Home is the question you fnally answer.
Home is the hollow you finally fill.
Home is the hearth where you warm your soul when everything around you is coming to pieces.
Home is the place that you’ll know when you’re there.

Shirley Miller

Although I never actually lived in a suburban neighborhood since I left home in 1973, I found myself in later years settled finally in Charleston in 1995 and living in what was for me the perfect and quiet apartment community. I lived in a cluttered and book-filled two-bedroom apartment for 15 years. I loved the place and have written about over the years. It was adjacent to a neighborhood dating to the early 60s, and I used to frequently take walks there.

Over the course of 15 years, the houses and streets surrounding my apartment community became as familiar as those from my childhood. They held countless reminders that this place in the great sprawl that was James Island, had become very special to me: the little landmarks such as flower-and-vine-covered mailboxes along the streets; specific lawn ornaments; certain distinctive houses and yards; openings in the sky where I watched the sunsets on my walks; the enormous and ancient white oak tree on a vacant, wooded acre or two lot in the middle of the subdivision — a reminder of what the originial forest here was like. These familiar sights, this anchoring in a place I called my own neighborhood, gave me a very powerful sense of having arrived somewhere and put down roots. A sense of place. And for years I had wondered if this would ever happen.

Here is what I wrote about my “neighborhood” one Fall day 20 years ago:

“I was taking a walk in my neighborhood this past weekend, late in the day on a windless, Autumn afternoon, when sounds were hushed and life seemed to ebb and flow on those quiet pulsings of meaning that are deep and mysterious. I felt attached to this place, this small spot on the map in a particular area in the suburbs of Charleston, tucked away from the din of traffic, left alone with its tall oak trees, quiet streets, little flower gardens around mailboxes on the streets, tidy yards carefully tended, bicycles, kids, couples and individuals taking walks, each home unique and special despite what at first glance might seem otherwise. I like this place where I live…”

I didn’t own a home back then, and I don’t now. I like renting, and it always suited my nomadic and unsettled life. The 15 years I spent in that one apartment was far longer than I had lived anywhere else. I took a great deal of pride in that fact and was content. Notice that word “content” and its implications: not needing or wanting to be anywhere else. Not really needing anything. Does money matter that much if you are miserable and unhappy where you are? Home is truly where the heart is. It’s as simple as that sometimes.

I may not have had a big fenced-in back yard with grill and patio furniture. I may not have had a sun room or attic or garden to call my own. I may not have owned five acres out in the peaceful countryside, or have that house on the river I used to dream of. What I did have then, and which I have now at the new apartment community I moved into in 2022, is a quiet place that I can call my own, even if I do not own it. I have my photographs hanging on the wall, tons of books, a well-used and comfortable computer chair at my desk, a luxurious recliner chair in the bedroom and a microwave oven. What more can I want? The secret for me is being content in the moments in time and not wondering too much about the future. I am home.

The small 1-bedroom apartment where I live now is adjacent to an older Charleston suburb dating to 1943. It is known for its charming, post-World War II homes, and its proximity to downtown Charleston makes these modest little house very valuable. I certainly could not afford to live there. But I take my daily walk there when it’s very late in the afternoon or I just don’t feel like driving g into town to walk at one of several parks I enjoy and where I take many photos.

The land that became the suburb was historically part of St. Andrews Parish (which was established in 1703) and was primarily an agricultural area of small plantations.  Early planters grew cotton, and after the Civil War, larger plantations were subdivided into smaller tracts for “truck farming”, or crop farms.

The first house was completed in 1945, and the development plan shifted quickly from rental houses for shipyard workers to houses for sale for the veterans returning home after the war to start families.

It’s a very quiet neighborhood full of trees and both long straight sidewalks and winding ones. It has a truly old-fashioned residential look about it, and the houses appear to have always been there. I like the atmosphere and the settled, stable feeling. The houses are very modest and seem perfect for small families. The neighborhoods have some outstanding white picket fences and tall trees.

I always manage to take at least a few photographs when I’m walking in this little suburb next to my apartment. Unlike Bill Owens’ pictures of suburbia which are filled with people, I long ago chose a route easier than classic street photography. I photograph only houses, architectural details, landscaping, gardens, and any interesting objects that catch my eye. Every scene, every house, every object or artifact what are aspects of a time and place that are completely of that period.

It’s often late in the day or right after sunset when I’m walking there taking pictures, and when I assemble favorite photos from a walk, the images often generate feelings of nostalgic longing. I feel a sense of permanence, of being rooted in a very specific and unique place, near the city center, but far away at the same time. The neighborhood reminds me of the oldest section of my New Orleans subdivision known as Old Aurora. It’s a rather uncanny experience at times because I actually feel like I am back home.

I always experience a range of emotions on these walks. What I do in photographing select scenes is to capture the feelings and nostalgia for a past that, like the houses, is oddly comforting and reassuring, but also lost in memories of childhood and youth from 50 or more years ago.

These photos are from a recent walk and reflect my enduring interest in suburbia.

https://www.flickr.com/gp/camas/0a708h02E0