George nodded.  It seemed he too could smell the pickles.
     "Well, when old man Pepperson died, all his history died with him.  His kids, his wife, even," he paused, "Mildred, God rest her soul." Henry looked over at George looking to see if anything would change his own facial expression.  None did.
     Timothy was a little confused.Wasn't Mildred, God rest her soul, George's wife?"
      "Well, now Timothy, sit back.  This might take some time to sort all out for you."
      Now George started talking in a sing song sort of way.  Drawing all who were listening back to an earlier time.


        The Pickle Factory across the street appeared, the dusty roads, the old flag looked new on the Town Hall.  The Five and Ten boosted shining new silver screen doors, and in the window a red rider wagon, bright with new paint.  On the sidewalk, pumpkins and cornstalks mingled with dried leaves.  The diner/cafes round sign blinked on and off in the early evening sun.  There were a crowd of kids hanging around the door of the Pickle Factory.  Oh, maybe a dozen or so, girls, boys, dressed in old dusty clothes, cut of jeans and yellow white tee shirts.  Old sneakers, piggy tails.  Much friendly shoving and pushing.  One of the girls had a strap of books.  She was suppose to return them to the library, but couldn't resist the daily rite of kids waiting for their dads, uncles, brothers.  As soon as the Five o'clock whistle blew, the big heavy wooden double doors opened and out came the humanity that lived out their lives inside the Factory.  Father's joined sons with a hug around the neck, a gentle punch, a hug for a daughter. 
    "Mom made cookies."
    "We got to pick up the cleaning, mom said."
     "I have to go drop these books off."
    "Can we get a game up Dad?"
     That last one drew a cheer from the crowd, with echoes of yeah, and can we, and it's not dinner time yet.
    A grumbling came from the adults in the group.  It had been a long day.  But after much haggling, the kids talked the men into a pick up game which set up immediately in the center of the street.  Gloves were retrieved from park benches, under man covers.  Basses suddenly appeared from the steps beneath the factory stairs.  This was a daily ritual.
     Sam played catcher.  He had to.  He was the only one who could afford the glove.  George played pitcher.  He was good.  Fred always played backfield because he was always the first one to be called home for dinner. Little Mildred liked to be close to George so she played shortstop.  George's father, George Sr., he played umpire.  And he was good too.  If his call went your way.There were others too.
     And then there was Maxwell.  He was Jr.  They all called him that.  He always wore a suit, although it often got thrown aside when reaching for a grounder.  He was set apart a little.  It wasn't that he wasn't friends with all the kids, even the girls, but he seemed a bit more prim.  Proper.  That's probably just because his dad owned the factory.  Mildred was like that too.  She was tiny for her eight years.  Wore piggy tails, and her mother always dressed her is  yellow and lace, said it brought out the yellow in her eyes.  How she got those eyes, nobody knew.  Mrs. Pepperson was pinchish, and had beady brown eyes with mousy hair to match.  Mr. Pepperson was small too, and behind his  by focals, he had teeny black eyes.  The mailman, the kids joked.  Although, the mailman was black and had the biggest most beautiful chocolate eyes you could ever wish to look into.
     On this day, the game started up as usual, dusty and sweaty, fathers against sons and friends against brothers.  It was loud.
     "Keep that clamour down!!"  Came from across the street at the Five and Ten.  It was old Mrs. Fish.  And a fitting name for her too.  She looked like a fish.  And when she was selling the fish from the market, she even smelled like a fish.  She was always yelling for the kids, (and their fathers) for being to loud.