|The word Xenia refers to the Greek tradition of generous hospitality toward strangers.
I am The House on Xenia.
I was born at the turn of the twentieth century, brick by brick, bone by bone. I have stood tall and proud here on Xenia for a very long time. When I was very young, I watched hardworking immigrants arrive and build houses around me. In the 1920s, I saw wealth come and then I saw it go. Then the decades gave way to war. I watched young men say goodbye, and I waited with their families for their return. Laughter and families filled my rooms during the prosperity of the 1950s. The 1960s went by in a psychedelic flash, and then war returned in the 1970s. It brought home men and women broken by its ravages. Then came the inevitable, the years slipped by more quickly and I aged. I am still alive today, but just barely. No people occupy my rooms anymore. It’s been that way for quite some time. I still live but am inhabited now only by rodents, bugs, and old memories. The chilly winter winds howl through the cracks in my windows. The winters are cold, and I feel alone and abandoned—like the neighborhood that surrounds me. It wasn’t always that way. I was once your home.