"To have discovered that magic truly exists
is worth the price of growing up. 
It is not visible to the eye, it is seen by the heart.  
Nor is it something you grasp, for the soul is its keeper. 
General passers-by will not hear it, only the attuned ear. 
It has an aroma of its own and a taste to be savored,
deeply satisfying and more palpable than any common thing.  
Magic, not in the sense of  "Abracadabra" or rabbit-filled hats
or an extravagant Copperfield illusion,
but in the form of enchantment." 

 ~ Robin Dance, author of PENSIEVE

Woodlawn It always invades me by surprise, and when I'm away from it long enough, I forget.  But how could I forget? 
A spell cast so convincingly my breath escapes me and for a moment, I'm speechless.  Its effect lingers as life propels me to a series of next things and more next things.

The House at Woodlawn.  

My grandmother's home.  The house my family occupied for three years following her death, and the home now owned by my brother.  

Strangers revolved through her doors for almost 30 years.  Did they have any idea of its powers of enchantment?  Could they sense the history hidden within plaster walls? 

Because my mother battled cancer for a long, long time, we spent a great deal of time with my grandmother.  Dambar.  In all likelihood during my preschool and early elementary years, I spent more nights there than not. 

When I dream about home, Woodlawn is the place I dream about.  Although in the eighth grade we moved to and remained in another house until I married, I have never dreamed about that house as "home". 

Built in the 40s, in its glory days, Woodlawn was an amazing showplace.  Though one of the street's most modest houses (now on the National Register of Historic Places), it was no book to discount by cover–

  • Detailed moldings–crown and baseboard, and ceilings raised for a giant
  • Intricately-patterened clay tiled front porch; puzzle pieces held in place by fit, not mortar, a game for us 
  • Exquisite crystal chandelier, a diamond cloud floating above the dining room table, silent reminder that only the best manners would do

Delicately-papered walls, wooden Venetian blinds, an attic fan, the cedar room, a basement fireplace I never saw lit–room in and out, sprinkled in pixie dust and propagating imagination.

It was a house worthy of name and I know my siblings share my fizzy affections and timeless attachment.  

I think I shall tell you some of her magical stories.  


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