What it's like to live next door to Scott Walker

Given Mr. Walker's subsequent achievements, it's hard for me to extract even my most personal childhood memories as his neighbor from an omnidirectional web of political significance. Here's one obvious example: September 11, 2001. I was 9 years old and didn't realize that anything unusual was going on until I saw my mom waiting for my sister and me in the parking lot after school. On the ride home my mom tried to explain what was happening. And while of course I didn't understand the attacks, I at least registered that the nation was, in some way, under attack. At home, the minivan's door slid back to reveal Matt and Alex [Walker], all of six or seven years old, wound up and running in circles on their front lawn, shouting, "THEY CRASHED INTO THE TOWERS LIKE [exploding noise]." I don't think this was a particularly inappropriate reaction. It was neither reverent nor irreverent, neither obnoxious nor obsequious. All it was, was loud. That's what I think, when I think of the Walkers as neighbors: loud. All of them except for Mr. Walker. [N+1]