Stratford Hill by Marsha Montgomery

I remember the huge rock up on the hill, we used to call the Indian rock. It had some marking and it had places that we used to think looked like the Indians used to grind their meal. At least we pretended that. We used to build lean huts pretending we were all Indians and played for hours gathering herbs to use.

I also remember an old caved in well that we were not alloed to go near. Mr. Breezy from the pop factory used to warn us about it. Mr. Breezy was my great friend. I used to climb the tree beside our garage and wait for him to come to work. I would go see him and watch for hours the lids being put on the bottles, and even help load some cases on the trucks. He would tell me stories and always give me an Old Dad's Root Beer or Cream Soda. There were so many neat things about the factory, I used to explore it all the time with Mr.Breezy's consent. However, he kept a close eye on me and was amazed a how many questions I had to ask