When it rained in the winter, the old kitchen was the center of the house. If we’d just gotten off the school bus, we had a long, trudging walk up the sandy driveway to the front porch, the first sheltered place reached.

Rain would drip from the wisteria vine that grew across the length of the porch and we’d drip a trail down the front hall, throwing our jackets and books onto the old oak hat rack.

Sometimes, often, our wet jackets would slide off the hooks onto the floor, but our damp books would stay on the seat. We’d run down the back hall to the kitchen door and burst into the warmth. That’s where one of

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