It wasn't until we got close to the house--we'd seen it from the highway, on our way out of town, and just couldn't pass it up--that we realized it was built of purple glass. Cinder-block-sized bricks of purple glass.
Suddenly finding ourselves on foot, we followed the driveway down and around to the back. A garage; a deck off the second floor; a couple of garbage cans--a suburban backyard tacked on to a Victorian derelict.
Back out front, the caretaker was dragging an broken badminton net to the curb. He looked like Mark Twain and spoke to us in Greek.
Inside, some neighbors from the Winstead days. Sunlight thorugh the plywood-covered windows illulminated the room: she was making a rag doll for a granddaughter; he offered us refreshments and directions.
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