Nell Minow

When my husband and I met as teenagers, we told each other stories about the houses we lived in as children, and what we missed about them. Mine was a second-story screened-in porch with a swing and vines of roses growing outside. His was a fireplace with tiles illustrating Shakespeare's plays. That seemed magical to me. 

 More than 30 years later, we were at an event near his old neighborhood. He wanted to walk around, so he dropped me at a bookstore and said he’d be back in an hour. Two hours later, he came in, his arms full of some oddly-shaped package. The new owner of his old house was doing yard work out front, and they started to chat. "I used to live here." "Really? I heard there was a family with a lot of kids who lived here in the 60s." "Yes, that was us, six kids." "Would you like to come in and look around?" He would! But the fireplace was gone. They had to take it out because it was not up to code. "What happened to the Shakespeare tiles?" "They're in the garage. Do you want them?"

And now they are on the fireplace in our bedroom. They are magical.