Wednesday, September 24, 2014

How to straighten old square nails

Hello from Sugar Creek, Louisiana!  The kiddos and I are going to spend our weekend
creating built-in seating for our "new" deck that we made from salvaged wood.  New deck?  Oh, yes.  We have a new deck.  I never blogged about the fact that we ripped out an old remodel from the 1940's to open the dogtrot hallway up to the elements again, but I'll let y'all take a peek at that project very soon.  First, though, lets talk deck.

We tore apart and salvaged materials from a pre-civil war house and used the wood (and the old square nails) to build a historically accurate deck off of the old dogtrot hallway.  Why would we do such things?  We had a few reasons for our deck project: 1) it would give us more
outdoor space and 2) we could reuse some of the excess materials we have on hand.

For the most part, my boyfriend Chris made the deck plans and pretty much built the deck himself.  Don't get me wrong--I did my share of toting around boards, slicing them to size, and I used the hammer quite a bit.  The kids were in on the action, too.  They had to become professionals at straightening the old square nails we salvaged, and after they perfected the art they wanted to share their new-found knowledge with y'all.

So in case you ever find yourself with a bucket full of old square nails
and no idea how to bring them to life again, here ya geaux.

This video was taken before the majority of the deck was complete.  Before and after pictures will come later, when we post about the entire project and the enormous amount of time (but almost zero dollars!) it took to bring this plan to fruition.

Preston is giving a tutorial on straightening old square nails

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

A cruise around my "neighborhood"

My family (parents, brothers, sister, etc...) may not share my enthusiasm for historic architecture, but my brother and my father DEFINITELY love historic automobiles.  Dad had a body shop when I was a kid, and one of my favorite restorations was a 1934 Ford that he transformed from a neglected, dented body rusting in a field into a sexy hot rod painted Candy Apple Red.  Dad bought me a 1957 Willys Jeep (pink) when I was 14 years old and I still have her.  She needs a new restoration (this makes me feel very old!) and hopefully her facelift will get underway soon.  She's currently huddled on the front porch of this dogtrot until further notice, making us look somewhat redneck.  But you know what?  I'm not sticking her out in the rain, so until I have the spare time to build her a little pink garage of her own, the front porch is where she will stay.   

I'm not the only one of my siblings who loves old cars, though.  My brother also inherited Dad's love for antique automobiles, and this morning said brother (Leo) stopped by the dogtrot in his 1963 Corvette.  He insisted that I stop working for a few minutes and go for a little joyride around the "neighborhood." He didn't need to twist my arm.  ;-)

Is there anything better than sunny skies, beautiful temperatures, the smell of burning rubber, a revving engine, the golden oldies playing on a single speaker, and hysterical laughter?  Methinks not.

Cruise along with us for a few minutes with this video and take in the country road that leads to THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK.  You'll see that northern Louisiana is very hilly, unlike the swampy, alligator-infested movie version of the entire state.  (Don't get me wrong, we do have gators--but they're in the lakes and bayous.)  One thing that I love about Claiborne Parish: my nearest neighbor is miles away, and the roads wind over the surprisingly tall hilltops and snake through the pine-scented valleys.  These two lane roads in the woods are heaven on earth to me.  But they also serve another purpose: they're the perfect setting for a stick shift....

Saturday, September 6, 2014

LIVE LIFE THE OLD FASHIONED WAY: MORTGAGE FREE! (And save history in the process!)

So what’s a southern gal to do when she wants to stretch her family’s renovation budget enough to restore an abandoned, historic home without the assistance of an enormous loan? In my case, I turned my back on a financial establishment that was really no help at all.  I began researching websites, reading message boards, pouring through magazine articles, and watching YouTube videos until my eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion.  I learned how to tile and grout, saw, drill and hammer, and by the time I started on my kitchen renovation I was clever (and resourceful) enough to cut an antique upright piano in half and create the prettiest little kitchen island/piano bar (complete with oven and dishwasher, mind you) south of the Mason-Dixon line.  And in my successful attempt to make my home restoration fit within the strict guidelines of my ridiculously small budget, I discovered firsthand that anyone can afford to restore an abandoned historic home without taking out a loan from a bank—just so long as they’re brave, creative, and they refuse to believe the people who tell them it’s not possible. 
I'm a Disabled Veteran, y'all.  My monthly income places me on the poverty line, though I manage my money fairly well.  (Honestly, I could do even better!)   I work part-time and bring in a small supplemental income by teaching, so for the most part this renovation is (by necessity) FREE.  Yes, you heard me right.  It's FREE.  And no, I have never received a single grant to help with this restoration.  So how do I do it?  I don't take out loans.  I put the money I would pay a bank mortgage back into this house every month, and stretch those dollars by doing the work myself.  I work my butt off, and so do others in my life who believe in the old-fashioned American dream.  
My kiddos, my boyfriend and I have been tearing down another abandoned house (with permission, of course) and we use every little thing we salvage to bring this home back to life.  And we are blessed beyond measure--not with money, but with things that are much more valuable than dollar bills.  Allow me to explain, because here comes the really cool part...

