Excerpt from my book, A House with Holes Our second winter is blowing in by mid-December. Winter in Charleston is mild compared to
Book Excerpt: A House With Holes "Weeding the Courtyard"
Weeding The Courtyard
"Our squeaky gate defined the corner of
Congress and Carondolet Streets. The classic lines of those spires spoke of Charleston
artistry and helped me look past the sagging and worn structure. We could only
hope our gate and spires had been molded by Simmons or one of his talented
apprentices. Our iron was a smaller, more humble version of gated courtyards
east of the Crosstown.
Inside our beloved boundary stood what, at
first glance, appeared to be a tree. Jeffery, one of the locals, shared that in
his fifty years living in this neighborhood, this tree had stood as part of the
landscape. Looking closely, we saw that it was nothing more than an overgrown bush
with multiple stems mistaken for branches. Over time, the branches had intertwined
with parts of the wrought iron and offered shade for the western side of our
house. Rusty nails protruded from the bush’s trunk. Blight covered the leaves. A
rope—most likely a former clothesline—had grown through the bark.
After reaching out to a Charleston tree
specialist about what to do, we were encouraged to remove the bush and replace
it with a small tree known to grow well in our hot climate.
One Sunday afternoon, our son Ethan came for
a visit. He saw Greg digging around the stump in hopes of clearing it from our
courtyard. However, that bush was not leaving without a fight. Ethan found a
shovel to help his dad work. For over two hours, they worked to expose more and
more of the gnarly roots, hoping to break the bush free from the soil.
Sweat dropped from their faces until,
finally, Greg inserted a crowbar to lift the root ball. After much heaving,
Greg piled the tangled web on the sidewalk to be hauled away. The dirt left
behind was dark and sandy, perfect for gardening.
We then had a blank canvas.
The next day, I was back in the courtyard, weeding
away, preparing to plant for spring. I stood and leaned to stretch my knees
from squatting. I was thinning the heirloom canna lily bulbs beginning to
emerge. In a moment, I sank back down and continued until noon. My garden hat
shaded my face but gave little protection from the sun blazing down my neck and
back.
Finally, I stood and stretched, wiping my brow on my
sleeve. Pulling off my gloves, I laid them on the piazza floor. A brisk walk
would do me good. The wrought iron squeaked, and I moved to the street.
Gerry, our neighbor at the end of Carondolet, called
out to me. “How are you doing this morning, Miss Denise?”
“Working hard on the front. I can’t wait to plant some
stuff.”
Gerry was one of my closer friends on the street. She
and her mother Shirley had lived in city housing at the end of Carondolet for
more than two decades—longer than most other residents in the area.
I waved and turned from Race Street onto Rutledge, walking
at a quick pace. At the intersection of Rutledge Avenue and Calhoun, a small
tan pickup truck passed me, slowing to stop for the red light.
My heart rate picked up.
I
know the man in that truck.
More than ten years had passed since I’d seen him, but
that man and that truck were branded in my memory. I knew him . . . and
his dark secrets.
Standing at the crosswalk, I stared at the stoplight with
the truck in my peripheral vision. More than anything, I wanted to hide, but
the landscape was bare. Not a single tree or post stood nearby. It was OK. I didn’t
think he’d noticed me.
I was amazed at my degree of hypervigilance, like a
part of my brain had suddenly opened up a file that had been neatly stored in its
recesses. The sight of him retrieved it in milliseconds. The lady waiting next
to me had no idea the mental gymnastics playing inside my head or my difficulty
in getting my emotions under control.
Seeing him so unexpectedly, so suddenly, also helped me
realize how much healing had happened since we’d last met. I would not allow
him to trigger a relapse to debilitating anxiety. Not that day, no way!
I focused on steady breathing. That dang light was taking
forever.
Ten years before, I had been thrilled to be the newest
faculty member at McGregor Elementary School. With my three children in that school,
our schedules harmonized perfectly. Moving to Charleston was our latest
adventure. I was ready for the change, though I missed my mom and sisters who
were more than three hours away."
Find out what happens in my newly released book on Amazon.
