It was one of those lazy, hazy midsummer days in the Northeast, when the humidity hangs thick and wet over the land. I was driving through the back roads of central Vermont, looking for a particular house–an address tucked away on a dirt lane far from the beaten path. These were the years before I had settled in this area and called it home. I didn’t know my way around.
Sure enough, as I came to an unmarked intersection, I took a wrong turn. I didn’t know it at first. It took a couple of minutes. But when I drove several more miles and didn’t have a clue where I was, I decided to stop in the gravel parking lot of a country store. It was the only place I saw, aside from isolated farmhouses and old, weathered barns, that might offer the hope of someone providing directions to steer…
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Crazy Pasta Child 