My first glimpse of home was framed by chain link and a thicket of weeds that tickled the thighs of the modest Queen Anne cottage. Though she may have once recoiled at their persistent overtures, she seemed now to have resigned herself to their touch. She had that skeptical look shared by her neighbors who preferred to remain unnoticed by passersby—oglers, no doubt, intent upon taking advantage of her state of neglect. Strangers came in two kinds, those wishing to lay siege to her interior spaces, ransack her guts for copper pipes, or those wishing to undress her, paint her up pretty, give her an open concept and some god forsaken backsplash. I could see that she was not expecting me.
