Every year, right around the third Friday of October, a shoebox-sized object comes down from the top shelf of my hall closet, gets a quick wipe with a damp cloth, and takes up permanent residence at the east end of my kitchen table. It’s white, it’s plain, and from across the room it looks like a tablet that never earned a screen. My sister calls it “the sun in a box.” My nieces fight over who gets to press the button. And for the next five months, that unglamorous little slab does more for my mood, my mornings, and my…
