Nathan Everett
Wait! I have another good idea.
Almost Dinner
Growing up had its good points but there was no question that we were “lower class.” Many of my classmates lived in houses that had been built by professional builders and that were sold to them by real estate agents. Some were on the St. Joseph River; some were made of brick; some, like the preacher’s house, were made of Indiana limestone. All of them seemed fantastically lovely.
What my classmates, for the most part didn’t have was 10 acres of wild abandon. Our house was set well back from the road and a horseshoe drive extended from one oak tree to the next in what could have been a long, elegant sweep for a grand house. Our two- then three- then six- then ten-room house with tarpaper on the walls was almost obscured by the half-dozen cars parked haphazardly around the property. The black cinder driveway looked more like the entrance to a scrapyard.