11-2-96 When I was ten, I lived across the alley from an old lady named Edith. She looked like most old ladies I knew then, not fat, but soft and a little lumpy, her gray hair thinning on the top so her pink scalp showed through, and hunched over, like she was still carrying a basket of eggs from the chicken house. She lived in a small white house with a tidy lawn that my dad would mow because she was too old to do it herself and her men were too busy farming. She would make us a loaf of homemade bread every time he mowed. Her house smelled like that bread, and sugar cookies, and laundry soap. And it smelled like family secrets, like my Grandma's cedar box, like scrapbooks and newspaper clippings and old letters. About once a week, especially in the heat of summer, when it was too hot to ride my bike out on the gravel roads to look for meadow larks, red winged blackbirds and wild roses, I went across the brown, parched lawns and the narrow alley to visit Edith. Sh...