And when her father, a country boy from Ohio, built his family a house back in 1925, he chose a spot near Belhaven College so he'd be sure to keep a bit of green around them, but that college has added so many parking lots, and there are so many cars whizzing by nowadays. Still, Eudora Welty's street is shaded by tall trees. Her driveway is a sheet of pine needles, and her house is dark and cool, with high ceilings, polished floors, comfortable furniture and a wonderfully stark old kitchen. Now she is alone, the last of a family of five. But the house seems solid and well tended, and it's clear that she has the vitality to fill its spare rooms.
Every flat surface is covered with tidy stacks of books and papers.
Her hair is white now, and she walks with some care and wears an Ace bandage around her wrist to ease a touch of arthritis. But the eyes are still as luminous as ever, radiating kindness and. In particular, she is pleased by words, by ways of saying things, snatches of dialogue overheard, objects' names discovered and properly applied. Even in conversation, the proper word matters deeply to her and is worth a brief pause while she hunts for it. It was like watching a negative develop, slowly coming clear before your eyes.