The Grapevine Art Salon

Presentations: Cynthia Daughtrey

Cynthia Daughtrey in this mood piece shows how humans occupy parallel worlds, how the imagination teases our sense of who we are, where we are, and what we are doing. Cynthia lives, works, walks, and writes in Gwinnett County.

Houses

Several months ago, in the promising light of early morning, I made up my mind. I needed a fresh start. Regrets, so many I could pile them into giant burial mounds like the ones beside the Etowah River.

The move would not be an easy one. I had agonized over it for a long while. I had a little money saved but knew it wouldn't go far. After a fair amount of research, I made arrangements to rent a tiny apartment near the edge of Sumner. I knew no one in town and picked the location purely by chance. The town had been built around a railroad station about 40 miles north of Atlanta. Most of the houses were from the mid to late 19th century and had been carefully restored. I had driven through here once on my way to the mountains and had been struck by how beautiful it was.

I found a job some distance away in a coffee shop. Work was stressful. The job paid well enough, but every morning I opened the door to chaos and grumpy co-workers. I wasn’t afraid of hard work, but I dreaded this place. I took on additional work to rebuild my savings faster. Life was different, but still I felt isolated.

I had two jobs now and usually went home after the second one. But on this chilly, brilliant November evening, there was something about the way the moon glowed that made me reconsider. It seemed to pulse with energy as I looked at it through the trees, and I knew I had to walk. Fall is my favorite time of year. That evening, I loved the way the sky looked like velvet with silvery bits of light, and the way the leaves crunched under my feet as I walked. The wind began to stir the russet, flame and yellow gold leaves; they floated up into the air and hung suspended for a moment before falling gently to the ground. The cold air burned my lungs and formed trails of breath behind me. Hurrying, I crossed over Maple and headed for a street I had noticed while driving to work. I felt drawn to this older neighborhood where the refurbished houses transported me to the Victorian era and where the air smelled of wisteria and creamy gardenias.

Later, as the weather turned warmer, I repeated this walk many times. The house at 153 Juniper Street held my interest. The yard was always neat and tidy, the grass cut and the sidewalks edged. There were blush colored azalea bushes that fanned out on each side of the porch, spilling over the railings. At the mailbox, dark green ivy contrasted with the black wrought iron post. The house overlooked a tiny, emerald green piece of land called Cybele Park. These five acres had been attached to the house and the road had been created from a driveway. Large oaks lined the pathways of a walking trail that curved gently around a small pond. Tall iron street lamps looked as if they still held gas lanterns, and the benches appeared handcrafted.

Couples often sat here at dusk. On weekends families had picnics and watched birds that were drawn to the beautiful trees.

The house itself was kept freshly painted, most recently a lustrous white with dark blue trim. The front door remained firmly shut. Roses bloomed and fell unpicked. Tall pecan trees had grown up around it, protecting it. From what, I wondered?

I have recurring dreams that involve houses. In one, I am walking on a path through a forest when I stumble upon a low stone wall. When I stop for a moment, thick trees obscure my view, but I notice the blurry outline of a rooftop and second story windows. I am certain the house has a connection to me and my unsettled past. In the second dream I am inside, walking from room to room, searching for something. I carefully avoid the attic. The heavy wooden stairs lead to a large door I cannot pass through. I wake up in a cold sweat and wonder what it is I am searching for.

In late spring, after saving enough money, I began work at the Sumner Public Library. Constructed in 1853, it was a large stone building with a deep front porch. Outside, rocking chairs and moist green ferns encouraged patrons to bring out a good novel and stay awhile. Inside, the large rooms were cool and spacious. Literary events were scheduled once a month and often included local artists and writers. Everyone I met seemed courteous and eager to welcome me, and I began to feel I could fit in here.

During the summer I walked every night. To the east of Cybele Park was Main Street, where a variety of shops and restaurants stood. A popular gift shop called Aphrodite’s Delight was owned by a woman named Nancy Paella. Her window displays were full of whimsy and sensory treats. Swirls of silky yellow scarves and tangerine boas were mixed with folk art and tiny smiling goddesses. Crystal vases held flowers of colored glass and plumes of ostrich feathers. Chocolates, caramels, and ladies' navels (imported dates rolled in coconut with a strategically placed almond) were wrapped in clear paper with crisscrossing rivers of ribbon in silvery blue and periwinkle. During the day, soft music and vanilla incense floated into the street. In the evening the windows were lit with hundreds of tiny lights, giving it a festive glow. The restaurant next door had a new sign introducing a Dutch Caribbean menu. I often heard the pleasant hum of conversation flow over the garden wall of the outdoor patio. Sumner had a soothing effect on me, like a cool glass of lemonade at my grandmother's house.

At the library, I met the owner of 153 Juniper, Mrs. Allen. She seemed delighted at my interest in the house and invited me to visit her. I went the next morning.

The driveway was carefully swept clean and I could smell the fresh-cut grass as I passed by. The woman greeted me warmly, her sweet face smiling at the thought of company. I'm making biscuits, she said. Come on in! As she led me into the bright kitchen, I saw the sunlight stream into the large window, a cool breeze fluttering the lace at the edges. I watched as pliant, loving hands worked the dough lightly, puffs of white flour rising from the metal table. I was hypnotized by the rhythmic pat pat as she placed her creations in the pan to bake. It'll just be a minute. She set out her blackberry jam and honey while I fixed the tea. We sat for a while, a comfortable silence between us.

After a time, my mind began to wander and I felt the need to stretch. I want to show you something, she said. The house was lovely. Each room was filled with well-worn fabrics a nd pleasing colors. Soft greens and blues brought the gardens inside. In every room the sun warmed the chill in the air.

Climbing the stairs to the attic, I remembered the old dream. But as I stepped through the door, I realized this was not a dark place. Shafts of light streamed over the piles of books and old trunks. She handed me a sewing box covered in silky pink fabric. Inside were smooth buttons and tangled threads of embroidery, mixed with packages of needles and a rusty pair of scissors. These were my mother's. In a hidden compartment lay a neat stack of old photographs. Stoic women and handsome cowboys with seductive grins stared back at me. Small children held kittens. A laughing young girl, thick dark hair piled high in the Gibson style, sat on a picnic blanket. In her crisp white blouse and flowing skirt, she was strikingly beautiful. In the next picture she was older, standing with a tall, grave soldier. Both were looking into the camera but holding each other fiercely. He never came back from the war. I never knew how she must have suffered, she said, touching my arm, but she found happiness again.

Swallowing hard, I thought of my grandmother. With an engaging smile and firm optimism, she faced life head on. During the Depression, the family survived on her resourcefulness. While caring for an ailing father and raising two children, she and her sister started a catering business. In her tiny kitchen, they prepared enormous baskets of sandwiches, sweet potatoes, and fried pies to sell in town at the factory. Gran refused to waste time trying to change the past. She simply kept going.

In that moment, I realized how hard I worked to keep my unhappiness alive. In my dreams of houses I am searching for closure. As I walked past the one place that contained the answer, I was afraid to look. Now I understood that my mind held the key. I could tuck away those memories, give them a proper burial, and begin again.