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When our shopping was done, we’d lunch on clam chowder and egg §alad sandwiches. When I was older, we’d frequent the Georgian Tea room on the 10th floor and have a glass of wine with our meal.
I had my first, cup of coffee when I was about 12. It was heavily sedated with cream and sugar. Later I drank it black, like my mother did.
One of my mother’s particularities was that she absolutely would not drink coffee from anything other than a cup and saucer. She rarely would use a mug, and under no circumstances would she touch styrofoam.
She loathed the sight of a ketchup bottle on the table.
One wintry day as I was walking home from St. Rose Catholic School, I caught a glimpse out of my left eye of chubby Steven Cook abreast a hill crafting a snowball. I should have followed my instincts and crossed the street but I did not. Once his snowball was done, he let it loose, and it hit me hard on the forehead.
I still wasn’t too big to sit on my mother’s lap. As she wiped away the tears streaming down my face, she told me not to be offended by the uncivilized acts
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