I took the curtains off the sidelite windows yesterday, in preparation for our new storm door, and each time I pass it by, I am startled by how naked I suddenly feel. Our world has become one whose hatches are battened, toggles are buttoned and seams are sealed tight. Fifty years ago, it was customary to pop your head in your neighbor's door and let out a "yoohoo", and now the door has become deadlocked, barricaded and made of steel. I have mentioned before that I was raised on a mountain, where privacy was not only possible, but all too often the norm. In winter, the street was dark as pitch, because the inhabited homes were few and far between. My parents would go to sleep early, and I would be left in the quiet, longing for companionship and the noises of a suburb. Friends who lived below Taborton led, in my eyes, an easier life. They did not help split wood with a hatchet in November, or drag mattresses in front of the coal stove during power outages. When they wanted...