From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
The rough cedar of my new Lincoln Logs scrapes against my palms as I build a miniature fortress to shut out the rowdy, drunken wakes echoing from the Broadway saloons. It’s a lousy waste of spirit, yet even as the city goes dry, the baker still demands a full $0.06 for a single loaf of white bread. The stiff wool of my knickers itches against my knees, a tactile reminder of the rigid world my elders are desperately trying to sober up. I press my thumb into the notched wood, tracing the grain and wondering if these tiny timber walls can withstand the looming shift in our national foundation.