Life on Westmont Drive
- By Andrew von Rothberg
- Published 07/2/2008
Andrew von Rothberg
Longtime resident of Fayetteville, currently enjoying life from the vantage point of the Haymont Hill.
There's something very comforting about assuming your role in the history of a certain place, and if my place is to be in Haymont, and more particularly, on Westmont Drive, I am more than content with that lot. I've been a resident of Fayetteville for many years, living on the northern outskirts of the town, watching Ramsey Street swell with traffic and grow with the passing years, old tobacco fields and orchards slowly giving way to a succession of larger Walmarts, expanding fast food chains, and grocery stores which open and close more quickly than I can remember the quickest route through their aisles to collect milk, cat food, or whatever it is I happen to be needing at the time; and although my home has been made in that northern corner, my life has always revolved around the intersections of Morganton and Fort Bragg Roads, the apex of Haymont Hill, and the core of what compromises the original, "olde" Fayetteville--spelled with an "e".
Experience has shown me the truth of the expression "good things can come from bad": the progress of the 295 extension cutting its way across the county met my former home in its path, and exercising the option of imminent domain, was purchased by the Department of Transportation; as of this writing it sits empty, haunted by the ghosts of my many years within its walls, slated for demolition. In two more weeks, it will most likely no longer be standing, and sad though this is--the lawn overgrown, my azaleas dug up and transported, the beautiful maple I've watched grow and extend its branches, sheltering me with its care, these things I leave behind--the necessity of moving brought me to my current corner of Haymont, and into the walls of a colonial revival of mellow brick, built in 1946 when the area was mapped as "Huske Acres". I imagine it hasn't changed much since that time.
Few people will remember a house that no longer exists. It is more likely that they will when that dwelling still stands, when it constitutes a portion of a collective, familiar landscape. Before it was my home, I knew the by-ways of Haymont well, how houses changed from year to year, or better (at least in my mind) never changed at all. I remember driving through and seeing into the windows of the homes, cheerful with lamps at night or decorated for the holidays, yards abloom with azaleas and dogwoods in spring. My vantage point has changed, and now I look out from the very windows I once wondered of, and switch on my lamps when darkness falls, dress my yard for the time of year, tend the ancient bushes and trees, and freshen the beds with my own flowers, my own hand on the landscape. I wonder if people will recognize the change, the renewal, the constancy, and whether they do or not, I know what has taken place, and where I've taken my own.
Experience has shown me the truth of the expression "good things can come from bad": the progress of the 295 extension cutting its way across the county met my former home in its path, and exercising the option of imminent domain, was purchased by the Department of Transportation; as of this writing it sits empty, haunted by the ghosts of my many years within its walls, slated for demolition. In two more weeks, it will most likely no longer be standing, and sad though this is--the lawn overgrown, my azaleas dug up and transported, the beautiful maple I've watched grow and extend its branches, sheltering me with its care, these things I leave behind--the necessity of moving brought me to my current corner of Haymont, and into the walls of a colonial revival of mellow brick, built in 1946 when the area was mapped as "Huske Acres". I imagine it hasn't changed much since that time.
Few people will remember a house that no longer exists. It is more likely that they will when that dwelling still stands, when it constitutes a portion of a collective, familiar landscape. Before it was my home, I knew the by-ways of Haymont well, how houses changed from year to year, or better (at least in my mind) never changed at all. I remember driving through and seeing into the windows of the homes, cheerful with lamps at night or decorated for the holidays, yards abloom with azaleas and dogwoods in spring. My vantage point has changed, and now I look out from the very windows I once wondered of, and switch on my lamps when darkness falls, dress my yard for the time of year, tend the ancient bushes and trees, and freshen the beds with my own flowers, my own hand on the landscape. I wonder if people will recognize the change, the renewal, the constancy, and whether they do or not, I know what has taken place, and where I've taken my own.
