This hazy Sunday there is a steady stream of costumers pouring into the restaurant that dwells below our apartment. Through the thick walls, I can hear a distant muffled chatter. Chairs slide across the wooden floors while the front door chimes as a new hand greets it. Somehow the aromas never waft through our front door. “Our”… that would be me - Brittany, my husband - Eddie, and our dog- Puff.
Our humble home resides in the Victorian district of Wheeling, West Virginia, a rare gem that has yet to be rediscovered. This humble city is wedged between Ohio and Pennsylvania, and our 15 minutes of fame is I-70 that runs straight through the heart of town. One late afternoon, I struck up a conversation with a trucker bound for California. He had had the misfortune of some broken auto part, none of which I understood when he explained. However, this mishap gave him just enough time to order one chicken wrap, chips, a crispy pickle, and two Pinkus beers, while indulging his waitress in cynical theological rhetoric. In between his mouthfuls and his spouts against the papacy, he nonchalantly poked fun at West Virginia. He said he expected to see a raccoon and opossum playing a fiddle on a broken down porch, after all this was West Virginia. The elegant and ornate features of this small city astonished him.
Sometimes it astonishes me. Wheeling, at one time, was a buzzing hive full of people. Streets were flooded with carriages and then later with automobiles. Antique postcards of the friendly city show bustling streets as the people swarm in and out of the shops. Lavish, feminine residential buildings were erected and each displayed a frontispiece boasting its beauty with a name: Cornelia, Elizabeth, Jacobs. The bubbling wealthy of the Victorian period overflowed into the early twentieth century as industrialization gripped our nation. During and immediately after the world wars, the steel business boomed. Wheeling was carving quite a name for itself in America’s trunk, but for whatever economic reason, it was left behind in the dust.
Historians and financial gurus like to discuss the boom and bust of the economy. I can see the bust. I see the bust when I look up from my desk to see my diploma haphazardly hanging from the wall. My gaze wanders over to my waitressing apron. The future seems dismal for this Historian, Writer, Teacher, and Fashion Curator.
Yet for all the cracks in its foundations, Wheeling has remnants of a luxurious life left behind. The arching columns over the elongated windows, the lion’s roar frozen in cement that hangs over, the chipping paint on a statue’s façade all reveal a golden age. Eagerly, I scout out areas where if I look closely enough I can almost peel the twentieth century off. It seems, at times, the perfect place to blossom.
It is here, in this hidden gem, that I, with the support of my husband and our sidekick Puff, have decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery while unraveling, interpreting, and uncovering the identity of our generation. Who are we? Where do we go? If you’re looking for answers, I may not hold them. But maybe, if you lean in just close enough, you can peek at my corner of the world and make some observations. I’m not symbolic of a whole generation, but perhaps just a snap shot in a larger montage. In this photo, you will find my love of romantic, vintage fashion, my literary sketches and portraits of life, along with other inspiring, soul-nourishing topics. I will do my best to offer you a lifestyle blog laced with feminine couture, and the backdrop of a charming Victorian town.
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At nighttime, on the eastern coast, there is a quiet hour before the sun drops. Insects whistle and toads belch into the sunset until it is a deafening sound. Lightening bugs flicker and twinkle across the sloping backyard. The river gently snakes around the foothills. Like a tantalizing Sunday, there is an overlapping calm in this twilight. It seems as if the world has slowed down just to savor this delicate moment. In Wheeling, this feeling, this moment seems to last for eternity.
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