I loved my breakfast

When I was just seven or eight years old, my parents were very busy with our restaurant.

In the summer time when I wasn’t in school, I was very often left to my own devices.

One of my favorite memories is going to my neighbors for breakfast. I have no recollection if I asked my parents or if they even noticed that I was off somewhere.

My first stop was the house adjacent to our restaurant. The Gomez family always had room for one more and I was usually it.

Mrs. Gomez would make on giant pancake that filled the entire plate. It was amazing to a youngster like me. They had two daughters who were my favorite playtime companions, Carrol and Oakey.

Their house was on a lot with two others and everyone was related to each other.

There was a chicken coop in the back and an outhouse. There were small storage buildings and plenty of cars and equipment to attract our attention.

Some where along the line we ended up with a complete doctor bag, a toy of course, with a stethoscope and other “fun” items. That thing kept us occupied for hours.

At one point the girls put a flash bulb under my pants leg and crushed it so they could tend to me, I suppose. It was not a totally unpleasant experience.

After that breakfast, I would wander down the street to the Kirker’s house. Henry Jr. was a few years older than I. He or his grandmother would make a wonderful omelette with hot sauce and we would eat it with tortillas. No forks here for breakfast, it was totally Mexican style.

His father lived behind the grandmother and his house faced the next street. He was a body repair man and had his business at his home.

I still remember the hundreds of pictures of lovely women dressed in, shall we say, provocative clothing and positions. It was a lovely place to spend a few hours for a young, growing boy, for a few different reasons.