I’m being haunted by a house, an old farmhouse in the Pacific Northwest. It’s long gone now, burned in a fire many years ago, Mom told me. I spent only a few months there in the fall of 1973. We shared room and board with a kind young man. I remember his first name but his face and last name have evaporated along with the shimmering wonder of late evening stars country living must have afforded. Gone also are the names and faces of the…
