For history and legend sakes, certain attributes, character traits if you will, have to be appointed here at the beginning of This Old House (C. 1742), home for half a century of my life.

Getting on a real Ferris wheel is sometimes a better way to have my head spin. Sheher Dilli surpasses that wretched giant toy.

And we were staunch friends, at the outset of a lasting friendship.

The deep woods glistened with a scary silence, now and then broken and highlighted by the crack of a freezing limb swearing it would fall to earth, yet promising a minor distortion.

We were sitting on empty nail kegs next to his icehouse on the edge of Lily Pond in Saugus, Doc Sawyer and me, talking about everything and nothing in particular.

The mirror folds in on itself. Images separate. At seven years of age I was drowning!

One Christmas many years ago there was for me one present from my parents, a little, done-over red wagon with a long hauling handle, and slatted sides.

There, in his barn, I was a listener as well as a watcher.

The building rose majestically, they all agreed, they who had to a man become proficient carpenters and finish men.

This is the Notre Dame fair, unleashing midway on and has kids and adults yelling at each other in French. Of course, this is Paris.