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George Washington Slept Here. Sorta.

February 20, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Mt. Vernon
On this President’s Day, it’s only fitting that I mention George Washington, the Father of our Country. We visited his amazing home, Mt. Vernon, a few years ago. Mt. Vernon is one of the most fascinating places I’ve ever toured. Walking in his footsteps, the ground is hallowed along the banks of the Potomac, the home is decorated with family furniture and heirlooms, the property is  surrounded by historic gardens and orchards. His first love was farming. I bet he too would have blogged had Al Gore invented the internet by that time. 

It was even more special to us because, John and I are connected to George Washington – just like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. George’s last known relative lived in our house. 

1) George Washington’s first cousin was Reade Macon Washington;
2) Reade Macon Washington’s son was Captain Edward C. Washington; (as a side note for you history buffs, Captain Ed fought at Gettysburg & was killed in Vicksburg in 1863)
3) Captain Edward C. Washington’s son was Reade Macon Washington (named after his grandfather with the same name);
4) Reade Macon lived in our house in the early 1920s.
5) We own the house now. 

See? 

Reade Macon Washington was born Jan 1, 1848, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He died in our house in Dallas on July 12, 1922. It was his house then. He was taking care of it for us. At the time of his death, the Dallas Morning News reported he was the last known member of George Washington’s bloodline. I discovered this while researching and preparing for home tour a few years ago. Now we had a name to go along with the bumps in the night – Mr. Washington still lives here… if you know what I mean.

We bought this home in 2002, when Tate was 8 and Kelsey was 12. We hadn’t been here long, when I was awakened in the middle of the night from a deep sleep by the smell of brownies cooking downstairs in the kitchen. It was as if the vent in our bedroom was pumping in the chocolate smell. It was wonderful, but at 1:30 a.m.?! I was a bit annoyed that Kelsey would be baking brownies at such an hour! She did love brownies, and she had perfected the recipe… But some of us had to work tomorrow! I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and trudged downstairs. SeRioUsLy, the hair on the back of my neck stood up when I found the kitchen to be completely dark, the oven cold, the counters clean, and no midnight snack for me. But the smell of chocolate filled the kitchen. I cannot tell a lie. Kelsey was tucked away, sound asleep and falsely accused. This has happened several times since, but I have learned to just enjoy the smell and drift back off to sleep. Reade Macon must have loved brownies. Or maybe his wife was cooking for him? – she died here too, years later.

This is just one example of the goings on in our happily haunted house. 

Similar to Mt. Vernon, our neighborhood is hallowed ground too. Munger Place was developed in the early 1900s to be the “city man’s home”- only minutes from downtown by carriage. It was home to some of Dallas’ biggest movers and shakers before the community fell into complete despair. By the 1960s most homes were condemned by the city and falling apart. Fortunately, an ambitious group of dedicated families saved the neighborhood from demolition, pushing for historic designation in the 1970s. Many camped out in their homes with no heat or air or even windows for years, with rats inside and drug dealers and prostitutes next door. But amazingly and thankfully, they saved it. 

We newbies are simply the lucky caretakers of a tiny piece of history. Our home has had many owners through the years – they come and go. Some just come and never want to leave I guess. It features a fabulous wrap-around porch and the ghost of George Washington’s first cousin’s great-grandson… We should plant a cherry tree.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Sir Walter Scott, “Hail to the Chief”
K T Tunstall, “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree”
www.mungerplace.com

mirror mirror

February 19, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Things work out just as they should. To paraphrase verses from King James on this Sunday evening before the Lenten Season, the Lord works in mysterious ways.  It’s actually a good thing that my up-close vision is blurry. I don’t really want to see the stray random hairs apparently growing on my upper lip. I don’t see them at all unless I’m in Arkansas in my mother’s bedroom where for some unknown reason she has a magnifying telescope mirror making even brainwaves visible. I avoid that mirror. It’s a crazy fun house mirror exposing future flaws and skin damage not yet visible to the normal naked eye. She loves that mirror. 


