I travel the same roads to reach my childhood home and yet each trip is a new reminder of the value of familiarity.
“Oh, she painted the front door red,” I say of someone I have never met and will probably never meet. Yet the farmhouse, with the red door, is a memorable landmark with a wrap-around porch and crisp, white bric-a-brac gingerbread trim. It sits on the other side of the railroad tracks-…
