Broad Street...

I'm in the process of reading The Witching Hour by Anne Rice. In it, one of the characters speaks of memories of places he's been, people he's seen, and most especially houses he's admired. The descriptions are so rich and vivid you feel as if you are drowning in a sea of images and I do see, in my imagination, what is being described. While not the most descriptive passage, this is one of my favorites thus far. I think I'll have to copy it into my leather journal.

"They were absolutely dazzling affairs with all the accoutrements of refinement which Michael loved. In fact, it troubled him deeply that the furnishings of Lonigan and Sons, the funeral parlor, and the limousines with their gray velvet upholstery and even the flowers and the finely dressed pall bearers seemed connected to the atmosphere of the elegant movies Michael so valued. Here were soft-spoken men and women, fine carpets and carved furniture, rich colors and textures, and the perfume of lilies and roses, and people tempering their natural meanness and crude ways.

It was if when you died you went into the world of Rebecca or The Red Shoes or A Song to Remember. You had beautiful things for a final day or two before they put you in the ground."

The character, Michael, frequently describes his childhood home in New Orleans in great detail. I don't know why I made the connection, but as I was reading this morning, I suddenly recalled a trip to Philadelphia from ten years ago. I visited a historic district, possibly it was a museum of sorts, but it was an original block of Philadelphia called Broad Street. The houses weren't even what I describe as being houses but instead reminded me of Sesame Street with the way they nestled side by side with only front steps to mark the boundaries of one house from another. There weren't very wide, but when you enter you realize they extend back by three rooms. Outside the back door is a small, private courtyard of uneven brick, surrounded by eight-foot brick walls. Although it was bare, you know that in its prime it was a lush, rich environment for the owners to relax in. I could almost see ladies in their high-necked shirts, skirts, and buttoned boots reclining on furniture and drinking afternoon tea while reading a book or working on needlework. When I returned to the street, I realized why it seemed so cozy. The street was only wide enough for a single carriage to travel. The houses were originally bright colors, but were muted with age in tones of olive, brick and ocher. As with the character, I sometimes wonder if my memory is accurate and would like to go back someday.

But this also makes me want to visit other places. I want to go to New Orleans and see the French Quarter with their iron balconies and beautiful architecture. I want to visit San Francisco and see the Victorians because I love Victorian architecture. I currently own a Victorian but she's a sad, naked lady. Former owners had no desire to maintain the Victorian look and have stripped her of her pretties. I hope to add millwork to the front porch this coming spring and install porch railings. This will take second place to getting the second story Mansard roof reshingled, but I still hope I can do both. I can't do anything about the butt-ugly roof that was slapped on her, which is definitely not in line with Mansard architecture. She looks like she's having a bad-hat day. In fact, I jokingly refer to my house as the mad-hatter. Oh well...maybe if I ever win the lottery that can be fixed.