Poem Written While Listening to the Love Ballads of Joe Williams

This page clockwise from top left: The Cuddys; an outdoor fireplace make this space usable year-round. Opposite page clockwise from top left: The brick fence turns the driveway into a beautiful space of its own; moss fills sections of the front yard; a space made for entertaining; there are secrets around every corner.

Made in the Shade

The downstairs master bedroom was converted to a handsome office for Brian and the entire upstairs to a restful oasis for the couple. With their three children grown and on their own, the three-bedroom guest cottage out back offers the ideal space for the children to spread out when they come home. "One bedroom in the main house wouldn't work for everybody, but it's perfect for our needs."

Stepping inside the guest house, a long, polished bar to one side is an unexpected and delightful element. It's the legacy of one of the home's previous owners. "Interestingly, the person who revamped the cottage was a Vice Admiral who was head of Naval Intelligence, and then became the National Security Advisor for the younger Bush administration," Brian explains. We all immediately look over our shoulders. Remnants of the Vice Admiral's Irish heritage remain in the beer taps that tease the promise of a cold one. "I've also found clumps of shamrocks growing in the yard."

The cottage's open-concept downstairs and three bedrooms upstairs, one of which Gretchen has converted to an art studio, continues the warm and welcoming tone of the main house. So it would be understandable if the kids wanted to visit as often as possible. "This is just a really comfortable space, and so when the children are here, or we have guests, they can stay here and have it to themselves. It's nice because it has its own laundry room and also a half bath and a full kitchen.

As if the interiors of the Cuddy's home weren't perfect enough, we step outside, where camellia-blossomed nooks, an unexpected and fruit-rich orange tree, add a pop of color to the landscape. On one side of the lawn, the fireplace of a comfy outdoor room invites making s’mores, reading a book, taking a snooze, or enjoying late afternoon cocktails. Nearby, what Gretchen calls the garden shed is a "she-shack" too lovely to ever imagine potting plants inside. Here, she also teaches small floral design classes, which she also teaches at The Gibbes Museum of Art.

Heading to the other side of the yard, Brian grins as we head down a brick path and through a door into a cavernous space. The floor has been cleaned until it shines. Bright lights illuminate every spotlessly scrubbed surface, and it could almost work as a set for an episode of Grey's Anatomy. Everything appears ready for a major operation to take place. But then, Buster, the dog, ambles in the door, sniffs, and yawns. It isn't a home-based operating room, though it might do in a pinch. Instead, it's a workshop— the other place noted neurosurgeon Dr. Brian Cuddy goes to take things apart and put them back together. The good-natured doctor takes the ribbing in stride, and it's evident that this is not the first he's been handed. "What can I say," he laughs. "I like things neat."

Shortly after the Cuddy's got settled in the house, they invited a dear friend to dinner who happened to be a Catholic Monsignor. Over the course of the evening, he spontaneously asked if they would like to have the house blessed. Of course, they were delighted, and the Monsignor went room to room, bestowing his blessing on their new residence. Perhaps this blessing explains the feelings of warmth and welcome that have made this The Cuddy House. But there is a fair chance that the Cuddy's arrival in Summerville is the real blessing for us all. AM

village poet

Poem Written While Listening to the Love Ballads of Joe Williams

by Ellen E. Hyatt

It's just a Southern spring shower. The scene is set: it is afternoon. In mere minutes, the grey sky is expected to clear to blue.

But it doesn't. Raindrops—at first resembling tiny parachutes—begin colliding. They bond. They cluster into a tantrummy downpour.

Soon, rain delays traffic, deliveries, and office girls returning from lunch. (Make it a time when calling a female a "girl" meant no offense or harassment.)

Rain is falling from sky to street. Rivulets, rushing the pavement, form mini waterfalls at latticed grates. Everyone runs for cover and waits.

And that'll be our story of how we met. Two strangers coming in from the rain to shelter in a small bookstore whose cat purrs and old wooded floors creak. . In real time, we were simply two people who—for a small moment—looked at each other while waiting for the right bus to round the bend, stop, and open its doors.

It wasn't raining. Nearly cloudless, the sky wasn't even grey. It was blue, the color of your eyes. You boarded the 41B Express and I, the Local 62.