Tall Tales

I used to live in an old house near Gautier Street. It ran right through the center of town straight into the square. There in the square stood a bronze statue of some long forgotten confederate soldier and an elaborate fountain that contained everything except water. A sparse but beautiful wrought railing wrapped the balcony of the Rexall Drug store near the corner. Whether a windy autumn day or a still summer night, the black and orange metal sign would bang against the underside of the porch.
On Thursdays at 11:00AM sharp, the businesses around the square would shut down for an hour. This included the bank, courthouse, a couple of local eateries and the ABC State Store. Apparently, this moment of silence was supposed to be in memory of the thousands of slaves that were sold in the town square just a couple hundred years prior.
I still cannot figure whether this sort of homage was fitting for such an event of our time.

The house was located just beyond the town square on the road headed towards Eufaula.
The road was long and two-cars wide. In the spring the scent of gardenias and magnolia trees filled the warm, humid air. People could be seen working outside on their yards for most of Saturday. Southerners have always had love affairs with their lawns and southern towns are famous for these main drags. Usually they are the streets with the largest homes, great cascading landscapes and giant oak trees that flank the edges of the streets. Their thoroughfares seem massive in comparison to city-sized streets because the homes are setback quite a ways from the road.

I remember when I saw the house for the first time. It was a gorgeous spring day. Every bird was out of its nest and every lawn was freshly cut. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed it, as I rolled down the car window. Coming at the house from the side, I could faintly make out an enclosed porch near the entryway. The color was a muted coral with dark green, almost black, wood trim. Two visible chimney stacks stood at opposite sides of the house. Along the front, there was an arched plate glass window and a small portico at the main entrance into the house. This was all it took. With this one glance, I was in love. I needed to be here. Days later I dreamed I was sitting on the side porch in a giant, white wicker chair, with a pot of tea reading my favorite book, Castle of Otranto.

an excerpt from Bottletree Diaries, Chapter 4:  Tall Tales