To flute or to coupe one’s champagne? These are the contemplations on the Eve of the Eve. I do love these eves of the eve–always with the hope and excitement of an innocent. This year I woefully secured our New Year’s reservations months
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Our little house is much bigger than you would think from the city sidewalk, busy sidewalk out front. This is as it should be. You alight at the modest front door and look up at this charming, old box of a place, hidden from the road behind a
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A shaded, tree-lined lane is such a handsome thing. I like to linger and dream and poke around, especially in these older Omaha neighborhoods, designed to be strolled. I realize, as do you, that every home has a history and delicious secrets
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A little bird had tipped me to the soon-to-be demise of seven homes on Pacific Street extending from 84th to 87th. –that strip of mostly classic ranches on the south side, leading down to the lights at Countryside Village and Westside
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I shall never forget the thrill I had when I first saw a photograph of the darkened Cudahy Mansion. It was a pleasant, summer day and had been invited to an intimate noon gathering. Let us pretend this was a get-together with Miss Cassette’s
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It may come as no surprise to many that 1219 Pacific Street was torn down a few days ago. To those making the rounds, she might have served only as a corner cue in a Last-Minute-Louie to the Downtown Post Office. Certainly when the Sexy Dwell
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I was sitting in the office rambling at length about upcoming investigations, all the while Mr. Cross resentfully sighing and taking dictation, when the dispiriting correspondence came in. My recent examination of a Gold Coast ballroom and the
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There is one matter we need to discuss and for the life of me, I have no idea why I have not brought it up to this point. Ballrooms. Private ballrooms. Specifically, of the third floor nature. It is astonishing to
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For all of my years working at the antiques store, I never found the hidden portal in the back of the giant wardrobe or that coveted, inner panel toward the bottom of a steamer trunk. It was not for the want of trying. Some of you will
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I wish I could recapture a bit more from my child’s eye view of the large, Asian house. The memory is a tissue thin scrim of standing by the railed porch with my father and his friends, awaiting entrance to a blurred art opening. The ambiguous