of the nineteen hundreds was the age of flight-- of the Wright brothers and Frank Lloyd Wright-- symbolized by the front and rear cantilevers together with their steel beams allowing them to soar freely for the many decades since construction. One can fall in love, whether head over heels, gradually, or fast. At first, some of us experience that “walking on air” feeling, then coming down to earth and settling down, followed by different stages as one ages. But, before family, colleagues, co-workers, the future father-in-law, or the next-door neighbor. Getting to know the Wright “family”--comprised of other Wright homeowners, Wright scholars, writers, curators, professors, admirers, students, photographers, journalists, aficionados, and sightseers-- nearly everyone enriched my life and at times my library. I could not afford to go out into the world very much, but the world came to me. Only twice in all those years did someone walk up uninvited, ring the bell, and request to see the house. One person came with his book in hand and became a pen pal. Some scholars put fancy sentences together or write hagiographies while making unfounded conclusions that do not go over too well with the one who swept the porch, steps, and gutters. He was not one of these. It made for lively letters between us and a few conversations. Other dialogues with other authors who were helpful and supportive also led to long-term friendships. Equally important were the workmen, the craftsmen who helped us make the house into what it became by 2001 when I parted from it. I really had a battle trying to dissuade the first editor of my
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