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I live in a project. Not a low-income housing project—not that kind. A different sort of project. One that never seems to be finished and is always at some stage of birth, disrepair or demise. A never-ending experiment in coaxing something out of nothing. An early 18th century home in constant need of something, full of seedlings, homemade salad dressing, mismatched furniture, rigged setups and refurbished junk. This is my life. This is entirely my wife’s doing. She’s a tinkerer, a mover...