  As Rybczynski presents his timeline, it was only after World War II that Ebenezer Howard’s vision was warped into the drivable suburbia that bedevils us today.  So Howard can be seen as father of both the good and bad examples of suburbia.  Rybczynski thereby reconciles Chapin and Jacobs, while giving a broader viewpoint than either.

There are two points on which I disagreed with Rybczynski, or at least on which I found his approach unsatisfactory.  First, he glosses over the post-World War II changes to suburbia.  He notes the changing economic factors, but as the land use patterns that resulted from the change now dominate much of the country, his acknowledgement of the transition seems deficient.

Second, after a careful review of the evolution of shopping centers, he grudging accepts them as the replacements for historic downtowns.  He admits a longing for the downtowns of earlier times, but seems resigned to shopping centers serving as the new community centers.  As his words were written in the mid 1990s when the new urbanism movement was already underway, Rybczynski seems overly willing to concede a battle that others had only begun to fight.

Despite these quibbles about the final chapters, “City Life” remains a readable and worthwhile book.  If you’re only going to read a single book for more insights into walkable urbanism, I’d suggest looking elsewhere.  Try something with fire in its belly.  But if you’re going to read three or four books on the subject, “City Life” is a fine place to start.  Its broad scope gives a great map of where we’ve come from, where we might be going, and where we turned away from walkable urban.  It’d give needed context if the next book on your reading list was written by a flamethrower.

As always, your questions or comments will be appreciated.  Please comment below or email me.  And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)