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Born in Chicago, I grew up in Evanston, Illinois on the corner of Asbury Ave and Lyons Street in a large Georgian Home. I revisit this lovely architectural gem in my imagination and in dreams. There I find my parents waiting for me, and see myself growing up, marrying, bringing my first child home to my parents. In a sense, the new novel, Facing East, is highly autobiographical. The following is a short excerpt from a scene where Katherine articulates for me something I think about.
“I was wondering if memories have DNA; if it’s possible that a house retains the collective memories of those who have lived in it?”
“I don’t know, Mom, maybe the most recent occupants who are making new memories over write some sort of memory chip the house may have?”
“I remember when my father took paint remover to the tiles around this fireplace and found these beautiful redbrick-color etched four by fours. It was a discovery that pleased him no end. You and I both know this happened, but those who come along won’t. I don’t want this to be forgotten, but I know it will be.” From my new novel, Facing East