Kith & Kin

“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” The request came from aged Mrs. White, a tiny white-haired Southern belle. Cindy and I, early in our marriage, were working for her in exchange for free rent in the apartment above her garage. As the lazy afternoon Southern sun drifted through the gauzy windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air, Cindy and I were vacuuming the floors and wiping down her antiques—in a futile effort to conquer those same motes when they came to rest. Mrs. White was an easy person to work for. She wasn’t demanding or demeaning or unreasonable. Her wants were generally few. “Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” “Sure, Mrs. White. What kind of box did you say?” “Clinics. A clinics box.” She seemed a bit frustrated, which was unusual for her, so I didn’t press it any further. Clearly a clinics box must be some kind of first-aid kit, filled with items you might find at doctors’ ...

Early in the 1990s Cindy and I bought our first house. It was a homey little place that suited our growing family well. It was less than 1000 square feet, but it had a kitchen, living room, bathroom, and three bedrooms. I remember decorating the third bedroom in preparation for the arrival of our first baby girl. That was a new experience and a lot of fun! We lived, as we told everyone, “next to the farmers’ market on Rutherford.” The street was North Acres Drive, and it was shaped like a tennis racquet—one two-lane road that led both in and out with a loop of houses at the top. We lived in #2, the house you’re facing when you come to a stop at the top of the handle. As I cast my mind back over the few years we were there, I find a set of disjointed but mostly warm memories. . . . ·        One Father’s Day I came out of the bedroom and saw little Ben, probably three or four years old, eating his brown-sugar toast (cut up into bite-sized piec...