The snowy streets of Worcester.
Our old apartment was one of the countless wooden three-decker houses that seem to make up the majority of the buildings in Worcester. Someone once told me that this kind of house was so common in the city because a historical fire regulation prevented people from building taller than three stories -- the limit of what the ladder trucks of the time could reach.
We found that the owners had done some work on our old apartment: they had enclosed what had been an open porch at the front of the second floor, facing the street. I suppose this expansion gave them another room to rent. I'd hate to be the person who rented it, though: the pre-existing front room was always the coldest in the apartment. This new room, thrust out over the first-floor porch, must be even colder.
Our most beloved former abode, 64 Fruit Street #2. Our apartment was the entire second floor of the red building.
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