BETWEEN THE LINES
The first time my dad brought home a 1,000-piece jigsaw, I was terrified. At the fresh age of seven, my puzzle-solving skills were limited to 100-piece jigsaws purchased at Dollar Tree and the vocabulary word searches my teacher expected us to complete every week. It took my family a week and a half to complete the 1,000-piece monstrosity, working in the hour between Jeopardy! and bedtime. That puzzle—an image of a speeding train—kept our dining room table out of commission. We ate our meals on the living room floor—something my mother never let us do—and it took all seven members of my family to piece the puzzle together.
Upon completion of the puzzle, I helped my dad glue it to a length of plywood, immortalizing our hard work. I basked in the accomplishment. The following Monday, I bragged to all my friends about my newfound skill. Within the week, I dumped another 1,000-piece titan onto our table—this one a towering clock—and went to work. I was hooked.
I am no longer the
