Mary Woods had the biggest house on the block. It was an American four-square to which she had added rooms, closed in porches—added more porches—and expanded the spaces between eaves for more attic. The house filled her yard, rambling from street to alley. She needed the space because she collected things—everything—no matter the size or condition. Even in her sixties, still muscular and broad shouldered, we observed her hauling a discarded sofa on her back, struggling up the hill to her house like a peddler from a storybook whose sack was laden with broken dreams. When we occasioned inside the house, we squeezed through doors that would not fully open for the rooms were jammed with furniture, the living room with dozens of sofas, some stacked on others, and the dining room with five tables, some missing legs or leaves, and chairs enough to seat an orchestra. Bric-a-brac, knick-a-knack and salmagundi Sazerac! Warehouse and museum and nest to mice, spiders, and scuttling pine beetles, it was nonetheless a home to which she welcomed us, offering us children crusted hard candies dug out of lard tins and crumbling cookies which she reassembled on plates of mismatched China. She, with her wig askew, gingham dress and rain boots, as well as her house, was a wonder and a joy.
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