Progress

Sister joins brother and I so we moved.  Learn new address, mom repeats to us 942 Progress.  Progress was brick houses in a row, but not too much progress, field of dandelions growing across the street, but still it sprouted yellow fire hydrants.  Two per block.   Everything seemed bigger, the basement looked like a playground.  The backyard was for playing tag.  Italian family next door made wine in the basement.  English family survived the war, dad with a hole in his back that was permanent reminder.  Mack down the street throws baseball over the rising moon to my dad, who throws it back just as high, I only dream of being able to catch it. Meanwhile the street lights keep track of when we’d have to be home for the night.  We all walked to school in the mornings and back for lunch, and back and then home during the cooler parts of the year.  We played tag along the way.  When the snow comes we shovel a path in the backyard to play with football, dive into snow and catch.  We liked falling and catching and running.  Boots for walking latched with metal clip right over school shoes.  Milk in the milk chute froze one morning, and broke.  Milk flows down the basement stairs.  Rubber boots were fine.  Mittens smelled like spoiled milk for the rest of winter. And it seemed I would sniff them every time I wore them, even tho I knew they’d still smell.   But this was progress.  We played, we learned, we were kids.