It was a beautiful spring evening when we arrived at Fort Lee Street, a time of the day I know now (from hanging out with photographers) is called "the golden hour." And I still remember that light, how soft it was, how full of promise.
Though the trees were shorter then, the neighborhood looked established, lived in. Kids had a game of touch football going in the yard across the street. There were two little girls next door and another one from down the street. I looked at the throng, thought of the playmates and babysitting potential, and smiled.
The next morning, Tom woke up and went in for his first day of work (which means he's celebrating a work anniversary today, though he doesn't make a big deal of it).
All this is to say that our roots in this clay soil go deep. They weren't supposed to ... but they did —and still do.