I guess I am probably of the last generation that can remember when milk, eggs, bread, butter, and other dairy products were delivered. And, because of the war, our milkman in Darby (a suburb of Philadelphia, not Darby, England) used a horse and wagon. I can't remember the horse’s name, but I can recall my mother and the milkman allowing me to feed her carrots. And I never thought about it till just now, but since I said "her" the horse must have been a mare. I was three years old. My dad was home from the war, and attending Drexel Institute of Technology. That would have been fall 1947 or spring of 1948.

There were a bunch of girls who lived across the street from us. The one closest to my age was “Tookie” (Took rhymes with "tooth", not "look"). I have no idea what her real name was, but we all called her that. I had a swing in my back yard, that dad had made, using a board for a seat, and tying two ropes over a branch. Tookie and I used to take turns pushing each other in the swing. You had to push on the edge of the board, to keep it from going crooked. I was getting tired, and tried to give Tookie one good hard last push, but my hands slid off the board, and I pushed on her back. She fell out of the swing on her face, and knocked out a tooth. I was impressed. My mother told me later that Tookie was five, and that tooth had been loose, and ready to come out.

Darby Creek was in our back yard. Well, not in it, exactly. We were up on a hill, and the creek was below us. There was a fence across the back of the yard. I had some little plastic fish, that used to go in the tub with me. One day, I decided they should go back in the river, where fish lived, and they could be happy to be with the other fishes. So I took my three fish; a red one, a yellow one and a blue one, and threw them over the fence, to go in the river. When dad came home and found out about it he was angry. He yelled at me for it, but I didn’t understand why. After that I was always a little bit - well, not afraid exactly, but wary of my dad. Many years later, when I was in my thirties, dad and I became close friends. We remained good friends until his death, when I was 59.

We must have been in Philadelphia for New Years Day, 1948, because I remember going downtown (I think on the streetcar) to see the Mummers Parade. I only remember two things about the parade. They had great big round yellow costumes, that looked like sunflowers, and they danced around and bent over with them and then straightened up and laughed. There was a guy who had a saxophone that was so big, he had to roll it down the street on wheels while he played it. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt and shiny baggy black trousers. I guess they were probably silk. In retrospect, I wonder if being impressed by that contrabass saxophone was some sort of hint of my life to come?

Our street was a dead end road. Up the hill, past the Makowie’s house and two more, the road just stopped, and there was a big cemetery on the top of the hill. On nice days, when daddy wasn’t in school, we took a picnic lunch up the hill and had a picnic in the cemetery.

Picnicking in cemeteries was something mom and dad did right up until they died, when they were traveling. They’d always pack lunch, and find a cemetery to stop in for a picnic. We children were always on our best behavior during those lunches; we didn’t climb on the grave stones, or run across the tummies of the people buried there. Usually cemeteries were near churches, and in those days, churches were never locked, so we used to go in the church to use the bathroom. I have always liked cemeteries. I guess it’s because of those memories.

Our house was a duplex, with a common porch for both units. Our neighbor was Mr. Butler. He was always very serious and almost gruff. Mr Butler was bald. I thought maybe that was why he wasn’t a happy person, but my mother said he was just like that, and not having hair didn’t cause it.

The next house up the hill was the Makowie's, (I am not sure how they spelled their last name, so that spelling is just a guess. I think they were of Polish descent) Bud Makowie had a car. I think it was a 1936 Chevy. He used to let me sit on the fender, while he worked on it. I remember him showing me how pistons go in, and he showed me how the crankshaft spinning around, was converted to motion going up and down with the connecting rod and wrist pin. Mom later told me that Bud was always working on that car, and, so far as she knew, he never did get it running. But she said he used to put up with me asking all sorts of questions, and was a pretty good babysitter for me.

Bud had an older sister, Jane. When Jane got married, they had a big party at their house, and most of the people got drunk. Jane and her new husband had a big fight, and Jane knocked him out with a right hook to the jaw. In retrospect, I guess it was a pretty tough blue-collar working class neighborhood.

There was a little girl who lived down the hill at the end of our block, and who was about the same age as I. I am almost certain her name was Sally, but mom never confirmed that. She always said we couldn’t remember the little girl’s name. She and I were good friends, and played together a lot. I had a pedal car, and would drive down the sidewalk to see her. But coming home, it was too steep to pedal; I had to get out and push it. I can remember my arms used to get really tired, pushing that car up the hill. One day, I left it in Mr Butler’s yard. He was not happy about that, and made mom stop fixing supper to come get it. After that, mom wouldn’t let me drive my car to Sally’s, unless I really begged, and promised not to leave it anywhere. She and I had matching red sandals. They were my favorite shoes.

We moved from Darby to Catonsville, in Baltimore, and I never saw that little girl, or Tookie again.