photograph courtesy of chris and lj
The bride and groom, with officiant Steve Cohen.
Buy a house,” they said.
It was 2002, and my girlfriend LJ and I were moving in together, again. The last time we cohabitated had ended with her kicking me out. We reconciled for a while, then she kicked me out again. Living apart turned out to be good for our relationship, but our leases were running out, and rent hikes seemed imminent. Shacking up made financial sense. But I had a condition: Both of our names would be on the lease, so she couldn’t kick me out a third time. I was getting too old for couch surfing.
At this point, someone suggested we buy a house. Interest rates were low, and we both had steady jobs. We wanted to stay in Midtown, so we went looking for houses with Frank Cooper of Sowell Realtors. On the first day, we found a weird little house in Central Gardens. It was built in 1921, not too long after the neighborhood was founded. It was bigger than a double shotgun, about 1,100 square feet, with a stucco exterior which, we later learned, was originally pink. The home was renovated in 1980 by Don Green, an architect who had worked for Holiday Inn. the resulting interior was vaguely reminiscent of a late-’70s beach hotel. Living here, we imagined, would feel like being on vacation all the time.
But the house was just outside our price range, so we continued to house-browse for three months. Frank and his partner, David da Ponte-Cooper, indulged us while we toured every available wreck and mansion inside the Parkways. As month three of the home search was coming to a close, we were sitting on the porch of a Cooper-Young bungalow, debating its merits. I liked it, but wished it had the quirkiness and privacy of the Central Gardens house.
“Are y’all still talking about that house?” Frank asked.
Yes, we talked about it all the time. “Well, why not buy that one, then?” said Frank.
We closed the deal on March 20th, the first day of the Iraq War. The day before, our loan officer informed us that the reasonable interest rate she had promised us was no longer available, because of unexpected volatility in the credit markets. “Nobody knew there was going to be a war,” she said.
That led to a very frank discussion in which I threatened to bail on the deal. It was an empty threat, given how badly LJ wanted the house. The shakedown ended with us paying the loan officer an extra $1,000 to “convince her boss.” The closing meeting proceeded in tense silence.
When we moved in a month later, we repainted almost every surface. Our first purchase was a dining room table, where I’m currently sitting and writing these words.
LJ’s two elderly cats, Virginia and Sly, tried to make themselves at home. But the shock was too much for Virginia, who died soon after the move. Sly, on the other hand, flourished here.
Two weeks after we moved in, LJ hosted a friend’s bridal shower, and we discovered our home was great for entertaining. In 2004, my debut film won Best Hometowner Feature at Indie Memphis. After spending a lonely and dispiriting few months on the film festival circuit, we hosted an annual party where filmmakers could relax and get to know each other. The Official Unofficial Indie Memphis Filmmakers party happened at our house for 13 years. Famous filmmakers rubbed shoulders with the up-and comers — and when I say “rubbed shoulders” I mean that literally. Remember the party scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s? The first year, 12 local filmmakers were on the invite list. By 2018, there were 112. We still host the party, but not here.
We had a common project, or maybe we were just growing up together. When we finally decided to get married, we knew there was only one place for the ceremony.
Three months after we moved in, Hurricane Elvis tore up this town like Godzilla. The Bradford pear tree in the back yard, which had been a 30-foot fountain of white blooms, fell on the house, and destroyed the back fence. We baked in the heat for two weeks, discovering it was a problem that our windows didn’t open.
As for LJ and me, the house seemed to draw us closer. We had a common project, or maybe we were just growing up together. When we finally decided to get married, we knew there was only one place for the ceremony. Eleven people attended, including our surviving parents, siblings, and friends of many decades. Sly had his own chair. Congressman Steve Cohen officiated — a story unto itself. In the dining room, LJ walked down the aisle to Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)”, and we said our vows in the foyer. The 300-guest reception was held at someone else’s house.
Now, Sly is gone. His ashes are buried under a red maple which replaced the Bradford pear. The house, like any century-old dwelling, has a lot of problems, but we’re not leaving. We’ll fix what we can and work around the rest. This must be the place.
