Giving me jobs that I could do, or was learning to do was their way of valuing me, valuing the project that I was set to rush head long into. You might hear what I am trying to convey in the conversation when Old Frank came to pick up his window later in the afternoon of the day he had dropped it off.
"Hey, Howard, you got my window done yet.?"
"Wouldn't have but Marie got the first half done just when I had some time to work on it."
"Huh, you don't say. What are you working on there young lady with that peach crate?"
"My weaving loom."
Ten years later when I was 18 and riding on the back of a convertible in the parade as a homecoming queen candidate, there was Old Frank waving wildly at me. He was an auctioneer. I don't know if you have ever heard the "patter" of an American auctioneer but he began bidding me up as if I was the next item for sale. The crowd loved it. I loved it. We all applauded him. I blew him a kiss. He blew one back. We had a connection.