Funny how a small thing can make all the difference. When I saw the narrow brick street lined with grandfather oaks with a canopy of gnarled, leafy limbs above, I made up my mind. The old house had a big covered porch with wide steps and fat brick columns and a white porch swing. It was autumn and school had just let out. Laughing children were running home in the slanting sunlight. My husband didn't get it. He saw missing roof shingles, crumbling foundation, old plumbing and ancient wiring. But I knew. He left long ago, but I will never leave. It is my home.