I was born in the small white house at the bend of Croft Road in Yarrow Crossing,

raised under the shadow of fir trees, thick enough to muffle thunder.

Yarrow Crossing is a town that doesn't see newcomers often.

Fewer than 300 of us, give or take, depending on who had a baby or packed up their

trailer last winter.

No major highways lead here, so we're pretty isolated from the rest of the world.

Everyone here greets everyone, even if you don't like them parents tell each other whose boy is

smoking behind the shed again and which houses to avoid on certain days not

because of any scandal but because it's just understood that's how it is

with Sundays.

We don't talk about Sundays much unless we have to.

It isn't written in any town charter or hung on a plaque in the city hall, but the rule

is older than any ordinance.

You don't answer the door on a Sunday.

Not even a crack.

Not even if it's your mother's voice on the other side.

Especially not then.

We don't bury our dead on Sundays.

We don't hold weddings or picnics.

Church is always on Saturday afternoon.

If someone shows up to sell you something, you'll know they're from out of town.

I've heard people call it superstition or a folktale, something meant to scare kids out of mischief.

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