I know now that the man who sat with me on the old wooden stairs that hot summer night over thirty-five cars ago was not a tall man. But to a five-year-old, he as a giant. We sat side by side, watching the sun go down behind the old Texaco service station across the busy street. A street that I was never allowed to cross unless accompanied by an adult, or at the very least, an older sibling. An unlikely pair, we sat together, perched n the top step. His legs reached down two stairs; mine angled, barely reaching the first. The night was muggy ad the air thick. It was the summer of 1959.
Cherry-scented smoke from Grampy"s pipe kept the hungry mosquitoes at bay while gray, wispy swirls danced around our heads. Now and again, he blew a smoke ring and laughed as I tried to target the hole with my finger. I, clad in a cool summer nightie, and Grampy, his sleeveless T-shirt, sat watching the traffic, trying to catch the elusive breeze. We counted cars and tried to guess the color of the next one to turn the corner. I was luckier at this game than Grampy.
Once again, I was caught in the middle of circumstances. The fourth born of six children, it was not uncommon that I was either too young or too old for something. This night I was both. While my two baby brothers slept inside the house, my three older siblings played with friends around the corner, where I was not allowed to go. I stayed with Grampy, and that was okay with me. I was where I wanted to be. My grandfather was baby-sitting while my mother, father and grandmother went out.
"Thirsty?" Grampy asked, never removing the pip" from his mouth.
"Yes," was my reply.
"How would you like to run over to the gas station there and get yourself a bottle of Coke?"
I couldn"t believe my ears. Had I heard right? Was he talking to me? On my family"s modest income, Coke was not a part of our budget or diet. A few tantalizing sips was all I had ever had, and certainly never my own bottle.
"Ok