Some of my clearest memories are of waiting on the front porch of my house at 126 S. 43rd West Avenue in Tulsa. It was 1978 and I was 10 years old going on 11. I was a reflective (some might say brooding) kid given to flights of fantasy and whimsy.
I sat there, while other kids rode their bikes back and forth, and waited for the mailman. I’d come to expect our mailman on Saturdays around a certain time, I waited for him avidly every fourth Saturday. If that delivery time was close I couldn’t be tempted by either the Toss Across or the Slip –N- Slide. Not even by an offer to pitch our throwing knives into the tree in the front yard.
