The Carter Home
I can smell the house with its iron water, staining the sink and commode, the slightly musty unused bedrooms, and the lazy hydrangeas along the porch. A swing with its feather-pillow pad hung on the porch. For a small boy it was just right, if you propped your feet on the arm and the dirt daubers didn’t pester you. Inside, the Victrola, which I was allowed to use, sat behind the oak table in the dining room. It played “Forty…