We followed the road almost to the end, where Dad pointed up at our
new house.
"Well, kids, welcome to Ninety-three Little Hobart Street!" Mom said.
"Welcome to home sweet home."
We all stared. The house was a dinky thing perched high up off the road
on a hillside so steep that only the back of the house rested on the
ground. The front, including a drooping porch, jutted precariously into
the air, supported by tall, spindly cinder-block pillars. It had been
painted white a long time ago, but the paint, where it hadn't peeled off
altogether, had turned a dismal gray.
"It's good we raised you young 'uns to be tough," Dad said. "Because this
is not a house for the faint of heart."
Dad led us up the lower steps, which were made of rocks slapped
together with cement. Because of settling and erosion and downright
slipshod construction, they tilted dangerously toward the street. Where
the stone steps ended, a rickety set of stairs made from two-by-fours—
more like a ladder than a staircase—took you up to the front porch.
Inside were three rooms, each about ten feet by ten feet, facing onto the
front porch. The house had no bathroom, but underneath it, behind one of
the cinder-block pillars, was a closet-sized room with a toilet on a
cement floor. The toilet wasn't hooked up to any sewer or septic system.
It just sat atop a hole about six feet deep. There was no running water
indoors. A water spigot rose a few inches above the ground near the
toilet, so you could get a bucket and tote water upstairs. While the house
was wired for electricity, Dad confessed that we could not at the moment
afford to have it turned on.
On the upside, Dad said, the house had cost only a thousand dollars, and
the owner had waived the down payment. We were supposed to pay him