GROWING UP IN A FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT HOUSE, Excerpt:
Thirty feet beyond the end of the house sat a small building with stained glass windows and a roof matching that of the main house.
“Whose house is that?” I said. “It looks like a miniature version of our new one.”
“That’s our garage,” my dad said.
“It looks like a little house,” I replied, “But it’s not touching our house,”
“It’s called a detached garage.”