Oatmeal for breakfast.

I was enjoying my Sunday morning oatmeal at Starbucks this morning. I had a memory from my childhood in depression era California. I was 11 or 12. I was standing in the pitch black (shortly before dawn) looking up at a brightly lighted kitchen window. I was across the street from where I lived. The kitchen was in the mansion of a rich widow. She owned the duplex where I lived,

I tapped the window and the maid let me in. She sat me at small counter and served me a hot bowl of oatmeal. (there were raisons in the oatmeal and it was topped with brown sugar and milk) I was hungry and ate it all.

The rich widow (bless her) evidently thought I needed a hot breakfast and had my Dad send me over (I believe most mornings) for oatmeal. I do not recall her being in the kitchen, just the maid.

I vividly recall the black mornings and the brightly lighted kitchen window. I sure do remember the oatmeal!