There's a link between the house we're tearing down and the dogtrot that we're restoring, y'all.  And it sends chills down my spine when I think of the past and the present merging in such a way that makes the word "coincidence" seem trite.
Mintie Simms Robinson (and her husband Willie) inherited THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK in 1912.  They abandoned their former house, with four kids already in tow, and moved into this dogtrot immediately.  When I heard of the house that they abandoned for this dogtrot, I assumed that it was a little shack.  And I also believed that it would be termite-infested and of little architectural significance.  SILLY ME.  I couldn't have been under a more wrong impression.
Last year, Jack-Jack and Debbie (the last owners of this dogtrot) asked if I wanted to go take a peek at Mintie and Willie's old house before the new owners burned it down to make way for a little cabin.  I said yes, of course, but when we passed through the gate, drove into the woods, and then came upon the old home my eyes almost popped outta my head.  It wasn't a shack.  It had been a mansion in its day, and within a few minutes Debbie and I had made our way to the 2nd floor of the leaning structure.  
Two things I knew for sure: 1) the house could not be renovated without a million-dollar overhaul, and 2) I wanted to salvage as much as possible.  The new owners of the house agreed to let me salvage whatever materials I could manage to free of the leaning structure.  Honestly, I thought that my best work would produce only a few rooms worth of salvaged wooden walls.  But then my sweet boyfriend Christopher had other ideas.  He wanted to salvage EVERYTHING from the rustic tin roof to the beams beneath the house.  And he has really been a Godsend on that project.  (And in many other ways!)
As of this moment, we have salvaged the entire roof and ALL of the 2nd story.  It's a one story house now, after a LOT of work to make it that way, and I honestly don't know if we're finished reclaiming materials or not.  It's incredibly tiring work, but so far we've brought home (and used) tens of thousands of dollars worth of material.  

 Miles, age 12, and Pres, age 8, 
hauling salvaged materials from 
Mintie and Willie's first house to the truck.

We even save the square nails, and it's eight year old Preston's job to straighten them out for reuse.

Preston is learning that hard work is good for the soul!

Now for the creepy (and awesome) coincidence... my grandparents were not wealthy.  But they did save as much money as possible, and just before I was born a lady approached them and asked for their help.  She was newly widowed, and she couldn't afford to live in the house that she and her husband had shared.  It was an old plantation, located almost an hour's drive away from my grandparents' home in Cullen, Louisiana.  She wanted them to buy it from her and made them an offer that they could not refuse.  I was born after Nanaw and Papaw purchased the old homestead and made it their weekend home.  

I fell in love with historic houses because of Nanaw and Papaw's "farm" on Arizona road.  I spent hours and hours and hours touching the old wooden walls, opening the little door beneath the staircase and going through the vintage items left behind by the previous owners.  I wandered the woods and gasped when my cousin showed me the old slave water well.  I saw my first ghost there.  And from that point forward, I was hooked on history--the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I wanted to know it all.  And I've never stopped feeling this way.

My grandmother (Lonna Alice McGough Tripp)
with my Momma (Paula Palmer Tripp Wright) and 
a baby version of me in front of the old plantation 
my grandparents bought before I was born.

Between the main road and Nanaw and Papaw's old plantation there stands a very special chimney.  Though the historic marker was stolen long ago, the legend lives on through people in our community.  Stories still run rampant in our community about the factory that once surrounded the enormous chimney, for it was the very first major factory in northern Louisiana.  Though the factory never had the chance to go into full production because of both war and poor shipping capabilities, I've loved that chimney since I was old enough to toddle up to it and place my little chubby toddler-sized hands on the well-worn brick.  I didn't know the historic significance of the stories-high brick tower, and I certainly didn't know that it would have a direct effect upon my life when I grew up.  But I know now that this chimney has a  connection to THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK, the amazing dogtrot that my family is restoring.

