I moved into a loft on Broad Street for no reason other than the name. – Over the Blackheart.
That was the name of the salon who rented the space below. If nothing else, it was a 25-step climb each day and night to perch above Kingsport’s downtown—just high enough to watch it all without fully escaping it. That apartment lived inside the noise of a historic, model city doing what it’s always done: reminding you it’s still alive.
Trains rolled through with their steady insistence. Church bells marked time whether you were paying attention or not. Mustangs and Camaros roared beneath the windows, engines echoing off brick and storefront glass. Truck bros came down from the hills every Friday and Saturday night, looping the blocks past Macado’s like it was a ritual. Karaoke spilled into the street on Saturdays—half confidence, half chaos, all very downtown.
That place was never meant to be permanent. It was a vantage point, a name, a perch above the noise. What I’m living in now is something else entirely—and I didn’t fully feel the difference until later, walking back into a half-finished building after a birthday party, alone, feeling like a crazed old man in a cobbled castle, chasing a dream that only made sense once the door closed behind me.
Cities change you quietly. Eventually, the novelty of the perch gives way to the need for something sturdier—something with walls you can push against and floors you can tear up without asking permission.
Earlier tonight, I walked into this 75-year-old structure, and it was impossible not to measure the distance from Broad Street—not just geographically, but personally. Life has changed since the move from downtown.
The apartment upstairs has quickly become home. Windows covered in tattered craft paper and photo backdrops standing in for drapery. There’s heat. There’s light. There’s water. A place to eat. A place to veg out. A room or two to play music. A busy highway just outside, trading downtown spectacle for constant motion.
This wasn’t a quick renovation. It’s been two years in motion and one full year living inside the work. Dust, delays, second guesses, and decisions stacked on top of each other. After all of that, the inside is finally halfway complete. I feel like an old man building out a vision—whatever he may yet become—turning this place into a working studio instead of running between an office and a transient home.
For now, this commercial property will suffice.
It won’t be long until the downstairs is finished. There’s a grand piano covered in plastic and wrapped beneath the rug from Old Castle—both protection and memory layered over the same instrument. That house is now more than three years in the rearview mirror. Despite my damn phone and digital footprint—
No. Stop. Don’t go there. That part always sucks.
Stay with the place.
It’s a minimal setup. Photos I’ve taken line the walls—none that haunt me, all tied to time and place. Google and Alexa keep watch on both sides of the house. The screens have just started.
Downstairs, we’re waiting on Moroccan-colored tile to complement the pine ceiling and the original brick—brick that once housed the early offices of Vulcan Materials. I imagine dump trucks in the 1950s laying the foundation for at least twenty businesses over the last 75 years. Now it becomes an apartment upstairs and commercial space below: a conference room, offices, a break room, large closets, and a massive 37×27 room for music and entertainment.
Why not?
Right now, though, it’s a dust pit. Last year I demoed the massive ceiling heat. Dust from new ceilings, new flooring, and jackhammers leaves a crusty entrance into the place I’m calling Home for a While.
It’s been a tough struggle—time, money, energy—to jump into something like this. But as long as I’m alive, it’s forward.
I sleep well here. The railroad tracks are less than half a mile away, running toward Warriors’ Path. The sound is familiar. Steady. A reminder that things move whether you’re ready or not.
I ran into my old high school health teacher, Catherine Gilbert, the other day at Raffaele’s. If nothing else, Colonial Heights has always been home. I moved here in ’76. Bought my first house in Indian Springs in ’01. Back again in 2025.
The flooring is going in now. Hopefully by February we can turn our attention to siding and landscaping. For the moment, the shopping continues. I’m punch-drunk from decisions—blinds, floors, siding—and tethered to the IV drip of my IRA funding the whole enterprise.
Who knows. Maybe it becomes something that lasts. For a while.
It’ll be a little quirky. Ideas pulled from Pluribus, Broad Street, and a blank slate are starting to form something unique. There are still screens to mount, audio choices to make, and a security system to finish—4K, all the way around.
We’re on the lookout for a drum set. Maybe a Pac-Man machine too. Something to pass the time—and keep my best friend coming back to defend his high score.
