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 >