by | | Kenwood, Terry Tales
If I close the door at the bottom of the steep service stairs that lead from the bedrooms to the kitchen, it blocks out the distant light from the Gaffers and Sattler stove, making the stairwell itself a pitch-black downward tunnel. The last thing I do before I corral...
by | | Kenwood, Terry Tales
There’s a black Miata parked right in front of my house taking up prime parking real estate underneath the bird-shit factory, an enormous fichus tree that must’ve escaped someone’s living room in the Twenties and laid its roots by the curb. The little car has a broken...
by | | Kenwood, Terry Tales
I always called it Kenwood, my own post-war Tara in a “transitional” neighborhood. Not a terribly clever name, really, given it was simply the name of the street. And to me, Kenwood was that older stout woman with too much jewelry alone at a diner for the early bird...
