This story is about a part of my life in the 1950s. It was fun, it was exciting, it was scary, it was about bad behavior. It was about an introduction to other worlds and in so many ways it was about realizing that life was not always going to be like it was then. —Ralph Horner

Most of the backyards on East 49th Street had functional dirt alleys that ran the length of the block behind the houses. These service alleys were used for deliveries of ice, coal, milk, and garbage removal.

Ice was for the ice box and was brought into the house by the iceman. He knew how much to bring into the house by a sign that our mothers would put in the window, stating how many pounds they wanted.

For milk deliveries, mothers put their empty milk bottles in a metal box outside the door and the milkman replaced them with the same number of full bottles.

Coal was delivered into the coal chute on the outside of the house, and it made a huge rumble as it slid down the chute.

There were no driveways between the houses because cars had not been invented when the houses were built, and the houses were too close together for driveways. So cars were parked in the street or in the alley.

Most of the houses had 50-gallon drums in the alley for burning garbage. Our alley was a favorite shortcut for students of Willson Junior High, which was one short block away. The fire in the drum was a good place for a warm-up for the students walking through the alley on a cold winter day. The smell of burnt garbage on their clothes was not a good thing, though, if you wanted to impress the young ladies at school.

There were two east-west streets—Luthor and Harlem—that dead-ended on East 49th Street. Garret Morgan, who invented the gas mask and traffic light, lived on Harlem.

Between Luther and Harlem, there were six houses that fronted East 49th Street: my house, three other big homes, and a lot with two small houses on it. The big house next to mine had a small deli in the front. In those days, a small grocery store was called a deli (but the deli was not a place to get a corned beef sandwich).

There were three delis on my stretch of East 49th Street, which was not unusual because everybody walked to the deli. Our deli was called Charlotte’s and was owned by a middle-aged Slovak woman named Charlotte and her mother. The mother had a strange scratchy voice. Charlotte said she was getting over a cold, but her mother seemed to be getting over that cold for the 10 years that we lived on the street.

If you needed something from the store and you had no money, Charlotte would note what you bought in a big notebook and say, “It’s okay, you pay me on payday.”

One of the other delis in the neighborhood saved me from big trouble one day. I was walking north on East 49th Street when I sensed danger. I glanced back and saw four or five teenage boys closing the gap on me.

As they got closer, I could hear them swearing and calling me names. As luck would have it, I was just coming up on one of the delis. I ran inside, and the teenage trouble rushed in behind me.

The owner of the deli ran out from behind the counter and screamed at the boys, “Get out, get out! I already called the police, and they are on their way!”

The boys ran out and disappeared. I vowed to the owner that I would forever buy my Popsicles, Good and Plenty, and my Hershey Bars from this gentleman for saving me from a severe butt kicking.