Here comes the creepy part.  When Willie Robinson decided that he wanted to marry Mintie Simms, he was short the cash that he needed to buy a home for them to occupy.  He needed a miracle to earn the moolah required to take Mintie's hand.  And so he helped tear down the old factory, loaded the bricks into a wagon, and sold them in Homer, Louisiana.  He salvaged the old factory so that he could marry the woman he loved.  And today, all that remains of his salvage job is the old chimney that is on the property my grandparents bought before I was born.

We have been salvaging the old house that Papa Willy bought with the money he earned by salvaging the old factory on my family's land.  And so life has come full-circle through many, many generations.  When we're pulling down boards, I know that we're doing something very important.  My family is now a part of the history of these old structures now, just as much as Papa Willie and Mintie, and just as much as my Nanaw and Papaw.  And this "coincidence" is one of the coolest things that has ever happened to me and my kin.

Low-cost restorations are important, y'all.  We live in a society where the majority of Americans are struggling to pay for basic necessities, and the majority of historic preservationists are at a loss for words.  Architecturally significant buildings are being destroyed because the average American believes that historic renovations are cost-prohibitive—and with self-help television shows, magazine articles, and books reinforcing the notion that restorations are for the wealthy and not the middle and LOWER classes, it’s no wonder that so many of our historic structures are being razed.  Americans have come to believe that the old fashioned homestead was just too much work.  We no longer grow our own fruits and vegetables, opting instead for spray-painted, herbicide and pesticide riddled fruits that are shipped into our local markets from thousands of miles away.  We visit psychologists an beg for help to finding inner peace, when all the while it is waiting for us in the countryside.  Life doesn’t have to be this way—the mindset of America can change.  The restoration of abandoned historic homes and resurgence of small homesteads in rural America, particularly the Deep South, can transform not only the landscape, but also the overwhelming sense of economic hopelessness that is sweeping across this country. 
I don’t quite know how or why it happened, but I truly understand that our founding fathers and mothers—those tough men and women who carved a place for all of us within these tall, summer sun-baked, vine-wrapped forests—had strength of character that is rarely seen in modern society.  Somewhere between the day that the first boatload of pilgrims floated their way to America and the day that Sears & Roebuck stopped selling DIY home kits in their mail-order catalogues, something dreadful happened to Americans—and no, I’m not talking about the war between the states.  In the olden days, men and women could cross half the country by covered wagon, pick out a nice spot on a hilltop in a barely tamed land, cut down gigantic trees by hand and saw those logs into lumber, help build their own houses, sew their own curtains and quilts from scrap material, plant their own gardens, pluck the feathers of their own chickens, and give birth to a dozen kids without the help of an epidural.  But as the years passed and each generation of Americans inherited less and less of our paternal and maternal heritages, our definition of what it means to be an "American" has changed drastically.  

Modern day Americans don’t bat an eyelash when it’s time to pay for the extras that we consider necessities.  From two hundred-dollar a month phone bills to seventy-five dollar Internet plans, we’re stuck in a rut of unnecessary debt.  We write checks for our mortgages and swipe our debit cards for dinner, and all the while we’re content to drive at warp speed and text even faster. And in our hurry to buy the "life" of our dreams, we don’t take the time to make certain that we can really afford the payments.  

As a single mother, living in the rural woods in an old abandoned house that my children, my friends, my family members, my boyfriend and I are renovating ourselves without the assistance of a construction loan, I have the keen awareness that I am challenging the societal expectations of other Americans.  I find the bewildered expressions on the faces of many modern men to be very amusing.  Many people are completely surprised when they see me working on this old house.  But I LOVE doing it.  And more than I love the deep, woodsy, musty and yet somehow sensual scent of reclaimed wood—even more than I have come to cherish the history that I am saving with every square nail that I tap back into these reformed walls—I am enamored with the sense of accomplishment that can only be achieved by a woman who is on a mission to define the difference between being in debt to societal expectations and being indebted to the strong-willed spirits of our ancestors.

Please believe in yourself.  If I can do it, YOU can do it.  You can live a mortgage-free life.  You can save our history, y'all.  You can reinvent the American dream.  We can save our struggling economy.  And we can save ourselves in the process--I know this for sure, because it's the life that I am leading. 

With peace, love, and light....


