The yellow house didn't even have an address. It sat on a winding road about three hours north of our New York City suburb. Every August, we took Route 22 through small towns, past our beloved Red Rooster Drive-In, up and down Berkshire hills. My sister and I knew we were getting close when we saw the falling-down barn, home to a family of cats, on the right side of the road and the neighbors’ miniature American flags stuck into the...