When I was a reporter, I would often walk around my city and look up at the second floors, as I was taught by the old veterans who so generously shared their wisdom with me. I loved those guys, I think of them often.

There was no resentment or cruelty in them, they were tough, but they taught me everything they new. Last night, I stood on the street corner for a few minutes and tried to imagine the lives in the second and third floor windows.

This room, I thought, belonged to a college kid or a young family,  the drapes were hanging so loosely in front of the lamp, the shape in the window could have been a chair or sofa, or a TV or even a crib, although I doubted the crib would be in front of the window.

In my mind, I saw an apartment shared by two or three roommates, or perhaps a young couple just starting out and struggling. You can still rent cheaply in Brattleboro and the town seems to pull in young people adrift and looking for community and meaning.

The window suggested poor people to me, people on the edge, people starting out. The window was lit up late at night, which suggested somebody who was young, maybe listening to music or or an old movie. Young, I kept thing, somebody young. That’s as far as I could get in my mind. I didn’t sense trouble behind that window, just struggle, and the two things are very different.