Where William D. White Lived

The casual observer might not notice the extra mailbox wired to the chain link fence. It’s painted white with a neatly hand-lettered red “228” and aligns with the other mailboxes along Weldin Lane. However, no two bedroom, brick-and-frame ranch home with manicured lawn stands behind this mailbox; only a slightly worn footpath.

The curious observer might follow the path alongside the honeysuckle-covered fence that marks the backyards of two homes facing Marsh Road. To the right, through gaps in the foliage, appears a weathered gray stucco wall with an inset red block, creating a focal point of sorts. On the back side, the wall frames a tiny courtyard paved in crumbling cement and marked by a pointed stone set upright like an obelisk. Eight round stones contain a shallow pool in the corner, and a large flat stone serves as a landing for the two steps leading to the front door of a small, reddish-yellow, adobe cube of a house.

Once the surprise has passed from discovering such a primitive dwelling tucked within suburbia, the careful observer may admire several unique design features. Five beams break the line of a gently sloping flat roof with a notched cut-out revealing a second red block. A smaller roof supported by four-inch square posts shelters a ponderous solid wood paneled door. To the left at ground level, a small alcove chiseled into the wall displays rounded river rocks.

The bold observer now walks up to the door and knocks. There’s a sound of shuffling feet and the turning of a tarnished brass knob. Then the occupant opens the door to greet his guest.

“Why, hello there,” says a Giuseppe-like figure with a broad smile, “Won’t you come in?” He tilts his head, bows slightly, and sweeps a welcoming gesture with his arm. The guest returns the smile and takes her place across the room on a Navajo blanket covering a low, lumpy mattress that doubles as a bed and couch.

The man sits in a straight-backed metal chair with vinyl-covered seat cushion, his back to a large, 12-paned window that doesn’t seem to open. To his right near the door stands a sturdy easel that holds a painting of a small figure in an apocalyptic landscape lit by a round yellow sun. The scents of oil paint and mineral spirits mingle with burning wood and stale cigarettes.

The artist wears a short-sleeved, button-down shirt; dingy, but not dirty. The shirttails almost reach over his round belly to brown trousers that collect in folds above worn leather slip-on shoes. He lights a Pall Mall and pulls air through the unfiltered cigarette, then absently flicks ash into the air, stirring a myriad of back-lit dust particles as it drifts to the bare wooden floor.

What strikes the visitor most are the artist’s bright, faded-blue eyes, framed by a clean-shaven, jowly face with a round fleshy nose. His white hair extends like a worn bristle brush around the back of his head and over his ears. Thick tufts grow from his ears, nostrils and above his eyes.

His conversation flows easily, punctuated with hearty laughs and an occasional rasping cough. Each person speaks when moved to do so, without urgency to fill space with chatter. After a while, the artist announces he’s going to the dungeon to make some witches brew and climbs down a set of stone stairs a few feet from his chair.

Curious, the visitor peeks over the wooden railing into an earthen cellar lit only by embers from an open fireplace. The artist pours water from a plastic bottle, as there is no faucet, into a charred tin cup reminiscent of lava-encrusted artifacts discovered at Pompeii. He adds several shakes from a jar of Maxwell House instant coffee, an equal amount of Domino pure cane sugar, stirs the brew, and sets the cup onto the fire.

The artist’s entire living quarters encompass a 20-foot square by roughly 12-foot high area, minus the 8 by 8-foot cut out to the dungeon, to the right of the front door. Walled off in the back right corner is the bathroom, a remnant from days when the house enjoyed indoor plumbing.

The visitor returns to her place, lifts the lid of a handmade wooden pencil box on the table before her and begins doodling on a sheet of copy paper. The artist emerges from the dungeon with his steaming cup of witches brew, sets it on his palette, and lights another Pall Mall.