As a little boy, there was nothing I liked better than Sunday aftemoons at my grandfather's farm in western Pennsylvania. Surrounded by miles of winding1 stonewalls, the house and barn provided endless hours of fun for a city kid like me. I was used to parlors2 neat as a pin that seemed to whisper, "Not to be touched!"
I can still remember one afternoon when I was eight years old. Since my first visit to the farm, I'd wanted more than anything to be allowed to climb the stonewalls surrounding the property. My parents would never approve. The walls were old; some stones were missing, others loose and crumbling3. Still, my yearning4 to scramble5 across those walls grew so strong. One spring afternoon, I summoned all my courage and entered the living room, where the adults had gathered
