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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