. . . I was standing on a wooden boardwalk in an old Alaskan mining town, peeking through the open window of a grand Victorian home. A man sitting outside the diner next door warned me to stay away. “Very boring,” he said. “All they do in there is sing.”
Yet I was transfixed by the three-part vocal harmonies haunting the spacious salon, and the curious instrument the angels were strumming mesmerized me. I ignored the stranger’s advice and entered the sunlit home, not through the golden front door, but through the open window.
