Hospital builds garage around holdout's back yard Widower, 83, won't move from suburban Ohio home

November 01, 1998|By NEW YORK TIMES NEWS SERVICE

MAYFIELD HEIGHTS, Ohio -- Although Joseph Tomaro is the last, defiant holdout in a rural neighborhood gone urban, he enjoys the serendipitous camaraderie that commercialism brings his way.

He knows the names of the office workers who walk by his house and swaps news with the merchants down the street.

He is even friendly with the construction workers building the final insult: a four-level parking garage, looming just 10 feet south of his house and garden.

"At first, those fellows thought I wanted to make trouble for them," said Tomaro, 83, a retired machinist and union leader who has lived in this Cleveland suburb since 1950.

"But I went over on their lunch break and told them, 'Don't get me wrong -- I'm all for the working man.' Now we talk all the time."

Tomaro saves his ire for the city officials who allowed Meridia Hillcrest Hospital to build its new garage so close to his property and the street.

The hospital has been trying to buy his property for the past 30 years.

After he declined yet another offer this year, Hillcrest began extending its parking around his property, which is 50 feet by 190 feet. The new garage will intersect another garage and valet parking lot, which lie 30 feet east of his back yard.

A veteran of several planning and zoning disputes, Tomaro has attended nearly every city meeting since he moved to Mayfield Heights, which has a population of almost 20,000.

"Sometimes I'm the only citizen there," he said. "They ask me, 'Don't you have anything to do?'

"I tell them I got plenty to do, but I still want to know how you guys are running my city."

Mayor Margaret Egensperger disputes Tomaro's accusations that the city made zoning concessions to the hospital, saying the new garage met all code requirements.

But she is unwilling to criticize his recalcitrance in the face of growing pains by one of the city's biggest employers.

"This is democracy at its finest," she said. "He's held out, and I would go to war to defend his right to do so. He loves his place and doesn't care how much money they offer him."

Charles Miner, Meridia Health Systems chief executive, has visited Tomaro a few times at his home, sitting at the kitchen table to talk about the impasse.

"We still want the property, but we're fine with him staying where he is," Miner said. "We try to be the best neighbor we can. It's just that it's not a residential neighborhood anymore."

In fact, Tomaro's two-bedroom brick bungalow is near one of the busiest intersections in Cleveland's eastern suburbs.

He chose to build there in 1949 because it was the terminus for city water and sewer; his wife, who died in 1982, put down her foot at the idea of moving any farther out of the city.

Now, his beloved country lane is a fast lane, with two bustling shopping centers nearby and commuters clotting the roads.

He awakens to the sound of car alarms and horns reverberating through the hospital's cavernous garage.

Still, he has no plans to leave.

"I'd go crazy in an apartment," he said. "I'm not a senior citizen yet. I'm too pressed for time."

For 48 years, Tomaro has been working a large plot in his back yard, turning clay and stones into soil he can spade as easily as one scoops coffee.

He has already finished one round of rototilling this fall and sown his crop of winter rye.

In his refrigerator are jars of seeds he preserves from year to year -- the basil his father brought from Italy in 1914; the Sicilian blackjack zucchini; the Brooklyn Bomber tomato, one of which weighed 3 3/4 pounds last year.

Every summer, Tomaro puts up a table on his front lawn and sells his produce, more for the company than the profits.

He gets a lot of dawdlers from the areas' many buildings for the elderly, who miss their own gardens and like the opportunity of poking around his.

But they cannot call ahead to find out whether their favorite vegetable is ready for picking.

Tomaro has had an unlisted number ever since his wife received obscene phone calls during a strike he led in the 1940s.

Now, others with his surname pull up in his yard to complain about late-night callers who try to find him by calling every Tomaro in the telephone book.

Pub Date: 11/01/98

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