The Little House Down the Street

Rugs, Chairs, and Things That Last

Driving through my neighborhood, I am daily reminded that my house is getting old. Neighboring homes are renovated even though they’re already luxurious by most people’s standards, or they’re torn down altogether to make way for an even more imposing home with heavier stone and copper finishes. House by house, all the way down the street, beautiful homes are made finer; and mine still sits in its brown-trimmed Tudor stare.

A few years ago, another home down the street regularly caught my eye. It boasted no stone or copper—it was certainly no show home—and it had a carport, not a garage. I never saw signs in the yard; there were no Home Tour announcements, no school signs, no political endorsements. The tiny 1950’s ranch sat frozen in time on a valuable four-acre lot that kept every realtor in a long and salivating wait.

They waited because the owner of the home was an elderly woman. We saw her regularly; she moved slowly, bent over gathering sticks and and twigs alongside an also-elderly black man, who was apparently her landscaping help. Neighbors hired mowers and blowers for two acres, but she and her companion would pick up sticks for four. When our leaves disappeared into the lawn crews’ mysterious ether, hers lay scattered among the trees, with a pile of accumulated sticks parked faithfully at the street.

I never met the little woman, but she held a bit of mystery. To me, she was an island of simplicity; her home never hinted of the fashions or habits of the neighborhood. None of my nearby neighbors seemed to know her, either; she was just the elderly lady who lived in the little house on the corner. Surrounded by the faster and bigger, she still gathered her sticks with patience in a gentle rebuke to my own too-harried eyes.

If I didn’t see her out one week, I wondered if she was still alive. A sense of relief arrived when I’d finally see her bent figure among the pines and shrubs, grooming her woodland. Outside her acreage, time sped on—enormous new homes swallowed old lots, and horses—once a fixture in our neighborhood—no longer walked by; but her quiet and humble gardening work carried on.

One day, however, she didn’t appear. Nor did she on the next. A string of absences stretched into a month, and though azaleas bloomed, she made no warm weather appearance. I suspected my unsung hero had finally died.

Months passed in uncertainty, until I saw an announcement about an appointment-only estate sale at that address. I called the number, and sure enough, a neighbor was managing some scant goods left to this world; the little old lady had departed to another.

I set up a time to visit. More than just morbid curiosity motivated me; we were moving to a new home, and I wanted a piece of hers. I felt an admirer’s respect for the unbudging calm of her vintage little house. A token of her quiet labors would link her life to mine and carry a bit of the neighborhood past into our home.

When my children were younger, I loved reading about another little house. Virginia Lee Burton, in The Little House, wrote about a hillside family home slowly enveloped by the ruder realities of urban development. There was something noble about the little house that persisted in its rich familial history amid the concrete and steel that slowly surrounded it. The family home was eventually removed to preside over another undisturbed hillside; but the story illustrates the beauties lost to the noise of progress.

Although my neighborhood is nothing like the bustling city that nearly devoured Burton’s little house, its streetscapes have changed with the quickening pulse of our city’s “progress,” too. Its large lots were once popular for equestrians. but few homes have horses now. Most of the newer homes are, in fact, quite beautiful, with smart-home technology and stately landscapes; I confess that I admire most of them as elegant improvements. Some strike me as soulless, though; although they boast enviable features—multiple garages, guest houses, stately pools—they will likely never see little feet roaming or building forts on their expansive and manicured grounds.

When the day to visit the little house arrived, I pulled into its gravel drive. Within a few seconds, I had my first taste of her world; stacked along an old greenhouse, an impressive crowd of clay pots told of her love for gardening. Her yard checked all the requirements of traditional Southern landscapes—unpruned camellias, azaleas, and magnolias. In the sleep of her absence, the yard had gathered a few more errant limbs, but little more.

Stepping inside through the back door, there were no signs of anything that could be called “updated.” I saw no newer kitchen or bathroom cabinetry and no tell-tale signs of an interior designer—no trendy fixtures, no reimagined floorpan, no white sectional, no massive kitchen island. Instead, it was well-loved rugs, creaking wood floors, and dark wood paneling. For the mistress of this little house, the original was quite enough; it was left in the scale and fashion of its day.

I did pick up a few things that day—a couple of chairs with repaired arms, a lovely but stained old sofa, and a Chinese silkscreen framed in my favorite gold bamboo. I even bought a couple Persian rugs, one of which had been badly gnawed by her dog. The best thing of all, however, came from her simple bookshelf, a small volume printed in 1950; and the neighbor threw in this little hardcover for free.

I’d heard of this little book before but had never read it. It was Streams in the Desert, written by a woman identified only by her husband’s name—Mrs. Chas. E. Cowman. “Lettie” was her real name, and she had worked alongside her husband in the Oriental Missionary Society. She wrote 365 short devotionals, all starting with scripture but including the gathered wisdom of history and literature as well. The book is refreshment, true to its name; each short entry is punctuated with poetry or hymns, woven together with her own prose and presented for the day’s wise counsel. To read her book is to walk with her along the same comforting stream.

One of my favorite passages is a January entry about “desert places.” We all encounter those unwelcome times of “forced leisure”—times of sickness, disappointment, or thwarted plans. Of this, she writes,

“Not without design does God write the music of our lives. Be it ours to learn the tune, and not be dismayed at the “rests.” They are not to be slurred over, not to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote. If we look up, God Himself will beat the time for us. With the eye on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear.”

When I spotted the little book, my young son, who had come along with me, spotted a silken box nearby. The exotic, black and red exterior stirred some curiosity in his little mind. Inside was some sort of commemorative coin—a Chinese souvenir, we guessed. Like the devotional author, our departed neighbor had spent time in the Orient, gathering her own choice treasures and acquiring a taste for a distant land. My son carried home his fancy-looking trinket, too.

The little home was finally torn down a couple years ago; the lot has been sold and subdivided. In its place—as anticipated—was raised a beautiful custom home whose occupants remain a mystery; a sign announced a second home is coming soon.

For all the progress, though, it isn’t clear if the corner fares better. Something died with her when the house was razed. One little house made way for two, and old designs gave way to new, but we never see a human stirring when we drive that way. Her book still sits by my bedside, though, as fresh as in 1950—because truth outlives the fashions of the day.