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Probably wasn't a good idea but we did it anyway. So the fire in the bucket stove was doable for me. The fire made the tiny house survivable. I would hardly call it livable. I was in constant pain from the damaged rid.About an hour after I awoke the probably illegal maid came down with a tray she called breakfast. It was some oatmeal kind of gruel and a boiled eggs. It was probably one of the simplest breakfasts I had ever eaten. It was also one of the blandest. Eggs without salt, no matter how they were prepared, were terrible. The same was true of gruel. I had a feeling I was getting a feel for being an 18th century orphans diet.I wrapped myself in the blankets and lay on the bed. I must have slept some because it didn't seem like a long time before the maid was back with a bowl of beans and a bowl of greens. There was no meat, but the beans had some kind of sauce that made them pretty good. The greens were just greens. One thing for sure, if it kept up I would be healthier than I. By then he had surpassed his own father, who had his store just down the block. Hank had two trucks and two “stores” or units, while my Grandpa Carmine only had one of each.During my school years he sometimes gave me jobs helping out with deliveries to various grocers around New York. I was quite skinny then, and initially he was skeptical about my ability for that kind of labor. He was impressed when I hung on and was able to handle the job.He was the only relative who ever took me out for drinks – the legal age then was eighteen in New York State. The following is one tale he told me while we sat at a bar on 149th Street, just around the corner from his store. Uncle Hank was never a writer, so I’ve tried to reproduce his story here in a way that I think he would have liked.******Back in 1949, I had been out of high school for a year and I had hired on as a brakeman for the New York Central Railroad. I worked local freights out of the West Side Yard at 60th Street. We would go south.
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