Maple Hill

Unremarkable rowhouses now line the rolling hills where the conifers of your grand estate stood. The weeping willow, that persistent antebellum symbol, is long gone too, and your winding carriage path is now a straight road lined with too many cars. I should admit (embarrassed as I am to tell you) that I live in one of these unremarkable rowhouses.

The Belvedere

I wish I could have seen you in your prime. Vestiges of your splendor remain—gilded ballrooms, grand chandeliers, lavish boiserie—that fill my mind with romantic images of your romantic past.