![]() ![]() From the day I learned of its existence I was hooked on secret hiding places, convinced it was my sole responsibility to safeguard our family jewels (I was 4 and there were no jewels). So that's where all the magic moonshine happened. The door led to a series of tunnels out into the backyard where the original copper still was stored along with 60 year old bottles of hooch. Under the rug there was a small door with a metal ring for a handle. I only bring this up to explain the existence of a secret door in the floor of the house's dining room. You can read all about it in my memoir once it's finally finished, but for now dearies that's all you get. I'm told the competition escalated to a full on Lebanese Hatfields-McCoys rivalry. Apparently the neighbors did the same and soon enough they became competitors. Thanks, great-grandparents.ĭuring Prohibition my great-grandparents supplemented their income by being bootleggers, though neither of them drank. It has influenced most of my design choices as an adult. In truth, it was just a creepy turn of the century cellar filled with old tools. There were giant wooden wardrobes to hide in and a basement so terrifying I used to run by the door to it as quickly as I could for fear something unearthly would reach out and grab me. Trunks in the attic were full of tintype photos and old glass perfume bottles. The house looked a little bit like this one though not as beaten up. The street actually doesn't even exist anymore. It was a dark and foreboding structure at the end of dead end street with woods on two sides of it. When I was a kid we lived for a short time in the house my great-grandparents bought when they immigrated from Lebanon.
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