view.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I began apologizing from the moment Mr. Taylor walked to the door, before I said “hello” or introduced myself. I had spent so many years rushing around that this came as second nature to me, the rapid pulse, thinking up excuses for being late, trying to collect my thoughts on the fly.
“Oh, no problem, no problem at all. Come on in here where it's warm. I’m Marcus Taylor. Welcome to Green.”
“Mr. Taylor, I’m Lois Barker. It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for having me over this evening.”
Pearl Taylor walked in from the back of the house and gave me a small hug, something I was learning people down here in North Louisiana liked to do. “Good to see you again, Miss Lois. Have a seat.”
The house was incredibly homey. Compared to the house where my furniture now sat out on Route 2, it looked like heaven. Nothing was fancy, but it all seemed so cozy. There were similarities between the way the Lakeside Motel looked and this home. I sat on the end of an Early American style couch, and Mrs. Taylor sat on the other end. Mr. Taylor sat in an upholstered recliner that clearly was his regular seat. I got the idea that no one sat in the chair except Mr. Taylor.
Pearl wore brown knit slacks and a brown and peach shirt. Marcus had on navy blue slacks and a nice plaid long-sleeved shirt. He was about sixty with graying hair and a quick smile. I had guessed Pearl to be in her late fifties when I encountered her at the motel, and her appearance today confirmed that. Her hair was a deep brown, and she wore it swept up in the back, almost in a French twist.
“We thought we could visit for a while about the neighborhood association and then eat some supper,” Mr. Taylor said.
“We invited our daughter for supper, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Thought you might enjoy some younger company. And we’d like her to meet you. We hope that's okay.”
“Oh, certainly. That's great,” I said, alternating between thinking I needed to get back to the paper and it was very nice of them to have me in their home for a meal, the first people in Green to do so.
Our meeting for the next hour and a half was informative and helped put into context a lot that was going on in Green. Sometimes the couple chatted, and at other times Mr. Taylor referred to a handwritten page in a spiral notebook, stressing that he wanted to make sure he covered all his points. I could tell he was taking our conversation very seriously.
Every now and then, his wife got up and went to the kitchen “to check on our supper.” Something smelled quite good, and my stomach started to growl.
The couple had been involved in the Lakeside Neighborhood Association for nearly three decades, had helped found it when such community groups sprang up at the grassroots level everywhere. I was surprised when I found out the organization included these homes on the lake and those across the road, the rundown neighborhood known as Lakeside Annex.
“We’ve lived in this house on the lake for thirty-seven years. Hard to believe,” Mr. Taylor said. “We’ve owned the motel for nearly twenty-five. My bride here is a retired schoolteacher, and I retired from the post office. I drive a school bus these days, keep those young rowdies in line.”
Looking at his notes, he switched gears and made a little statement. “Our association wants to make sure each neighbor is treated fairly, and this precious resource of our lake is never taken for granted. And we want to make the Lakeside Annex a better place to live, upgrade the houses, and hold landlords to property standards. With all of that in mind, we have officially opposed the Cypress Point subdivision, which would limit access to the lake, further pollute the area, and change the texture of our community.”
Pearl jumped in. “We bought our home from the Wilson family long before anyone ever thought the property
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I began apologizing from the moment Mr. Taylor walked to the door, before I said “hello” or introduced myself. I had spent so many years rushing around that this came as second nature to me, the rapid pulse, thinking up excuses for being late, trying to collect my thoughts on the fly.
“Oh, no problem, no problem at all. Come on in here where it's warm. I’m Marcus Taylor. Welcome to Green.”
“Mr. Taylor, I’m Lois Barker. It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for having me over this evening.”
Pearl Taylor walked in from the back of the house and gave me a small hug, something I was learning people down here in North Louisiana liked to do. “Good to see you again, Miss Lois. Have a seat.”
The house was incredibly homey. Compared to the house where my furniture now sat out on Route 2, it looked like heaven. Nothing was fancy, but it all seemed so cozy. There were similarities between the way the Lakeside Motel looked and this home. I sat on the end of an Early American style couch, and Mrs. Taylor sat on the other end. Mr. Taylor sat in an upholstered recliner that clearly was his regular seat. I got the idea that no one sat in the chair except Mr. Taylor.
Pearl wore brown knit slacks and a brown and peach shirt. Marcus had on navy blue slacks and a nice plaid long-sleeved shirt. He was about sixty with graying hair and a quick smile. I had guessed Pearl to be in her late fifties when I encountered her at the motel, and her appearance today confirmed that. Her hair was a deep brown, and she wore it swept up in the back, almost in a French twist.
“We thought we could visit for a while about the neighborhood association and then eat some supper,” Mr. Taylor said.
“We invited our daughter for supper, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Thought you might enjoy some younger company. And we’d like her to meet you. We hope that's okay.”
“Oh, certainly. That's great,” I said, alternating between thinking I needed to get back to the paper and it was very nice of them to have me in their home for a meal, the first people in Green to do so.
Our meeting for the next hour and a half was informative and helped put into context a lot that was going on in Green. Sometimes the couple chatted, and at other times Mr. Taylor referred to a handwritten page in a spiral notebook, stressing that he wanted to make sure he covered all his points. I could tell he was taking our conversation very seriously.
Every now and then, his wife got up and went to the kitchen “to check on our supper.” Something smelled quite good, and my stomach started to growl.
The couple had been involved in the Lakeside Neighborhood Association for nearly three decades, had helped found it when such community groups sprang up at the grassroots level everywhere. I was surprised when I found out the organization included these homes on the lake and those across the road, the rundown neighborhood known as Lakeside Annex.
“We’ve lived in this house on the lake for thirty-seven years. Hard to believe,” Mr. Taylor said. “We’ve owned the motel for nearly twenty-five. My bride here is a retired schoolteacher, and I retired from the post office. I drive a school bus these days, keep those young rowdies in line.”
Looking at his notes, he switched gears and made a little statement. “Our association wants to make sure each neighbor is treated fairly, and this precious resource of our lake is never taken for granted. And we want to make the Lakeside Annex a better place to live, upgrade the houses, and hold landlords to property standards. With all of that in mind, we have officially opposed the Cypress Point subdivision, which would limit access to the lake, further pollute the area, and change the texture of our community.”
Pearl jumped in. “We bought our home from the Wilson family long before anyone ever thought the property
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