PATRICK O. writes:

The article entitled “No Place Like Home” from a couple of days ago brought back a memory. Sometime in the late 1960s I was riding south on the elevated train in Chicago through an area of two- and three-flat apartments. From the train I could see down into the backyards of these old apartment buildings. Trashed yard after trashed yard, an old car here, junk there, bare dirt. But then between the fences of two ugly dumps of a yard there was a yard of grass and beauty. I can still see it. Somebody with real class lives there, in the midst of neighbors who didn’t care and were, as the article mentions, without hope.

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