I was 7 years old, my inner imp unleashed, about to scrape my initials into a fresh block of wet cement on the sidewalk in front of our row house. I knew full well I was misbehaving, but finding that perfect stick, deciding exactly where to etch my initials . . . all while not getting caught in the act, had a more compelling spark than the devil and angel sitting on my shoulders. There I was, bare knees, kneeling over a block of wet cement, one hand on the sidewalk braced in support, with tha...