Tag Archives: Memphis

And don’t call me Shirley…

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To be perfectly honest with you, I’m just killing a few hours before I need to head to the airport this morning. I’m back in the home of the blues for a few more weeks before Christmas. In retrospect, I wish I would have driven down again this time. I would have been just getting to Harrisonburg if I would have left at my normal time. One of the great annoyances of flying is having absolutely no control of your schedule. That annoys me almost as much as not being able to see out the front of the airplane. They should put in some kind of monitors on the bulkheads and simulate a “windshield” view, but I digress.

I’m leaving a half packed apartment and I can’t say that it upsets me all that much. I need a reprieve from packing for a while. I am always surprised that the sheer amount of junk one person is able to accumulate in a small space over the course of three or four years. As much fun as the great purge has been, I’m ready for a few days of something more normal… And yes, I do note that I am talking about living in a hotel for three weeks as “more normal” without a hint of irony.

It’s time for a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke, so the next time ya’ll hear from me, I should be safely delivered. See you all then.

Back in the saddle…

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The short version is that I’m back in Memphis for the foreseeable future (i.e. at least the next two weeks). I’m actually back in the same hotel room I vacated two and a half weeks ago… Incidentally, there is something exceedingly disturbing about spending so much time in hotels you get to know the idiosyncrasies of individual rooms.

Making any prediction beyond what the next two weeks holds would be shooting in the proverbial dark.

I drove down this time and up until the last two hours had a fantastic trip down the Shenandoah Valley and diagonally across Tennessee. A picture perfect drive… actually it was a little too hazy to be picture perfect, but still nice… until the rain started. More on the drive will follow when I manage to sort out some of the cryptic notes I was keeping.

Full disclosure…

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In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that finding a virtually original craftsman house in Memphis is a little like looking for a surrender in the French national archives… they’re so thick you can’t help but trip over them. Now that I’ve had a few days to restore my objectivity, I can say with relative certainty that I’m not going to rush out next week and make an offer on a house that happens to be 900 miles from where I actually live. I’m making great strides in curbing my tendencies towards impulse buying.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this place is absolutely beautiful. The garage needs rebuilt, a back deck that is completely out of character needs to be pulled off, and there is a profound need to install a central air system. Though I can’t be sure, I suspect that the electrical system would probably need to be completely rewired to provide the sort of juice I would require. It’s not an insignificant amount of work to a house that is otherwise in grand condition. The thought of pulling down a ceiling and expanding a master suite into the dormered attic has already hit me as well. A rough order of magnitude on the work I would want to do approaches another $50K on top of the purchase price and as much as I like to think I’m qualified to do everything, I know the reality is different.

Lots of things to consider… not the least of which is whether I want to roll the dice on the chance of my actually moving down there in the next six months. A cursory search tells me that supply currently outstrips demand, but can I overcome love at first sight?

House lust…

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Built in 1922, the oak floors and trim were laid down before there was a Great Depression; before Omaha Beach passed into history; before JFK; before Americans could find Vietnam on a map; and before there were red states or blue states. The deep front porch, covered with original terracotta tiles and shaded by a row of oaks, has endured with only a few small cracks. Every door still opens with its glass knob. And the rooms nearly drip with the strong smell of old wood and linseed oil.

I’ve never walked into a house with a realtor to see them stop short, just inside the door, and let out a slow whistle… “Holy shit,” he says, realizing that with only extraordinarily minor modifications, the house has remained nearly untouched by the changes of the last eight decades. The builder’s attention to detail and command of the art and science of his trade are clear. Here, he built a home to last.

I’m smitten with this home, as if it’s been quietly waiting, aging these eighty-four years, knowing I would come. It was spec built for me, generations too early, and if it’s in my power, this place, this old home, on its picture postcard street, will be mine.

Reserving Judgment…

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I’m reserving judgment for the time being, but first impressions of the location of our new office are not good. For those who are familiar with my old stomping grounds, Millington, TN makes Cumberland, MD look like a sophisticated urban center. Nothing is written in stone and there are no guarantees that this is going to be “home” someday, but I would have to see more than I have today and on the drive in last night to convince me that this place should be my next destination. First impressions aren’t the end all and be all, but they’re still damned tough to overcome.