The best part of the Hittite Museum was when my mother read from the stone tablets with hieroglyphs. One was about a goat who lost his clothes, and took a vest from somebody’s clothesline. Another involved a bird who was studying to be a plumber. On some level, I knew that my mother was inventing the stories, and not reading them, but on another level—when she pointed out the glyphs of the Two Crossed Monkey Wrenches and the Broken Faucet—I knew she was reading them.
