This week we welcome Christa Allan to Author Memories.
Christa Allan teaches high school English in Louisiana and received her National Board Certification in 2007. She's the mother of five, and Grammy of two precious (of course!) grandgirls. She and her husband recently moved to an 1840s home in the historic Bywater District in New Orleans. Christa and Ken are happily anticipating retirement, chasing their three neurotic cats, and sometimes dodging hurricanes.
Christa writes not-your-usual Christian fiction, stories that focus on redemption for the broken.
Christa writes not-your-usual Christian fiction, stories that focus on redemption for the broken.
Camellia Manor: Back to the 1840s
by Christa Allan
In ways so unexpected I could have never predicted them, my life has come full circle. Born in New Orleans, I am now, over fifty years later, living once again in the city, in a home built almost 175 years ago. And with this recent move, the memories of my grandmother resonate with each discovery I make in my new-old home.
When my parents moved to the suburbs after my brother was born, my grandmother came with us. But during the first four years of my life, we lived on Ursuline Street in New Orleans, in my grandmother’s house. My own memories of that home are fuzzy, most of them made sharper by Gram’s recollections. It was a shotgun home, like most built during its time. Gram always said they were called “shotgun” homes because a gun could be fired from the front door and exit the back door without ever hitting a wall.
This is a picture of the house as it looks today. We lived on the left side, and when we lived there the house was painted white, with green shutters.
When my parents moved to the suburbs after my brother was born, my grandmother came with us. But during the first four years of my life, we lived on Ursuline Street in New Orleans, in my grandmother’s house. My own memories of that home are fuzzy, most of them made sharper by Gram’s recollections. It was a shotgun home, like most built during its time. Gram always said they were called “shotgun” homes because a gun could be fired from the front door and exit the back door without ever hitting a wall.
This is a picture of the house as it looks today. We lived on the left side, and when we lived there the house was painted white, with green shutters.
Gram's old house in New Orleans
Gram and I used to walk to the bakery on the corner, and we’d always get lagniappe (a little something extra) with our purchases. On the other corner was Chris’ Steak House, which would eventually become the first of the Ruth’s Chris Steakhouses (another long and colorful story!). I remember the wallpaper in my bedroom, the one Gram and I shared, the large cabbage rose design that sometimes seemed to dance when I woke up in the middle of the night. During the day, I’d entertain myself trying on my father’s and mother’s hats, since I could easily see myself in the mirrors of the tall armoirs, which served as closets. Houses in New Orleans were taxed according to the number of rooms, so eliminating a closet meant the room wouldn’t be taxed.
Gram and Christa in 1953
We didn’t have cats because Gram never recovered from being scratched by one. She said that after the picture below was taken, the cat on her lap jumped up and clawed both sides of her face.
Gram c1890
I longed to live in an old home in the city again, but it took moving from Metaire to Kenner to Liberty, TX to Houston, TX to Metaire to Abita Springs for it to happen again.
My husband needed to be closer to work, and through what could only be called a God-incidence, we found the perfect home, in the Bywater District of New Orleans. Built in the 1840s and expanded there-after by a series of owners, the house sits on three lots on the corner. Called Camellia Manor by the former owners (her father planted unusual and beautiful camellias on the property), the home used to be a bed and breakfast. Downstairs and up, the ceilings are 13 feet, and separating some of the rooms are the original cypress pocket doors. One of the owners said she had occasion to visit with mother and daughter ghosts, but she asked them to leave the home. Of course, my husband and I smiled, thinking it made for an interesting story, perfect for the quirky artsy community in which we now lived.
But then. . .
Since we’ve moved in, the fan in the upstairs hall often turns on, to full speed by itself. The light on the fan also turns on and off of its own accord. On more than one occasion, I’ve arrived home from work to find lights on that had been turned off when we left that morning.
Our bedroom fan also has a mind of its own. During the night, my husband will turn it on, then minutes later it’s off again. Or, he’ll turn it off, and it turns on sometime after that.
My husband needed to be closer to work, and through what could only be called a God-incidence, we found the perfect home, in the Bywater District of New Orleans. Built in the 1840s and expanded there-after by a series of owners, the house sits on three lots on the corner. Called Camellia Manor by the former owners (her father planted unusual and beautiful camellias on the property), the home used to be a bed and breakfast. Downstairs and up, the ceilings are 13 feet, and separating some of the rooms are the original cypress pocket doors. One of the owners said she had occasion to visit with mother and daughter ghosts, but she asked them to leave the home. Of course, my husband and I smiled, thinking it made for an interesting story, perfect for the quirky artsy community in which we now lived.
But then. . .
Since we’ve moved in, the fan in the upstairs hall often turns on, to full speed by itself. The light on the fan also turns on and off of its own accord. On more than one occasion, I’ve arrived home from work to find lights on that had been turned off when we left that morning.
