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.
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