Whirlwind Mansion: An Essay

I wrote this essay called "Riches" about the Whirlwind Mansion for a writing class in 1996.

Whirlwind Mansion family room circa 1980s

It was 25,000 square feet of dreams. Perched on a hill to avoid being touched by the trivial problems of the middle-class, stood "my house"; a southern colonial mansion built in the early 1970's by a banker for his wife.

In similar surroundings the house may not have afforded much attention, but this was the Tennessee Valley. This was, for the most part, farm country.

The Fourth of July fireworks were once held at the marina across from my house. Beautiful purples, pinks and golds lit up the sky. How lucky the people who lived there must have been; the fireworks probably much better from their view.

I imagined every view had to be better in my house on the hill. Christmas must have been...
spectacular. The tree would have been professionally decorated with matching bulbs and ribbons and every light working; the presents, too pretty to unwrap. You would never find gifts wrapped in aluminum foil or the leftover Sunday funnies in my house.

The tree in my parents' home would never do in my house on the hill. Every year my younger sister would hang the construction paper chain she made in kindergarten in the front of the tree; and every year I moved the links to the back. My parents were co-conspirators in the defacing of our tree. They insisted the angel I picked out when I was two would adorn the top of our tree. Granted, this was a beautiful Christmas angel at one time, but the years had not been kind to her; she was now a balding, decapitated angel; a pitiful think whose head had to be duck-taped to her body as the years progressed.

In my house on the hill there would be a dining room with a table so big, no one would be banished to the kid's table. A Christmas feast served to tantalize every taste bud - void of anything resembling Grandmother's green beans or Mama Sewell's jello mold.

Over the years, and in my mind, I walked through every room in my house. The foyer welcomed me with its winding staircase and marble floors that mirrored crystal chandeliers.

The delicate eggshell walls in the ballroom were an aesthetically pleasing backdrop for the beautiful people.

The men would meet in the billiard room to shoot pool, smoke cigars, talk politics and drink Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey.

The women would get together in the parlor. The furniture would be hard but tasteful (as it would never do for a lady to have to climb out of a soft sofa). Deep plush carpeting, antique lamps and sprays of fresh-cut flowers decorated this feminine room. This is where the women gathered to talk about whatever rich women talk about.

When I was twenty-one, my house went up for sale and my dad, a realtor at the time, made an appointment for me to see it. My long awaited dream come true. I would finally get to see if my home was as beautiful as I imagined.

The family I had long envied was gone now. The banker had been arrested and imprisoned. His children were grown and gone, his wife had left him, the house was empty.

I was still walking through the house in my mind as we drove up the long driveway. Many powerful people had visited this home: senators, congressmen, foreign dignitaries, even a President. And now I would get to walk in their footsteps.

Whirlwind Mansion foyer, looking towards the front door

The foyer was close to how I imagined. A winding staircase circled up to the second landing. The floors, though not made of marble, were a rich parquet. A crystal chandelier balanced the foyer extending the length of the house.

From there the beauty of the house both began and ended. The remainder of the house was an embarrassing, vulgar embellishment. Jungle print wallpaper, said to have cost $16,000 attacked the dining room walls. Walls were punched with holes from where authorities searched for evidence the banker may have hidden. A lime green backdrop accentuated the pink, purple and silver peacocks that lined the walls of the master bedroom. Gold coins lined commodes and shag carpet was the floor covering of choice.

I learned a lot the day I toured my home. I learned sometimes dreams are better left unfulfilled. I had built up such anticipation, such grandiose dreams of what my house would look like, what it should look like, that the reality was disappointing. My tour also included a history of the home and of the family that lived there. It was a story of how greed and power destroyed a family, a home and a dream.

When a single buyer could not be found for the house, a real estate development company came in and subdivided the estate. The acres of rolling lawn are now merely parcels in a home-owner controlled subdivision. The mansion divided into five separate condominiums. A newly constructed palace of dreams looms in front of my house, built to eclipse the once spectacular view of the marina and the valley beyond. The house of my dreams no longer exists.

I still think about that house on occasion: would my big house make me happy when my husband was away; when my children were grown; when my parents were gone? Or, would it simply bring more rooms be lonely in?