THERE’S A LITTLE NEWSPAPER STORE in my neighborhood my family and I have grown very fond of. It’s the kind of place that brings memories of your own youth — filled from floor to ceiling with comic books, miniature cars, whiffle balls, all the impossibly desirable amulets of childhood.

The owner is a Korean immigrant named Jim. He gives our kids so much candy I sometimes hesitate to take them in there. Still, nothing excites them as much as a trip to the place they call “Jimmy’s store.”