One summer a few years back, I house and dog sat for friend in a small no-wheres Mississippi town called Water Valley. The months under the roof of a big beautiful old Southern cottage at least twice as aged as myself, still cast one of those rosy nostalgic spells when I think of it now. With a fortunate lack of television or internet, I devoured her vinyl collection, spending humid, electric nights with the windows open to the breeze, listening for hours.