Friday, September 5, 2014


Something cool happened this morning.... an Elvis song suddenly appeared in my iTunes. I didn't buy it. And I've had Elvis on the mind lately, so I pressed play.

Whoah..... this is my outlook on life. If mankind did exactly as Elvis suggests, we would have peace. And love. And understanding. The gap between the rich and the poor would shrink drastically. The hungry would be fed. The angry would find comfort. The sick would be healed. And this hippie would be on cloud 9!!!!!

I'm up bright and early this morning planning out my next house restoration project.  Much is left to be done, but that's not a problem.  This house is coming back to life one room at a time, and so am I.

Happy day, y'all. I love each and every one of ya!!!!



"Walk A Mile In My Shoes"
(As sung by Elvis)

If I could be you, if you could be me
For just one hour
If we could find a way to get inside
Each other's mind

If you could see you through my eyes
Instead your ego
I believe you'd be, I believe you'd be surprised to see
That you've been blind

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
Yeah, before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Now there are people on reservations
And out in the ghetto
And brother there, but for the grace of god
Go you and I

If I only had the wings
Of a little angel
Don't you know, I'd fly to the top of a mountain
And then I'd cry, cry, cry

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
Yeah, before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
Yeah, before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Thursday, September 4, 2014


I'm not exactly sure where to begin this story.  Maybe I should start with the USHER pin we found beneath the floorboards of this dogtrot's 2nd story.

 Me with an antique USHER pin from 
St. Luke Baptist Church.

Or maybe I should start with the little country church where I spent almost every Sunday morning between the ages of two and eighteen.   I could talk about bluegrass music and sweet southern voices echoing off of historic walls once built by early settlers of Rocky Mount, Louisiana.  I could sing you a song of grace and hope and old time religion, and explain that my grandfather was the pianist after learning to play completely "by ear" with no music lessons to guide him.  Or I could tell you about the time I went to my friend DeAnna's Assembly of God Church and it scared me so badly that I finally overcame my shyness and took off down the aisle to "get saved."  But what I'd like to share the most about my childhood experience with religion is that my childhood Preacher, Brother Gene Ingram, was one of the kindest people I have ever known.  He was selfless and an amazing example of what it means to be faithful.  He took his paycheck from the church and put it back in the offering plate every month.  He worked full time at the VA Medical Center in Shreveport and told us stories of people on death's doorstep who were either filled with grace and peace or burdened with anger and frustration.  He smile bigger than anyone I have ever known, despite the fact that a childhood illness had left his face paralyzed and he couldn't blink, much less lift the corners of his lips to give you a cheesy grin.

Brother Gene taught me a lot.  But there's one thing about him that I've rarely shared with anyone else-- he just KNEW things.  Unexplainable things about himself and about others.  He had the uncanny ability to know what was going on in your life even before you told anyone about your troubles.

And now comes MY big secret.  I grew up having strange dreams.  I would confide in a few of the grown ups in my life, and they just couldn't explain the seemingly unexplainable.  I'd dream something, such as a conversation between myself and someone that I didn't know very well, and then I'd forget about the random dream within a few days.  Then after the memory of the dream had left me,  it would happen in real life and even the tiniest of details would be before my very eyes.  The dream would come flooding back and I'd have a very strong, powerful feeling that can only be described as DEJA VU.  

I don't think that Brother Gene, my preacher growing up, knew exactly how in tune he was with me.  (Or as I know now, how tune he was in with God and the unexplainable universe that surrounds us all.)  One day Brother Gene stopped a sermon mid-word, turned toward my mother and I, and said something like this: "Paula, if Jacquelyn tells you that she didn't forge your signature, you need to understand that she might be telling the truth."  What Brother Gene didn't know in that moment was that we were having issues at home.  I was in the fifth grade and my teacher had accused me of forging my mother's signature.  It has no bearing upon my life now to either "tell the truth" or "lie" about the issue.  Believe me when I say that I honestly didn't do it, because I didn't.  But despite my tears and my honesty, my teacher was CONVINCED that my mother's signature was forged.  My Momma (as many Mommas do, myself included!) sided with my teacher and decided that I was lying.  I was dying on the inside, because I didn't want my family to be disappointed with me.  And the following Sunday Brother Gene cleared the air because he went with the little voice inside of him and followed it verbatim.

Brother Gene baptizing a teenage version of me in Lake Ivan, 
located between Plain Dealing, LA and Cotton Valley, LA.

