Oregon Hill was where I’d spent most of my adult life. I loved its decaying sidewalks and the huge tree roots pushing through the concrete and bricks. The people who lived there were a mishmash of working-class people, artists and VCU students. Most of the houses were over a hundred years old, and I’d often longed to live in one of the stately old homes myself.
It had been weeks since I’d set foot in my art studio, which was a renovated old brick garage in the rear of my favorite house on China Street. When I turned the corner on to the block it was on, my heart stopped for a brief second as I noticed a For Sale sign on the tiny patch of yard in front of that house.
“Shit.”
I raced up the block until I was standing in front of it. It surprised me I hadn’t heard from the owners about thi
