When I was growing up my father built a model railroad. Its first incarnation was nothing more than a plywood sheet with a couple of tracks running around a station, but it dominated our small garage. It later came to reside in the basement of our new house where it expanded; stucco mountains and lichen forests appeared, a small town settled next to the lake in the valley, and the number of trains passing through increased with every model train show we attended.

We’d buy stacks of old issues of Model Railroader Magazine, and while I’d be envisioning the vast miniature empires I might someday rule over, my father would point out photos from the magazine and say, “That’s one of Bob Boudreau’s. He lives here.”
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