Mark was the youngest of three, doted on by parents and older siblings. As a child, he could go where he chose in the small town. He and his friends would ride their bikes down to the docks and play along the water's edge. As long as they were home before dark, there were not a lot of rules. Anyone who saw them doing anything wrong might report them to their parents, but there were not cell phones to call them and ask where they were and what they were doing.

One time, my Dad took it into his head to ride his bike down the steep ramp leading to the dock. He thought he would be able to stop at the bottom. He could not. He walked home, dripping mud and salt water through his mother's kitchen, and changed his clothes. He was surprised when she asked him later what had happened. How did she know? The smell of mud flats still brings a smile to his face, 80 years later.

His father owned the hardware store in town. It bore his name (Collins and Freeman). He also was an auctioneer on the side. People liked him and trusted him and vice versa. He came in early and stayed late. His employees worked hard, but they were like family. My Dad could go in there and they would give him treats--small toys or candy.

When I was 5 or 6, we spent the summer in Branford. My sister and I "helped." The workers found small chores for us to do and paid us with Matchbox cars. We got them for Christmas too and had collections we compared. A fire engine...a dump truck...a race car.

My father's life took an unhappy turn. His brother died suddenly after swimming in a quarry, polio. One day he was alive and the next he was dead.