Mothers' Day fast approaches.
I've been thinking about my own mother lately.
She's been dead, now, these past nine years.
Sometimes, I can hear her voice ...
chiding me when I've acted the fool ...
praising me when I've made a right decision.
When I was little, she used to sing to me.
My very favorite song was, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe."
Me, as a five-year-old cowboy, in front of 763 Halsey St., Philadelphia, PA.
The song, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe."
Thanks for the memories, Mom.
PS: Halsey Street doesn't exist anymore.
It had been part of a U.S. Navy housing
area built during WW II. After the war,
it was turned over to the city and used
for low income housing.
It was called, "The Village" by those who
lived there. It's been razed.
(Don't know how many years it was before
I realized that "Halsey Street" was named
for Admiral William "Bull" Halsey.)
PPS: Memories come slowly back ... do not
recall any amenities in this house, with the
exception of electricity and indoor plumbing.
The interior walls were mere painted cinder-block.
Heat came from a large cast-iron stove in the
kitchen. We burned wood in it but originally
it burned coal. I learned to cook scrambled
eggs on that stove when my mom was ill with