The little brick bungalow on a quiet tree-lined street.The creaky front porch where neighbors waved and kids dropped their bikes in a heap.The basement that smelled faintly like mildew and ambition, where a ping pong table leaned against wood-paneled walls and a “rec room” became the setting for birthday parties, teenage angst, and late-night conversations.
Most of us in St. Louis grew up in some version of that house.
It was not fancy. It was not open concept. The refrigerator was probably avocado or harvest gold. There was a “good couch” nobody was allowed Continue Reading →
