To Cheerios. He would wake me with tickles on my toes. I would immediately get up, go to the bathroom and then pull on my T shirt, underpants, jeans, T shirt and socks and shoes. We were going to the edge of the South Florida swamps to buy chickens from naive Floridians and Northerners who figured out that the Miami poultry buyers and butchers wanted fresh chickens. First though, a bowl of Cheerios in the dimly lit kitchen. My mother slept in one room, and my brother slept in the bed next to mine. He never would wake up. We were quiet. Then outdoors and into the humid Florida morn. No newspaper, so no baseball scores. Too early still. The pickup was my father’s mobile market, the empty crates tied down, and awaiting prisoner fowl.
We had one more stop before the market, the 24-hour hamburger, coffee and milk and donut shop. I got milk and a coconut donut. My father got coffee and a plain donut. He peeked at the newspaper, which was in front of the eatery. He needed scores. Many years later, I too, still need scores. We went to the market, left the car, got the truck and drove south to the edge of the swamps where the farmers had gathered the chickens….