Our bedroom fan also has a mind of its own. During the night, my husband will turn it on, then minutes later it’s off again. Or, he’ll turn it off, and it turns on sometime after that.
Camellia Manor
Separating our bedroom from my office is a tall, wood-paneled door (original to the house, with its original door knob). Our headboard actually backs against the door leaving only a few inches opening. We close the door and come home only to find it open again. One evening, while sitting in my wing back chair by the door, grading papers, the knob turned and the door opened. Seriously. It was a distinct unlatching, and I tossed the papers on the floor and sped down the stairs. Fortunately, my brother and his partner were home (they live downstairs), so I had some human company until I could unwind!
I tramped upstairs sometime later, announcing, “I’m coming up!” At first, I hesitated even sharing this with people for fear I’d come off like a total wingnut. But people who know me well, are aware that I’m not one to give credence to the whole notion of ghosts. But I suppose when you live in the voodoo capital of the country, there’s bound to be a few loose creatures running around.
Lately, I’ve joked that I’d welcome any sort of kindly spirits as long as they participated in cleaning, cooking, laundry…If some of that would happen mysteriously, then I’d truly believe! But, alas, it hasn’t.
And while I’m not totally convinced someone or two else may be living rent-free in our house, I’m not totally convinced they aren’t. I’ve not spent a night alone, so I don’t want to boast that I’ve conquered the creepy feelings. I’m still experiencing a wee bit of hair-on-my-neck tingling when I walk up the staircase at night. I continue to sit in my wingback chair, but I’ve not closed the bedroom/office door since it opened that night.
Of course, the writer in me is stirring this around and brewing a gumbo of a story! During the summer, I plan to visit the archives in New Orleans to unearth as much information about the house as possible. There’s also a former slave cottage on the property. It’s uninhabitable, but I’m sure it has a history all its own.
I don’t know if the mom and her daughter are still hanging out. If they are, I think my grandmother might be joining them because I know she would be thrilled to find her granddaughter back in the city she loved.
I tramped upstairs sometime later, announcing, “I’m coming up!” At first, I hesitated even sharing this with people for fear I’d come off like a total wingnut. But people who know me well, are aware that I’m not one to give credence to the whole notion of ghosts. But I suppose when you live in the voodoo capital of the country, there’s bound to be a few loose creatures running around.
Lately, I’ve joked that I’d welcome any sort of kindly spirits as long as they participated in cleaning, cooking, laundry…If some of that would happen mysteriously, then I’d truly believe! But, alas, it hasn’t.
And while I’m not totally convinced someone or two else may be living rent-free in our house, I’m not totally convinced they aren’t. I’ve not spent a night alone, so I don’t want to boast that I’ve conquered the creepy feelings. I’m still experiencing a wee bit of hair-on-my-neck tingling when I walk up the staircase at night. I continue to sit in my wingback chair, but I’ve not closed the bedroom/office door since it opened that night.
Of course, the writer in me is stirring this around and brewing a gumbo of a story! During the summer, I plan to visit the archives in New Orleans to unearth as much information about the house as possible. There’s also a former slave cottage on the property. It’s uninhabitable, but I’m sure it has a history all its own.
I don’t know if the mom and her daughter are still hanging out. If they are, I think my grandmother might be joining them because I know she would be thrilled to find her granddaughter back in the city she loved.
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GIVEAWAY!
Leave a comment with a valid email address by midnight, Feb 26th
to be entered in a draw for a copy of Christa Allan's first Historical,
Love Finds You in New Orleans, Louisiana.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GIVEAWAY!
Leave a comment with a valid email address by midnight, Feb 26th
to be entered in a draw for a copy of Christa Allan's first Historical,
Love Finds You in New Orleans, Louisiana.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love Finds You In New Orleans, Louisiana, Summerside Press, Available now
Raised by her grandparents in 19th-century New Orleans, Charlotte knows little about her long-lost parents.
Now facing an arranged marriage to a suitor she dreads, she finds herself attracted to somebody else: a young Creole man named Gabriel Girod.
Meanwhile, her grandparents harbor a family secret.
Will the truth set everybody free—especially Charlotte?
Now facing an arranged marriage to a suitor she dreads, she finds herself attracted to somebody else: a young Creole man named Gabriel Girod.
Meanwhile, her grandparents harbor a family secret.
Will the truth set everybody free—especially Charlotte?
Where you can find Christa:
Christa Allan, Author Website
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Blogs I contribute to:
Inspire a Fire
Choose WOW Ministries: Educating Teens
Girlfriends Book Club
Christa Allan, Author Website
Blogs I contribute to:
Inspire a Fire
Choose WOW Ministries: Educating Teens
Girlfriends Book Club
