In the summer of 1952, Mike started his first job. He worked in his father's grocery store in southwest Baltimore, an area better known as "Pigtown." The moniker was a holdover from a time when men drove pigs through the streets to a slaughterhouse. Pigtown is now an Historic District.

Mike's most important duties were keeping the shelves full of canned goods, brought up from the dark, low-ceiling, brick-floored basement storage area, and delivering orders to the homes of customers. On good days his dad called him "full-shelf Mike." The job was not one Mike relished, so not all days were good.

Saturdays were always busy, but every Saturday afternoon Mike looked forward to taking Sophie's order. Sophie was a special customer.

Most customers walked to the store, picked out their groceries for the week, or called in an order. Mike delivered the groceries to their homes in a red wagon. Sophie was special because every Saturday afternoon Mike would actually walk to Sophie's house on Calendar Street to take her order in person.

How the tradition of taking Sophie's order began is a mystery, but was the policy when Mike's father took over the grocery store from his father.

Calendar Street is narrow, with narrow row homes. Some might call it an alley. Mike always thought of it that way. Sophie's row house was about twelve feet wide and perhaps thirty feet deep. Two rooms on the first floor; two rooms and a bath on the second.

Sophie was a good customer. Always good for thirty or forty a week on the book. When she paid each month, Mike's dad was really happy. Every so often she would go two or three months without paying. Then the payoff day would be a momentous occasion. She always paid, eventually.

Sophie rarely left her house. Occasionally she came to the store in person. Typically, that was only to pay off a bill overdue for two or three months, or an emergency carton of Chesterfields. She'd come ambling into the store in her bedroom slippers, all smiles. Mike's dad smiled too. Sophie would hand him a wad of cash. He'd go to the back, lift up the big metal ledger, strike the bill clean, then return to the counter grinning from ear to ear. Sophie grinned as well.

Mike always looked forward to taking Sophie's order. Not like looking forward to a fishing trip or a ballgame, rather looking forward to a rest period in a busy workday. Like many kids working for their parents, Mike wanted out of work in any way possible.

Normally, about two-thirty every Saturday afternoon, Mike headed for Calendar Street. His dad would know where he'd be for the next hour or so. Sophie was always slow to answer the door. Took her a little time to move from the kitchen, through the parlor to the street-level front door. Their walk back to the kitchen was just as slow, with Sophie leading.

Pad and yellow Ticonderoga pencil in hand, Mike then sat down at Sophie's kitchen table. The place always had a strange odor. Mike figured it was from the beef stew Sophie seemed to continually have on the stove, or from the gas oven she always had burning with the door leaning open to heat the house in winter. It was the only source of heat.

Sophie would look through her cabinets briefly, then grab a chair at the table, light a Chesterfield, and proceed to give Mike her grocery order. The first three items were always bread, milk, and two cartons of Chesterfields. After the normal staple items were listed on Mike's pad, Sophie would sit back and think. Sometimes Mike made suggestions. Items would pop into her mind. Much of the order was the same from week to week.

In between order items, Sophie would discourse on her problems.

Sophie was thin. Anemic might be a good medical term. She was always slightly hunched over, with a bit of a sad look on her long, narrow face. Every bone in her face stood out in high relief, as though there was a vacuum in her head. Her legs and feet were usually swelled. She never wore shoes, only bedroom slippers. Legs were white with many purple welts.  A flowered-design dressing gown usually covered her thin body, topped with a gray, button-front sweater in colder months.

The tiny kitchen contained a faded white table, three faded white chairs, a chipped white porcelain sink, a faded white food and dish cupboard, and a brand new sparkling white refrigerator freezer. All the walls were dirt-gray. The refrigerator impressed Mike.

In the parlor was a purple sofa covered in vinyl, two small chairs, and a brand new console television. The television impressed Mike more than the refrigerator.

Well-worn floral-patterned sheet goods covered the floors. Small white lace doilies were pinned to the sofa and chair arms. A large, ornately-gold-framed seascape, painted on black velvet, hung over the sofa.

Once the order was complete, Mike returned to the store, loaded the items into cardboard boxes, placed the boxes in his red wagon, and headed back to Calendar Street. The task wasn't complete until all the groceries were unloaded and stored away. Somehow the odor did not seem as bad on the return trip.

Sophie's husband wasn't around much. Most Saturdays he was at the corner bar across from the grocery store. People in the neighborhood said he made good money working at the Baltimore harbor shipyards.

The last time Mike took Sophie's order was a few weeks after graduating from high school. Many years passed. Mike gave little, if any, thought to Sophie and those Saturday afternoons. Mike was married and raising a family.

One Sunday evening Mike's mom and dad came for dinner. Sophie's name came up. Mike never recalled why. Mike asked how she was doing.

With an emotionless expression resulting from long knowledge, Mike's dad said, "Sophie went blind and her husband lost both legs in a work accident."