Change of Address

I had exactly one afternoon to decide on a place to live when I found my first house in Charleston, but I knew the minute the big front door swung open that I wanted to move in. All it took was seeing a sliver of the parquet floors inside the circa 1796 single house—floors that had an intricate greek key border outlining every room.

Then I saw the french doors leading from one room to the next, the fireplace, and the plaster ceiling medallions. It was like walking through an architectural history book.

I also loved all the wonderful millwork, particularly this bookshelf, which has a giant shell detail at the top. 

From the outside, it was a little Havisham-esque: a house once extremely elegant and beautiful that still had that spark of grandness, even if the white paint on the Greek Revival facade was a little crumbly and peeling.

I like that sort of decadent decay. There's something melancholy and graceful about it.

Unfortunately though, the property sold to a bright young man from Harvard a few months back (I was just a renter). 

But my time there, however brief, was full of one-of-a-kind Charleston adventures. The house was Charleston's first funeral home (we're talking the very first, as in 213 years ago first) and most definitely haunted, though the ghost I got to know was friendly. It broke plates on occasion, but that's as far as it went. And when I threw parties (people who know me well know those are few and far between, but still), it wasn't uncommon for complete strangers to walk in off Meeting Street and join the festivities.

It was a happy, eccentric place, and I'll miss it.

Stay tuned for more about the former kitchen house  (circa 1831) I'm living in now. After a long, sad past, the diminutive outbuilding has been lovingly restored by the estate's owner, and it's given me a whole new perspective on living in Charleston.