39th Street

When does Louisville go to bed?
The travel clock toys with my head.
I went to sleep at 8:00 p.m. — the sky still clear as day.
At 5:30 a.m., I rise again to a sky that smiles as though it never slept.

George and BJ are both asleep, I use this chance to go into BJ’s queen room.I love the idea of a queen room. A place befitting its name. A room where a queen rests, folds laundry, watches television, or simply enjoys her own company — which she treasures deeply. Even if she is out of the room, her presence fills the room. The room, like the rest of the house, is rich in story and softened by thoughtful decor.

BJ speaks softly, so much so that I must lean in with intention to catch the symphony of stories she shares. If speech were like handwriting, BJ would be print — clear, single-spaced, each word unfolding with gentle precision. Everytime BJ speaks, I am reminded of Maya Angelou that deep, warm, poetic expression of an experienced voice. Her stories are curated with care, each a pearl from a memory well-lived.

Decorations in every corner of the house are like stanzas of an untold poem. There is a noticeable liking to elephants which are decorated in different hues and patterns. The Queen room for instance has a touch of playful maroon and a memory of elephants in gold. The living room is painted butter yellow perhaps symbolic of a rising sun. A sculpture of a modern African woman, crowned in braids, stands poised in the living room, a silent invitation, a statement of strength and Africanicity. The house on 39th street feels like home with a you-are-welcome-to-stay soul. I love it!

ature has been invited inside the home. Green pothos and Anglonemas are dressed in elegant decorative ceramics planters. I can tell by looking at the leaves that they are loved by poetic hands. BJ does things with a decorum, a golden finise from the way she dices vegetables to the way she folds towels. A yellow and white figurine of matching ducks could summarize BJ’s character. Neat and first-born-meticulous. The ducks, of course, must be in line!

It surprises me though how people with such different personalities can live in corded harmony. George my friend on the hand could talk until the cows come home. “You have a nice accent”. He said to me when we first met at the Muhammad Ali Museum in 2015. The wind blew my papers to him but in essence, the wind blew me to him and birthed a friendship that I hold in high esteem. A talking friendship.

George loves working with his hands. The very embodiment of the Makerere College School Motto: “Be known by works and only good works. If he could let his hands keep working while he slept, he would. He spends most of his awake time in the basement studio than in any other room. George does not invite sleep for it would be too lazy to do so. Sleep stealthily invites him. I have seen him dozing off in the Queen room sofa.

I love his ethos and the way he breathes into his passions.

“Hey young lady, I have one more to go”
“We have to dream until we go”. He says

Each new morning, GA has new dreams. The GA Studio — the living museum of his life with a collection of his most priced memories. Every time he invites me to the studio, I feel like a door to the vault of wisdom, courage, wild dreams has been opened. “On air” a signage reads. I quickly go over his books and pick a book on writing “The writing trade”. The collection of books is varied from writing to branding, typical someone who is widely read. Nowonder he laces arguments with anecdotal evidence.

Two books make him exceedingly proud; The series of Who is who among African Americans with a page dedicated to him. I could see his eyes beaming with pride when he pulled it out from among many books to show me his name. ” Look that’s me.” A portrait of a young George in a dark blue suit. The other, a book written with his own hands “Moments in the shadow of Greatness by George Addison Jr.”

George has worn many coats in this one life: a soldier, media man, teacher, coach — and now, podcaster. I have worked with the Bank for 16 years, something him and his daughter Lindsay don’t agree with, yet still, they honor the soul of my story. Even with shape shifting careers, his passion remains unchanged: to change the narrative and tell stories with truth and with purpose. “Life is lived moment by moment”, he says and I totally agree.

Even if George and Brenda’s passions and personalities are as different as tea and coffee, their friendship has outgrown many neighbors on 39th Street. The home, I am told was built in 1901. They have lived in this home for many years, and built their marriage on a firm foundation. GA could be working in the studio all day, BJ could be tending to plants but when they meet, they express love in profound ways.

I love BJ,” George says, “because she lets me be who I am.”

They are both storytellers. BJ, I am convinced, carries within her a memoir waiting to be written — a trove of untold stories rendered in quiet, straight lines and punctuated with photographs from memory’s album.

My mother took good care of us,” BJ says. “As the eldest, I took care of my siblings.” My mother lived in that house. Her eyes glimmer when she speaks of her mother fondly.

“My grandmother taught me how to knit pointing to the yarn in the Queen room and when I didn’t get it right, she would ask me to do it again and again until I got tired of trying.

“Advertising in America can be misleading” BJ warns
They get people to keep buying.
There was a time when they were marketing a pet rock. (stone). A rock you could keep as a pet instead of a living pet like a dog.
Everybody was convinced to buy it.
I didn’t buy one, it wasn’t rational to me.”

George’s own coming-of-age story is shaped by sacrifice and service. He started working when he was 17. His mother and folks couldn’t afford college tuition so he joined the army, a path that promised education, discipline, and leadership. He speaks of it with reverence. The photos of their children serving in the army, a beautiful legacy of a parent bestowing upon his own, a path that led to his success. The path that he knew too well.

“Send them to the army when they turn 18,” he says. “They come back with leadership and strength. Then they can live on their own.”

At 39th street, I have eaten stories as much as I have sipped lemon tea. Each morning, BJ pours love from a cute black pot into my glass cup. Her cooking is as beautiful as her voice. “would you love your eggs with vegetables? She asks nearly every morning because it matters to her that the egg is made right for me.”

I have feasted on steak, pork ribs, bacon, potatoes, ginger ale, strawberries salad. The onions and tomatoes — chopped with military precision. When guests visited on Sunday, she laid out the table with the most beautiful cutlery and white-beaded platters.

“We will have to open the double door when you return,” my sister Noela teased after seeing the breakfast spread.

I came to 39th Street to visit my friend, GA — to rest my head and troubled heart. My cup was drained. As GA aptly said in our welcome prayer, “May she find peace of heart and mind.”

I didn’t know then that healing would come not through conversation, but through presence. Through love lived in laughter and routine. In the rhythm of two souls who have mastered the dance of life — each step, deliberate and kind. They have built their own world on their terms. They are a Blessed and Blended family.

If I should ever forget what true love looks like,
let me remember 39th Street.
Let me remember George and Brenda Addison,
their yellow house,
the joy of great grand babies
and the stories they have fed me.

Blessings, George and Brenda Addison.
I miss swinging at the balcony.
I miss the peace that shone in my heart brighter than the summer skies.

Until next time!

Words are my precious gift to you.

Thank you for being part of my story.