Before I started using next-door-neighbor Jim Black’s hunting trailer as a summertime teen hideout, the bulk of the sleepovers I had in the neighborhood growing up were at James Darne’s house. He lived up at the bottom of Fall Place, the older of two boys, and around about age 9 his parents gave him the run of the downstairs, making the entirety of it his bedroom. Like our downstairs, it had a shelf running all along the walls at about boy-shoulder height. The back wall of James’s basement, though, the one opposite the front windows, was covered above this shelf ledge in mirrored tile with gold veining.
This kind:
