A storefront on a brick hill where every lamp has a story and the owner tells all of them.

Galena’s main street tilts. You notice it in your knees by the third block, walking past awnings and old brick and windows full of things nobody makes anymore.

The shop at the top of the hill is the one to stop at. It is mostly lighting, and the owner knows the provenance of every piece in the room — where it came from, whose house it left, what she had to rewire.

I did not buy anything. I got a forty-minute history of milk glass instead, which was the better trade.

Sometimes the long way around is the point.