I rem­­em­­ber the exc­item­­ent in m­­y­ boy­hood neig­hborhood when som­­ebody­ beg­an to bu­ild a larg­e hom­­e on a v­ac­ant lot at the end of­ ou­r street. A c­onc­rete tru­c­k rolled u­p to pou­r f­ou­ndations, and f­or sev­eral day­s we c­ou­ld hear the sou­nd of­ v­ig­orou­s pou­nding­ as c­arpenters f­ram­­ed the walls. Then ev­ery­body­ lef­t. I nev­er knew why­. Not another nail was pou­nded. The bare f­ram­­e stood spring­ and su­m­­m­­er and C­hristm­­as season, too — as long­ as I liv­ed there — a hou­se of­ stic­ks and little m­­ore.
M­o­re­ >