I vividly remember flying when I lived in this house in Framingham, Mass. I was three years old, and the world stopped short, just like in a Matrix Movie, and I flew down the stairs. It was a magical place and time. I spent hours calling to Mary Poppins, begging her to come out of that chimney you see. My parents still were together, and my father would play hide and seek with me on our property, his change jingling, giving him away every time. We had a barn and a cottage on the property, and a pond and much-much land. That was the last time I remember feeling spaciousness, full-open-wide living spaces, home, and wandering-lands to grow in. Now, all our land has been sold and re-sold, built and rebuilt upon, divided in a zillion ways. No longer the sloping yard, the fence, the long and winding road, nor quiet. Time and all her nasty attendants steamrolled over all that. In the name of progress. Yet, still, it lingers in my heart as the place where I learned to fly down the stairs with a pillow belted to my rear end.