Week seven here

Week six here

Week five here

Week four here

Week three here

Week two here

Week one here

Another rambling story

My childhood home was attached to a concrete factory. Our family homestead had the rare and distinctive combination of both residential and heavy industrial zonings. And when I say that our house was attached, I mean that if you walked all the way down the hallway that ran down the middle of our house and opened the door at the end; you would be assailed by the scent of form oil, curing concrete and tar. As far as industrial scents go, you could do far worse (for instance, sulfur), and I still have a soft spot for the scent of melting tar. That and the fact that you can catch a sweet buzz from the melting of that petroleum product.

Our home was located in an abandoned limestone quarry, the walls of which had a sheer drop of about 200 feet. There were trails along the edge of the quarry that snaked their way up to the park that rested at the top. It was called Eagle Point Park after the bald eagles that would nest there in the winter, hoping to snag a fish from the open spot in the ice below Lock and Dam Number 11. At night, the edge of the quarry was a magnet for drunks, and on at least two occasions, the fire trucks had to come and rescue the falling fools from a ledge that served to snag the inebriated before they fell to their deaths. Seeing the fire trucks with their lights on and sirens wailing was great fun, though.

About 200 yards away from our front door, past the railroad tracks and the lumber yard, was the Mississippi River.

It was a wonderful location, and I can