When I was at the nail salon a few weeks ago, Na asked, “You want wax?” “No, my eyebrows are fine.” These people are the absolute best at cross-selling. They have no shame whatsoever. If someone peeps inside the salon, but decides the wait looks too long and turns around to leave, the owner will run the customer down in the parking lot, dragging her back inside. “Only one minute you wait! Only one minute! You sit there,” then they all begin to chatter and point at each other, forcing the trapped customer into a huge lazyboy-like spa chair where she will sit in shock for at least another 20 minutes. These nail people make me feel guilty if I don’t spring for the callous cream – an extra buck – like the whole pedicure is a total waste without it.  “Những phụ nữ da trắng có giá rẻ!” Hmmmm. I don’t need the callous cream. And I don’t need an eyebrow wax. 


Na glanced at my eyebrows which were totally hidden by my bangs anyway, and continued, “What about you mustache? You want wax?” “No! I don’t have a mustache!” Do I? This was all a ploy to make whatever baby-fine, invisible blonde hairs I might have grow thicker and darker forcing me into a mustache waxing routine. I knew that trick. Or maybe I just couldn’t see it – maybe I did have a mustache? I would not start waxing my lip no matter what crop starts growing there. Not unless Kelsey tells me I need to, of course. 

Why on earth would a woman ever marry a younger man? Demi Moore, for instance, is 15 years older than Ashton. Is it an ego boost? forbidden fruit? someone to boss around? to make Bruce Willis jealous? or true love? Regardless, what incredible pressure that must have been for Demi all those years! She must secretively be relieved that relationship is over. She had to know it was only a matter of time. He can clearly see her recently sprouted mustache, she cannot, he’s moving on. Good riddance – he’s grody anyway – I can still see well enough at any distance to know that. Wouldn’t she rather be with someone who was actually alive when she appeared on General Hospital and St. Elmo’s Fire?

According to an article in the journal Demography, a woman who marries a younger man (by at least 7 years) has a 20% greater mortality rate than if she were with a man the same age. It’s all that stress from waxing. Just say NO!

talya

Musical Pairings:

Frankie Avalon, “Beauty School Drop-Out”
John Parr, “St. Elmo’s Fire”

