Growing up in my neighborhood...
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Growing up in my neighborhood meant that you learned from your leaders who to like and who not to like. The old lady with the Spitz dog was visited regularly on Halloween with tricks. Pete, owner of the shoeshine shop, was a friend who allowed his place to be used as a hangout where we drank pop, read comic books, and even smoked an occasional cigarette. But the woman to fear the most was the strange lady who lived in a house painted bright red and blue. In her house there were hundreds of cats, we were told. She was never seen during the day, but some of the more venturesome members of the gang were known to stand on the wrought iron fence and look in the windows at night. She was old and ugly and looked a lot like some of her cats. A number of years later I was told that the cat-woman died and left a considerable fortune to the orphanages in town. Other stories were told of her lifelong generosity to other good causes for children. Interesting. Paul says, "So then, each of us will given an account of himself to God." -- Runk
