When I first moved to Columbus, Georgia, well meaning locals advised me of the ‘wrong’ parts of town, places that might be dangerous for a single girl like me. I heeded their warnings; after all, they had much more experience in that area than I did. They were happy and secure. Well, at least they appeared to be. So, I stayed far away from those parts of town, in fact, I went as far as I could in the opposite direction.
A few years later, I was a college student, with a limited income, and looking for a new place to live. I am not really sure why I decided to venture into the ‘forbidden zone,’ but I did. It was the hot mess my advisors had described. Unkempt yards, broken down fences, some houses were not even inhabitable. But as I went from house to house, one caught my eye.
It was a shabby little white house, with a little worn front porch. I peeked in through the window and saw the arch that separated the living room and dining room, and I fell in love. This was the house. I did not care what the rest of the neighborhood looked like. This little house felt like home. It had no central heat or air; actually, it had no heat or air at all. This was not a deal breaker. I stuck an air conditioner in the dining room window and a gas stove in the sealed fire place. Despite these measures, the summer days were occasionally a little too hot, and the winter nights, a little too cold, but it was home.
I rented the little two bedroom house, with no kitchen appliances, for $250 a month. It had a fabulous circular floor plan, with doors leading from one room to another all the way around the hearth that ran through the center like an umbilical cord. The walls were all white, so I painted Celtic knots around the hearth and around the arch. I crowned the bedroom walls with Egyptian lotus flowers. I hung my own artwork on the walls.
It was a magical place, inhabited by magical people—friends—roommates–who temporarily shared my cozy space with me. A large, ancient pecan tree grew in the patchy grass of the front yard, occasionally inspiring the timid knock of a stranger asking permission to gather the nuts to make into a pie. It was a beautiful tree that whispered secrets in the wind if you knew how to sit still and listen to it.
Dreams are like that little house. Some people may warn you not to go there, because they believe you will be risking your safety and security. You may have to give up the comfort of a consistent climate; but the price is right, and you might just find a little magic.
November 11, 2011 at 1:40 am
You are a cool lady. I’m living, albeit temporarily in my now deceased grandparents home, it’s very nostalgic, and therapeutic.
November 13, 2011 at 12:00 am
What a lovely story.
December 11, 2011 at 3:11 pm
Well, let’s see–we’re both from Georgia. My last home in GA wasn’t that far from Columbus, and we lived in a tiny town (Greenville) in a dilapidated antebellum with a disputed title, a Confederate era cemetery and the ghost of the landowner. Really glad to meet you, and enjoyed the post!