Munhall PA. 1953ish. Sherry lived upstairs with her urbane and handsome parents, Babs and Harry. That's Sherry on the left, me on the right, my sister standing in the back. My sister and I were invited to Sherry’s birthday party, so here we are downing homemade milkshakes and cake. We are doing some serious blowing to celebrate the occasion of her birth. Babs was sveldt, looked like Phyllis Kirk, wore twin sets with capri pants and sometimes a string of pearls. Her hair was jet black. Harry was also thin and fit – silver haired and a pencil thin mustache. He was a dentist so they had some moolah. They drank martinis and other exotic beverages that Baptists like my mother were loathe to imbibe. I later referred to Harry as Dr. Mengele because even though he was an attractive man who I admired, he drilled my little cavitied teeth without the aid of Novacaine. Smelling salts were called for as I sat reeling and white-knuckled in the chair. As a reward for not dying, he would let my sister and me play with mercury. Fascinating stuff. Toxicity questionable. Maybe eating fish is worse. Needless to say, my sister relished my suffering. We lived above my father’s ink laden printing shop on the second floor. Think “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” Babs and Harry lived on the third floor. Think Park Avenue. Their apartment had modern furniture, we had Goodwill. They had parque floors instead of weather beaten wood and chipped linoleum. It was an incredible, eye widening difference from our somber apartment. But interestingly, the only items I remember fancying were Sherry’s patent leather maryjanes and a pair of pink satin ballet slippers. I guess this set the stage for my love of footwear. On a brighter note, our apartment did have a wonderful window seat that looked out onto the main drag where we could observe the comings and goings of countless steel workers, people buying freshly slaughtered chicken from Dave Freid’s and pharmaceuticals and comic books from Serrin’s Drug Store. Though, a trip to Dave Freid’s was a frightening experience. Dave would emerge from the back abattoir in his blood stained, once-upon-a-time white apron to greet my father and us. Chickens screamed and shouted at the top of their lungs as they overheard their friends succumb to the cleaver and the fate for some family’s pot pie. Did Dave see me shrink and hug my father’s leg, I wonder. So, happy birthday to all my fellow Aquarians. The milkshakes are on me.