The Flaneur in Dover Hill Place

Taking my first steps out of a dryly air-conditioned minivan, I am assaulted by a muggy humidity that should be found only in the deep marshes of mystery books, and immediately regret my decision to venture outside my “Emory Bubble”. As I stretch my legs in the dappled sunlight, I remember that this is one of the few places on the planet I can call home. I’m lucky enough that it is fifteen short minutes away from my Emory home.  The steeply inclined driveway I just climbed is a well-loved strip of blacktop, laden with cracks and warped beyond recognition in places. At the crest of the hill, I find a familiar hand-laid pathway of tawny stones settled among a tired tribe of marigolds. Tiny puffs of light begin to burst into existence, competing with the beauty of the last ochre rays of the day as the lightening bugs begin to spread their wings across the overgrown lawn.

My peace is immediately brought to a screeching arrest as a cherub-cheeked fifth grader, filled to the brim with sass, latches to my front in a ‘never let you go again hug’. She drags me up the worn stone path to the entrance to the house. A huge oak door, painted brilliantly turquoise, swollen and split from the invasive humidity, budges only when my favorite towhead throws her full weight against it. Yanked into the low brick bungalow, I am surrounded by the warm smells of a family home, and rapidly pushed onto a soft cream couch to be regaled with the woes of fifth grade. My attention begins to fade, and my focus is shifted to the quaint family room in which I have been planted. A modest room, its highlights are few, but meaningful. The rough-hewn dining table, which rests upon regal clawed feet, has been there as long as I can remember. In the other corner reposes a sage loveseat, dating back to my Mother’s days at Emory, when she frequented the farmers markets for the perfect chair.

A methodic ticking turns my attention past the immense stone hearth, and brings my eyes to a rest on a dusty aqua colored tank. Dingy and old, the sturdy tank perches atop a twisted wreath of iron, and casts an eerie azure glow onto the beige carpet. Housed in this glass abode, among sunken ships and treasure chests lives Dex, the lone resident turtle.  Having long ago eaten his housemates, Dex is found quietly sulking upside down in his sunken ship. My focus is again diverted as my equally cherub-cheeked Georgian Aunt stumbles through the door, bringing chaos and clutter with her. She abandons her disarray at the door and rushes to grill me on the Emory latest. Have I eaten enough? Is my laundry done? The questions fly so fast it is difficult to keep up, the twanged words sliding out of her mouth so quickly it is as though Paula Deen greased them herself. I settle back into the smooth suede couch and relax, because this place, despite the chattering, the overwhelming heat, and the carnivorous turtles, is a good place to be.