Our 1950s-built ranch house in Elmhurst, Il occupied its lot in a polite way. It stayed put in the middle of its skirt of grass, like a damsel. Unlike the three children our Mom and Dad housed there, it didn’t pine for untamed space.

Our misguided notion that life held mystery any place outside home, lured us to a field three blocks away. It had nothing to offer in the way of foliage or terrain or history. It was a field.

But we found excuses to go there, as if something unplanned could happen.

Not much did, with the exception that one boy lost the tiniest tip of his nose when he was about 11 years old. Precisely what happened is clear to all who invented their own version. Somehow a small pocket knife and jumping and running were involved.

As a grown man, he looked little the worse for wear. His nose just stopped a little earlier than you’d expect.

It made him much admired.