Home...

Old homes are so very different than new ones. Floors creak, doors close on their own, pipes squeal, daylight sneaks through once mitered corners, and mysterious presence linger.  Our 1898 home has no ghost, but there is an odd feeling of sorts, a familial tie to those who walked these halls before.  From the stylistic choice in turn-of-the-century wall paper, hidden bead-board closets, hollowed baseboards, blue, green, and brown medicinal bottles to even the old license plate left behind, the previous owners established a permanent residence even after death. I don't mind for their house is our home.  With it comes a sense of welcome and even thanks when repairs are made or the house is repainted returning it to its former glory.

The rooms ramble one to another. The floors are uneven and you may experience vertigo.  There are doors everywhere; some rooms even have three.  As the family grew, so did the size of the house.  There's no rhyme or reason, but it adds character.

When we first toured the home, it was furnished with antiques.  The tie to yesteryear was evident, and it was hard not to feel as if we were invading someone's privacy. The original home had a parlor, master bedroom with bay window, a second smaller room, kitchen and front and back porches.  The house was sturdy; it's heart the kitchen where family gathered to talk, play, eat, and pray. Now, it has over 2,700 sq. ft.  Huge magnolias, some pre-Civil War, still line the front lawn. Flowering Camillas in red, white, and pink, also original plantings--bloom each season brightening the dreariest of days with colorful blossoms.  There are wild roses, Oxalis--a hybrid species of the four leaf clover with its tiny pink buds, and patches of violets playing in the shade.

The local history is colorful with the Raleigh August Railroad coming through town in 1876.  Travel weary passengers riding the train from north to Florida stopped to rest in Southern Pines.  Soon it became known as a resort area with its grand hotels. Annie Oakley was a seasonal visitor, novelist and publisher James Boyd made his home here, and health enthusiasts took advantage of the hot springs.

What a wonderful place to call home, and so we do.  It's been almost 20 years, and yet my favorite time of day is still the same--the evening hours just before dark.  Russell and I sit under cover, him with a cigar, myself a cup of coffee or glass of wine.  The sun sets, and above the tree tops the moon rises hand-in-hand with a canopy of  flickering stars.