In my childhood home on Lockhart Drive in Charlotte, N.C., there was a place considered holy space. You spoke of it in hushed terms. It was only used on the most special of occasions. It was…the living room.
This was the place where all the "nice stuff" was kept: the chairs with my mom's handmade needlepoint seats; the lamps with glass teardrop prisms dangling from under the shade; the stereo console that looked like a huge mahogany casket. It was the kind of room you felt like you...Full Story