When I first moved into my old, South Philadelphia house, everything that was falling down was buttressed with scrap wood, tied up with nude-colored, nylon stockings, and slathered with concrete. The supported structures were a mysterious and curious landscape that served as a record of the architectural history of my home. My neighbors Quintina and Mario were alchemists who could build or fix anything with a piece of string.Memories are delicate constructions. They are a labyrinth, a vast and intricate novel that at once documents, interrupts and obfuscates, creating floating entry points and a universe of emotions in every corner. In the “Shaker” spirit, I imagine a tiny wasp-worker making imaginary homes for important collections of most special memories.