I'm an adult now, and these dreams have rarely left me.  Sometimes they're simple and pointless: a conversation with someone I barely know about something casual.  Sometimes they're terrifying: the knowledge that someone unrelated to me is GOING TO DIE before it happens.  But when these dreams and their corresponding DEJA VU moments happen in my daily life, I cannot deny that there is something big and powerful at work in this universe.  And after years and years and years of being upset with the religion and restraints upon both mankind and God, and struggling to figure out exactly what it means to have dreams of the future, I have finally been guided to a better way of thinking. 

I'm a HIPPIE.  It's pretty apparent if you know me, and usually apparent even if you don't.  I dress to the beat of my own drum, which usually sounds very Native American.  My bloodline includes many Native tribes, including Eastern Band Cherokee.  I have cousins who look full blooded Native American, but I came into this world the first pale-skinned redhead born to my family in generations.

I am a pacifist.  I believe in love, light, and flower power.  I hate shopping in cookie cutter stores where PROFITS are the most important aspect of the business.  I roll my eyes and feel like vomiting when I see the signs that corporate America is becoming the ONLY America.  I study the works of many world leaders and cling on to the passages that inspire me to be a better person.  I adore quotes by Gandhi,  Deepok Choprah,  Malcolm X,  Nome Chomsky,  Amelia Earhart, Henry David Thoreau, JFK, Maya Angelou, Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, and at least a thousand others.  And my thirst for knowledge confuses the heck outta people who think that a Christian is supposed to be stuck inside of a box that contains only the teachings of other Christians.

Unfortunately for our society, many people living today believe that being a HIPPIE and being a CHRISTIAN are two incompatible thaaaangs.  These two things are one and the same, believe it or not.  If you actually read and follow the teachings of Jesus, well, your life will not be one of excess.

You see, there are issues in this country that we aren't really dealing with very well.  I have come to believe that churches are the most segregated entities in America today.  I can't step foot into what I refer to as a Mega-Church without feeling upset.  There are people starving all over the WORLD, y'all.  People are being murdered for their beliefs.  People are afraid and alone and need our help.  God never said to pass the offering plate so that a church could have stadium seating and high-end surround sound and a coffee shop in the lobby.  Got Gossip?  You don't got God.  Got fear?  That's not from Him, either.  Got hatred for people who don't look, live, or think the way you do?  You've gotta get a grip.  Got a McMansion, an eighty thousand dollar SUV, and a middle-class income that you can barely stretch to pay for the high-end clothes you need to wear to church?  You've gotten DUPED, my friend.  Shake off this messed-up culture and get real with yourself and your maker.  

Get rid of the excess and start giving more than you keep.  Get your hands and knees in the dirt and plant seeds.  Watch them grow and you'll grow, too.  Get busy doing things for others--remove the constraints you have placed on your relationships with both your maker and with people and allow yourself to be vulnerable.  Love more and live for yourself less.  Sing like you're an opera star.  Dance like you're the Belle of the Ball, even if you are the most uncoordinated person you've ever met.  And of all things, even more important than singing and dancing and getting dressed up on Sunday mornings, LISTEN to the quiet, peaceful voice that speaks to you when you need it most.  That voice, my friends, is very important.  It is the link that binds you to God and the beautiful, unexplainable universe of souls that surrounds you.

I have come to realize that we are all a part of a spider web.  Your life intersects with mine, and mine intersects with others.  Our whispy-stranded lives link with others, and together we form the web of humanity.  What you do has a tremendous effect on not only those who you see physically, but also on the lives of the people that they are connected to in this web of life.  Be kind.  Be patient.  Be wise.  Be humble.  And be willing to do your part to make the web stronger.

Allow me to reintroduce you to someone.  The photo below is Pot Sumlin, and his wife Jo Ella was once the proud owner of the USHER pin that I began to describe in the beginning of this post.  When I found the pin, I already knew that the Robinsons wanted Pot and Jo Ella to move into THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK after their house burned.  If I'm not mistaken, they were the last official full-time residents of this home.

Many people in the Robinson family, the former owners of this house, say this when describing Pot: "He was my best friend."  

Pot and Jo Ella were LOVED very much.  And I'm so happy to share this story of true friendship in the deep south, where our reputation for hatred and bigotry precedes us. 


Pot Sumlin beside THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK in the mid 1940's.