“This mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.” Albus Dumbledore 

Houses, Hogs and Cotton Candy

February 19, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Two weeks ago, on a Friday night at American Airlines Center, during the second half of the Dallas Mavericks-Indiana Pacers game, John and I decided to buy a house. Finally, after 6 months of lengthy discussions regarding three houses we really liked, complete with detailed lists of pros & cons and bar charts, we made a snap decision. During the third quarter, over a Bud Lite, right after I went to the bathroom, we made a selection. Immediately, I shot off a text to Paula Larson, our real estate broker – like she didn’t have anything better to do, late on a Friday night. I wanted to get the message out there into cyber space, before we changed our mind. The game was plenty dull.
The extra tricky part of this equation is the location! location! location! The house we had finally decided on is 262 miles away, in Fayetteville, Arkansas. And we actually live in Dallas which could possibly make for a long morning commute for John. It’s not a bad drive for a weekend road trip and a Saturday night football game, but I imagine it would be a tad bit tedious on a daily basis. He doesn’t much enjoy his current 30 minute morning drive to Las Colinas. From Big D, Fayetteville is a straight shot up Central Expressway, north past the Red River, through Oklahoma with no reception – cellular or otherwise – and up to God’s country. Home of the Arkansas Razorbacks. 
Our plan has always been to move back home to Arkansas before we are dead. And dead is sneaking up. If we wait too long, we will soon wake up in an East Dallas assisted living facility, riding a bus to Walgreens for our prescriptions. And I don’t much like buses. We need to do this soon while we can make new friends.
CottonCandyMan
Not that we have anything against Dallas.  We love Dallas. It’s been a great place to live and raise our children. There are job opportunities and all the restaurants you could ever desire. But, we want season tickets to everything Razorback. I want to walk into Herman’s regularly and not think, “Oh look there’s a Razorback welcome mat at the front door.  How odd!” – because it isn’t odd there. I need to see the Ozark Mountains while I’m driving to Target instead of the cotton candy man on Gaston Avenue. In our barrio, there is actually a man who walks around in the afternoons with a huge tower of cotton candy for sale. I believe it is the strangest thing I have seen in our neighborhood, and there have been many. We live nowhere near a ballpark.
We were ready. If we buy something, this would force our hand, right? We would have to list our house and sell and move. Right? Or maybe John was trying to get me the hell out of Texas, so he could truly work 24-7…? There would be no one to nag him about going to the doctor. He could snore to his heart’s content without being elbowed and told he has apnea. He could weigh each morning in peace.
After thinking and talking about this house for six months, as well as not talking about it and totaling ignoring the subject, we made a decision.  Wooooo Pig Sooooie!!!!  We decided to make an offer, as if we were deciding which movie to go to the next evening. Paula, our patient, charming broker no doubt now recognized she was dealing with lunatics.
The following day was Saturday morning. And here we go again. John had a mid morning flight to Atlanta. He needed to leave the house fairly early. He had to run by the cleaners because someone (me) had forgotten to pick up his shirts. He had to run by his office on the way to the airport (why? I don’t know – habit?). Oh and, of course, he still needed to pack.  This trip was for several days, unlike his previous red-eye to Pittsburg – more clothes to ponder, shoes and belts to match up – just overall more challenging.  AND, in the middle of this, we had to get our offer in on the house. We had to buy a house.
Apparently, after sitting on the market for months with no activity and several price reductions, we were suddenly buying THE most popular house in Fayetteville. The seller had coincidentally received a contract on our house the day before. Naturally. Then, as Paula worked up the contract, John packed and I tried to just breathe, a second offer came in on the house! Really? What were the odds? Now it was a competition. There were three offers.
Paula was a trooper – emailing, texting and calling me back and forth, along with the listing agent. John was already in route to the office. The three of us strategized over a conference call as John tried to print his boarding pass. We had a second conference call while he was in his car headed to the airport. Last night he dreamed he had missed his flight… After John was on the plane and headed to Atlanta, I signed the contract to officially throw our offer in the ring. 
This is how we do things. This is how we bought our current home. Spur of the moment decision during a midnight drive by, leaving a nearby party. Just like that. We weren’t even house shopping. We didn’t look at any other homes. And John immediately left for Denver during the contract negotiations. But we did it and never looked back.
Within 30 minutes Paula called to let me know that we didn’t get the house. Someone else paid over asking price. Someone else was buying our house in Fayetteville. It was just as well, I was exhausted and needed a nap. This just wasn’t the right house for us. Maybe we will find one soon or maybe not. Maybe we won’t find one until ten minutes before Kelsey walks down the aisle (someday). But all it takes is 20 seconds of insane courage. And we have the insanity part down to a science.
talya
Musical Pairings:
John Parr, “St. Elmo’s Fire Man in Motion”
Eurythmics, “Sweet Dreams”

  1. “All it takes is 20 seconds of insane courage and great things will happen. I promise.” Benjamin Mee in “We Bought a Zoo”


http://paulalarson.crye-leike.com/
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Hi! I'm Talya Tate Boerner. Writer, Reader, Arkansas Master Naturalist / Master Gardener, Author of

THE ACCIDENTAL SALVATION OF GRACIE LEE (2016)

GENE, EVERYWHERE: a life-changing visit from my father-in-law (2020)

BERNICE RUNS AWAY (2022)

THE THIRD ACT OF THEO GRUENE (coming 2025)

Recent Ramblings:

  • Sunday Letter: February 22, 2026
  • Our Garden Mission Statement
  • Goodbye, 2025. Hello, 2026.
  • Sunday Letter: 11.23.25
  • Maggie and Miss Ladybug: My New Children’s Nature Book

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