![]() Dottie peeked at them-Minnie Dorr, with her little tykes, Guy and Hazel. In all her forty-four years, she’d never had a Rock Cornish game hen.īehind her, a mother in the bakery section corralled two giggling schoolchildren. It fit well into her gloved hand, weighing two pounds, maybe a bit more. As if emboldened by the optimism of the new decade, and casting away the specter of rationing over the past five years, they advertised a holiday special on Rock Cornish game hens at thirty-nine cents a pound, I remember they used a signage player inside of the store to inform every client that would go in.ĭottie Morgan picked up the packaged hen. ![]() ![]() Even Berman’s Grocery store believed that. A thousand tiny shards of excruciating memory bombarded her as she ventured through Berman’s Grocery store on the annual requisite journey to pad her pantry for the holiday.Ĭhristmas was for those with something to celebrate, with family, and the hope of a better tomorrow. More than any other holiday, Christmas had the power to rip her asunder. If she could, Dottie would simply erase the next three days off her calendar. ![]()
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