When I was very young, my parents moved us back to my father’s hometown. They were starting their own business, a boutique called Cobblestones that specialized in fancy things and jewelry. Given the quality of the clothing, I am amazed at how much time I and my younger sister spent there, as my sister was apt to put everything in her mouth when she was teething. I was somewhere between the ages of four and six when a woman threatened to sue my parents. I stood eye-level with the jewelry counter, too short to see over it, as I listened to my mother on the phone on the other side. It seemed that this woman’s business, located somewhere far away from Union, South Carolina, also had the name “Cobblestones.” She was adamant that my parents had imitated her. They were trying to avoid a lawsuit, my parents. I don’t know whether there ever was an actual lawsuit, and I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to hear about it the first time. Regardless, Cobblestones never really took off: it didn’t make a profit the way stores ought to do, and we didn’t have much money then because it was all being poured into the store. High end boutiques don’t do very well in dying mill towns of less than twelve thousand people.