The first time we saw our new house was March 17. A late season snow covered the streets and sidewalks and shrubbery.
In the living room that seemed to go on forever was a tow-headed child sound asleep on a couch that sat perpendicular to the warm glow of the crackling fire behind the metal screen in the fireplace.
Nothing else much mattered about the tour of that old house after seeing that child asleep in front of the fireplace. It was like we were privileged to be buying a house from Norman Rockwell himself.
In no time at all, we had seen the center-hall stairs that led to the three bedrooms. At the other end, the stairs led to the high-ceilinged cellar and the stacks of Brookdale soda cases.