If the Rosemont's lawn on Oakland Avenue could indeed be called postage stamp sized, it could also be called postcard perfect.
The lawn was meticulously manicured. Everything was perfectly spaced in the tiny flower garden. (Hattie had measured everything with her yardstick.) Even the lamppost got a fresh coat of paint every few months.
As impressive as all that was, the inside of the house was a masterpiece, a tribute to cleanliness.
Bright curtains adorned the white and cream-colored kitchen. Everything looked as good, no, actually looked even better, than the day it was installed.
The polished chrome of the teakettle reflected the whole room from its perch on the stove. Doorknobs sparkled in the light. The table was so shiny that, it too, acted like a mirror.
The parlor car
