The Washington Post, March 26th, 1995
I moved again, recently, for the 17th time since that summer. Each time I pack and unpack these sturdy cardboard boxes, I am amazed not by what has been lost or broken, but by what I find and by what endures. The souvenirs I never meant to keep are the ones that startle me most. That's the way it is with "Nola." It was June, just before school let out. I was 11 years old, finishing the sixth grade. Each day when I got home, I would change out of my hot wool uniform and head for the piano. I had taken lessons since the age of 6 and thought I would be a concert pianist when I grew up. The fact t...
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