Michelle Holley

About 15 years ago, my adopted mom, Ann Wainscott—who was an artist and Jewish—told me about old Dayton Street. Her family, when they came over as immigrants from France, lived on Wade Street. She remembered, as a little girl, going with her cousins down Dayton Street and seeing these old mansions that were somewhat abandoned. She said they were so beautiful. They had marble fireplaces and all this stuff. I had never seen Dayton Street.

One day, she had her little Miata, and she was about 92 at the time—very young in spirit. She put on a turban and said, ‘Come on, let’s go on down to Dayton Street.’ So I did. We found it, and I fell in love with my house: 824 Dayton Street. It has a limestone façade, Juliet balconies, a carport, and all arched windows. It reminded me of Venice, which I love very much. From that day on, we would come and visit my house—even though it wasn’t for sale—and I’d say, ‘I’m going to live there one day.’

We went through the house and it was a mess. There were seven kitchens. It was terrible. There were bedbugs. We saw a big ol’ rat the first time we walked through. All the paint was coming off the walls. And I said, ‘Oh, I love it. I love everything about this house. I love it.’

We had the house. We had Dayton Street. She stayed here until she died at 106. I’m sorry. I thought I was going to say the house saved us, but it was the house and the children and the church that saved us. When she died, we had her funeral at the little church next door. The Q-Kids danced. She thought she was a Black Baptist. It was a beautiful send-off. And now I’m here. I’m still here.