At the top of a gentle rise on a city street is a romantically dilapidated Victorian mansion. The white paint peels lazily. Cicadas chorus. The multi-storey peaks of turrets and stained glass cast dappled shadows of deliciously faded elegance. How many women have met a suitor on that porch? How many trysts have taken place beneath the gracefully bowed southern trees? How many evening stars have been sighted from the rickety widows’ walk?
Down the street, a prostitute recently stabbed a fellow sex worker. Around the corner, behind boarded up windows, lives a family of ten. Across the street is our new house—1400 square feet of awkward and adorable. A little red farmhouse. Southern gothic. Victorian Era. Ours!
And by new house I mean old, but renovated. Our house was built as a tenant farmer’s house in late 1800's. Now it is in an urban neighborhood. It is a peculiar house in a peculiar place, which suits us just fine. It is also our first time owning, and I feel the need to create a space to write about my adventures in fixing, decorating, growing, painting, building, thrifting and generally making things and making do.
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