RHETA JOHNSON I tap along the brick floors that sold me on this old house, so opposite of the spongy ones in my North Mississippi hollow home, these never subject to rot, maintenance-free. My shoe soles have each captured a shell from the driveway and make a nice rhythmic sound as I walk. I wish I could tap dance, yet another thing to try in old age. The weather is hotter every day, and the sunbathers have arrived on the sand and Sound a few blocks away.