Sitting in Grandpa's smoking chair near the large, opened window of Grandma's small kitchen, entailed some risk. Nobody dared take it without an excellent chance of receiving a hearty nose pinch. But, he wasn't home today on St. Philip Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter.
It was a lazy summer day, and the heat magnified the slow, easy pace of our lives. In the early 1950s, I was a six-year-old girl, prone to daydreaming. As I gazed aimlessly through the window screen, time passed unnoticed amid a laissez-faire outlook.
In the distance the lazy clip-clop of horses hooves on the pavement eased me back from my trance. Horse-drawn wagons crisscrossed the neighborhood selling vegetables, fruit, and, sometimes, sweet pralines. The closer the horse’s gait approached, the more excited I became until my face pressed up against the screen as I tried to catch sight of it.
The clippety-clops grew louder and louder. “He’s almost here, Grandma,” I squealed.