I began to see the same fleece-clad, BlackBerried DINKs at the open houses I'd race to each Sunday.

It is hard not to give in and accept the verdicts of Voltaire that history is the lie commonly agreed upon and of Henry Ford that history is bunk. When faced with the Marxist fantasies of Srejovic or Childe, or with the psychohistorical hallucinations of Julian Jaynes, I realize that history is never a science and rarely an art, and the historian who pretends to the former loses the latter.

The building has long since been demolished.

From the moment he started dating my mom, I never doubted that it was meant to be.