Fried Bologna Sandwich

Sometimes it is a song, sometimes it is a special beach, mountain side, or sometimes just a particular word.  And, then, sometimes it is a fried bologna sandwich.

When speaking of sordid affairs, we've all heard the old story line, "It was the milkman that did it", or "it was the mailman that did it."  Well in my case ...  it really was the mailman.   Yes, my mother was married to the mailman.  My father, Daddy as we called him, carried our mail route.  And, in those days, that meant a heavy full leather bag, packed full of letters, bills, magazines, and his least favorite, "junk" mail.  He literally walked his route. No mail truck to move every block or so, but rather his own personal vehicle, parked several streets away at the beginning of his route, and then the long walk to deliver his mail, and then back to his awaiting car, at the end of his day. 

He would tell you that he had many blessings on his daily walk. From Toby, the dog, that walked each step with him, to all the neighbors that knew him, waved hello, provided hot chocolate in the winter, and ice water in the heat of summer.  But to me, his biggest blessing was being able to have lunch at home everyday.

I'm the youngest of two children, and my sister, three years my senior, moved from grade school to high school when I was eleven.  This was also the same time that my mother returned to the working world.  Thus, I became a "walker" at school. This meant I didn't get to board one of the envied buses with my friends, or even climb in a car at the end of the school day.  It meant, that I, along with many other children, had to wait until the last group, when the principal (a nun) would finally say over the school PA system, "walkers!"   That meant we could, in a single file, leave the school building, follow the "patrol" boy or girl, and proceed down the sidewalk, still in a single file, almost 3 blocks, before we would all disperse in different directions to our homes.  

As I walked down our street, I remember those steps, each individual step, and my mounting fear that I knew I was going to have to go into an empty house.  I have never liked being alone, and as a child was the kid that had to have the bathroom light on at night, would go anywhere with my mother, yes, even the dry cleaners, to keep from being home alone.  After school, I usually arrived home at least 20 minutes before my sister arrived home from high school.  I would open the door, quietly walk into the foyer, and know, just know that someone was going to be behind the door, ready to jump out, and grab me.

Then I would smell it, I would really smell it.  That glorious aroma of fried bologna.  One slice, one thick slice, fried with a little char and until the edges were curled, and then placed between two pieces of plain white bread.  And on very special rainy days, I would even smell the dampness of the wet leather of his mail bag that had been left in the foyer during his lunch.  I would know instantly that our house was safe because Daddy had been there.   Daddy with his fried bologna sandwich, with Toby waiting outside the door, and his car parked several streets away, had walked down this same street, as I just did, and our house was safe.  In just those few minutes my dread had been replaced by the warm feeling of safety, nurture, and love.  Some folks have a special song, a special beach, mountain side, or special word.  All I need is the smell of a fried bologna sandwich, and my world is safe and secure.