It was midsummer, 2001. I, my father, and my youngest brother Joseph (who was working with us at the time) embarked upon an estate pickup to West Side Scranton where we were greeted by three, better-than-middle-aged sisters. Though the youngest of these women is now a fuzzy memory, the middle and the eldest sisters stick out in my mind.
Baboons with Hammers
When I look upon the magnificence of the Empire State Building or the majesty of the Nicholson Bridge, I wonder how the generation that created such wonders in the first part of the 20th century could also create some of the dumbest, most asinine, chop-busting houses ever made. I become bewildered at how an American society with such architectural visionaries could allow some of their contemporaries–mere baboons with hammers–to construct familial living quarters with five-foot high basements, 22-inch doorways, and six-foot tall bedrooms with 20-inch square cutouts in their cranium crunching ceilings as the means to enter the “attic.”




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