Overheard
In 1945, my older brother and I were living in a foster home with a family that had a son and two daughters. With no furnace, the house was heated with a coal burning kitchen stove.
My brother and the family’s son would walk along the railroad tracks and pick up coal that had fallen off the cars, collecting it in a burlap sack. I could hardly wait until I was old enough to go along with th…