Bits of plaster crumble from the ceiling of Alex Raskin Antiques, covering a nineteenth-century mahogany table in a sheet of dust. The floors whine and creak as we make our way through the first of the mansion’s four haphazard, jam-packed levels.
My husband, Hartford, and I have been house shopping inconclusively in his hometown of Savannah since our wedding here three years ago. Now we’re getting ahead of ourselves, browsing furniture. We regard a massive, worn cotton factor’s desk tucked in a back room. “I hope no one ever buys that,” Raskin says. “Because I have no idea how they’ll get it out of here.”
Born and raised in Savannah, Raskin remembers when part of Abercorn Street, a main artery now, was a dirt road; when dialing Tybee Island, fifteen miles away, was a long-distance call; and when people got dressed up to go downtown. On the one hand, it wasn’t so long ago. On the other, the city is so different now. Unsurprisingly in his line of work,
