Most of you are familiar with our neighborhood story, from my old posts, and the posts Chanda has done at Edgewood Estates.
Ten years ago, you would have never driven through here at night, much less buy a house here. The neighborhood was affectionately known as "The Pocket" among drug dealers and pimps. It is situated intown...5 minutes from downtown, 5 minutes from midtown, and 5 minutes from Virgiania Highlands, and right next to I20, so we knew that it would explode soon. Chanda and Rob were two of the brave souls to settle in here first, and Marc and I followed 2 months later.
You would never know it now, by the weeds that have overtaken the back yard of the Crowley place, but this is the bed in which Butch's father propagated and bred prize winning Dahlias, some of which were new hybrids that he named and are on the market today. Five hybrid varieties of "dinner-plate" size Dahlias started right here in this spot where I just took this photo and are still on the market today. I had to come here on this last day, just to pay a little respect to this spot. As a gardener, I consider this little patch of earth hallowed ground.
If you have lived and gardened in Atlanta for a while or have purchased items from the Hastings Seed catalog, you know the "White House" brand of fertilizers and plant food they offer. The Crowley place is "the white house" on the label. Butch's father was the master plantsman for decades at Hastings, and mixed these miracle formulas for them.
So, yes...I teamed up with my girl Chanda and we explored the old Crowley place the day before the bulldozers are about to come in to tear it down to make way for the vulgar new "McMansion" they are about to put in, in it's place. We explored like kids investigating a haunted house. We got be to urban archeologists for the afternoon.
Our first thought...after climbing over mountains of eight tracks, old Jet magazines and pieces of furniture, was..."oh my God...it looks like a scene from Chernobyl". We both said it at the same time. A slice of life frozen in 1980. The refrigerator tipped over and spilling out groceries from 26 years ago, a knife on what was left of the counter, waiting to slice the rack of ribs decades have forgotten. Spooky and comic at the same time.
Hardy har, freakin har. (You didn't think I would post this pic, did ya Chanda?) My girl Chanda couldn't help but laugh her ass off when she snapped this "plumber" shot of me as I was trying to piece together the old oak kitchen table we found. It fell apart when I was handling it. Too far gone to rescue.
Here's Bear digging up the 40 year old Camelia in the back of the Crowley house for us to plant across the street at the Dog House. I'm convinced that the new neighbors are going to be snotty yuppies and won't appreciate the legacy of the master gardener that lived there anyway. I; however, will. I will cherish this regal shrub and care for it more than they would.
The demolition of this 100 year old home tomorrow will mark an end to an era of sorts here in Edgewood. That was then/this is now. One isn't better than the other...it's just...well...different.
I miss Butch's rambling tall tales on our porch at night and Nettie's sunday dinners and her gold tooth grin when she use to barge in the front door to feed, and hug, and kiss on us crazy white boys. In a lot of ways, I miss the danger, soul, love, and excitement of the old Edgewood. I miss the old "Pocket".
