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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