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The Foundation’s Birthday
The morning of my seventy-third birthday smelled of freshly brewed Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee and the petunias in my garden. I woke up, as always, without an alarm at exactly 6:00 a.m., watching the Georgia sun brush the tops of old pecan trees outside my screened-in porch. This house, this getaway home on the outskirts of Atlanta, was my unrealized concert hall.
A long time ago, in another life, I was a young, highly promising architect with the project of my dreams laid out before me: a new performing arts center downtown. My name was on the plans. I was chosen.
I was funded. Then came Langston with his first “genius” business idea: imported high-end woodworking machinery that was supposed to make us rich. I liquidated the inheritance meant for my dream, for my future, and dropped every dime into his business.
It crashed and burned within a year, leaving behind only debt and a garage full of expensive machines no one wanted. Instead of a concert hall, I built this house—pouring everything I had into it. The remnants of my talent, all my strength, all my unspent love for form and line.
This home became my quiet masterpiece, my private museum. A masterpiece no one else, except me, ever really saw. “Aura, you seen my blue polo?
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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