“The cab pulled up to our building on St. Louis between Decatur and Chartres Streets, a three-story cement stucco town house in the old creole style. It was painted pale pink and covered with delicate ironwork like a lace veil. It had an arched opening with a wrought-iron gate and an old metal lock. Inside, the ground-floor hallway had high, rounded ceilings and a dark caramel tiled floor leading to a garden in the back. It was drippy and heavy with the scent of jasmine, just like me. Wisteria rolled down from the top-floor balconies all the way to the garden below and curled around the legs of the iron tables and chairs like beautiful prison shackles. Everything about the building looked like it was from another century, and having never been to New Orleans I did not yet know that everything was.” Old FashionedNew OrleansInterior DesignExteriorScentsVictorian Houses Book:Scent of Darkness Source: Scent of Darkness
“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks. We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC. “It has good bones?” I suggest. “It’s got old bones,” he mutters. I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.” He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.” HumorSing Sweet NightingaleThe Dream War SagaHudson VincentHorace LawsonVictorian HousesHome Repair Book:Sing Sweet Nightingale Source: Sing Sweet Nightingale