The friendship between the Sumlin family and the Robinson family is no secret.  And neither is the little cemetery in the woods behind this house, where two different races were buried beside one another a hundred plus years ago.  This property was once the melting pot of one of the first interracial bands in our region, and if rumor serves correct I shall have my hands on an old video of them playing on the front porch of this dogtrot.  Every Juneteenth for years and years, the community gathered in the field beside this house for a freedom-themed baseball game and an old-fashioned potluck.  The members of St. Luke gathered here, in this dogtrot hall, for a potluck after their yearly cemetery cleaning day.  And these beautiful moments of our community's history, my friends, are exactly why love this dogtrot so much.

Last year, just after Shaun and I separated, I felt the urge to take the USHER pin to St. Luke Baptist Church on a Sunday morning.  What happened next shocked me.  I felt free there, sitting on a pew in a humble church that truly focused on the things that matter the most in life.  I was given the biggest hugs and smiles I had ever been given.  And I knew, on that day, that I wanted to go back for more than historic purposes.  

I felt like I belonged there.  And I still do.

Three weeks ago, I joined the choir.  Now I'll be honest--this lil' white lady cannot dance and clap at the same time.  And I grew up on BLUEGRASS music, which is the polar opposite of southern soul.  But a little voice told me that I was meant to be there, singing in the choir, and that wonderful things are about to happen.  So I joined.  And that was just the beginning....  I've experiences so many moments of DEJA VU that I know, without question, that I'm on the right track.  I've somehow discovered that my history, my mysterious dreams, this houses' history, my culture's history, southern faith, the beautiful web we call humanity, and God are all joining forces to do something big in Sugar Creek, Louisiana.  I don't know where the story will go from here, but I do know that I've never been happier.  And I've never felt so blessed in all of my life.

I hope that this story, even though it is unfinished, serves as a blessing to you, too.

Happy day, y'all!  Be strong, be brave, and be fearless.

With love from Sugar Creek, Louisiana,


Tuesday, September 2, 2014


Good morning from Sugar Creek, Louisiana, y'all!

Yes, I know that it has been ages since I've dedicated my free time to blogging about the restoration of our darling 1888 2-story dogtrot house.  But so much has happened that I just didn't know where to begin.  I was embarrassed, I suppose.  The end of the twelve year marriage between my former restoration partner and I was difficult for me, not because I was heartbroken, but because I was AFRAID.  I was afraid of being solely in charge of this restoration, even though I knew in my heart that I could handle it.  But despite my desire to learn and complete this restoration, I wasn't comfortable with sharing my struggles on this blog.  I couldn't step out on faith and just blog about the changes in our lives because I couldn't quite understand them enough to realize that ALL OF THE CHANGES were major improvements.  I didn't know where to begin again with my online journal, so I just stopped and waited until I felt "right" about continuing a very public restoration.

I know where to begin now, though.  And it feels oh-so-right.

A lot has happened since I booted my X out in January of 2013.  Y'all look into the eyes of the gal in the photo attached to this post--it's me.  I'm happy.  VERY happy.  I've learned to use saws and drills and crow bars and jacks and I've thrown my energy into creating a home that will not simply comfort us, but also others.  You see, this house will one day become a Bed and Breakfast retreat that will help many people find the joy and peace that I have found.  I've known that this would be our dogtrot's purpose for a very long time, but so many "coincidences" have happened lately that there is zero doubt in my mind that we are on a very special mission to heal wounds in the deep south.  My spirit has grown exponentially.  My confidence is at an all time high, and this house has come a long way.  My children have grown like native plants beneath a southern sun.  And now it's time to share our journey.

The house isn't finished yet, so know that there will be a gazillion posts coming soon about the restoration journey we're still undertaking.  But first I must step back in time, back to the day that everything changed for us.  The children & I have redefined our idea of the word "family."  We have learned to be strong, even in our weakest moments.  I joined the choir in the old church behind our dogtrot--the church with strong historical ties to the house--the church that was begun by slaves before the civil war--the church that accepted us just as we are and taught us to understand what FREEDOM truly feels like.  And that's exactly where I am going to begin with my next post--I'll begin with the historic church that stands high upon a rocky hill just behind this dogtrot home and the little piece of history I found in the attic that made me walk through their doors one Sunday morning... this ain't a religion thaaaang.  It's an inner peace thaaaang.  It's a culture thaaaang.  It's a revolution, so to speak.  And it's an amazing story that I can't wait to share with all of you. 

So until we meet again (and we'll do so very soon) HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY!  I'm sending love, peace, and tons of light from THE HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK to you.