|Vanderhorst St., Charleston, S.C.|
I'm packing up, moving on. Someone wants to buy my home. It's been for sale long enough in this unlikely market that despite the occasional inconvenience of real estate agents traipsing through, I'd almost forgotten that I'd actually have to move out. After all, being stuck in a historic downtown Charleston house two blocks from the Farmer's Market ain't all bad at all.
It is bittersweet but for the best. I am alone now with family grown and gone. The dingo moved out with my daughter and Frisky cat King of the Neighborhood grew blind and died. Through the years I've hosted a caste of characters as tenants; rickshaw drivers, art professors, jugglers, coastguard and navy gentlemen. I had an exotic dancer in the basement for years. Two sets of tenants matched up and get married. This has been a full service operation! I've been the keeper of the link between the descendants of the early owner of my home which was built around 1840 and welcomed his grand daughters and great grandsons back into his home last year.
So, it's time to go. I won't have to laugh every time I make my gps pronounce Van-der-horst Street anymore.
The little cottages that I had my eye on when I first put it up for sale have long since sold so I'm kicking my son out of the little West Ashley rancher he has been sharing with roommates since they got out of Clemson. They have cleared out the poker table and packed up their video games for me. A friend is freshening up the inside with a coat of paint and we'll deal with the outside after I get moved. It will be a nest to move to for the time being while I decide if I can survive off of the Charleston peninsula where I've pounded thousands of miles into the pavement.
If all works out I'll be a West Ashley girl by May. Amazing.