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 &g­t;