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The Chicken Store


            This story is about what happened to me and Bubby (Grandmother) on our way to the chicken store in West Philly on Friday at a time when Catholics ate fish for dinner and Jews stuffed their faces with boiled chicken. In those days while we were eating our supper promptly ,come hell or high water, at five o’clock every day, we  could hear our neighbors next door set the table and smell what was cooking through the paper-thin, porous walls of our row house.
            Bubby was my heart and soul. I loved her more than life itself and (may God forgive me) more than I loved my mother. When Mom and Dad were fast asleep I’d sneak into Bubby’s bed and push my head into her chest. She’d wrap her arms around me and tell me stories in Yiddish about Russia, how the Cossacks rode into her village every Friday on  great white horses with shiny broad swords to have a little fun (their version of a pogrom) and cut off the heads of those too old to run, how Siberian bears were bigger than houses and how in the winter your spit froze on your lips. Bubby left me to find her place in heaven when I was seven years old.

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