Earlier today, I was walking past a couple of back yards, and I had the privilege of smelling beef char on a grill, while kids were laughing, and wives were talking, and men were silently watching, waiting to flip a patty. Something about the smell brought me back to my childhood, and for some reason, I want to bring you there with me. The Deck wasn't legal or permitted, at least by Philadelphia standards, and had been built by my Father, when I was very young. Our house was large, a three story rowhome built in the 1910-1920s, with an equivalently large adjoining plot that functioned as a driveway, leading up to an old, haunted garage that sat behind the house. Like all boomers, my Father purchased it for $78,000 in 1981, despite being a simple word-corrector. It really way a beautiful building; instead of having wallpaper, most of the house had hammered tin on the sides, and the tin ceilings are something I can truly appreciate through memory. Strange, horrific metal grotesques, at the center of every nine squares. The First floor was truly massive, with high ceilings, larger than any Philadelphia rowhouse had any right to be. Only recently, when my Father had the duct work re-done, did he figure out why. The HVAC workers found socialist and communist propaganda in the vents; I may have grown up in some sort of abandoned Union Hall... Regardless, I want to tell you about the deck. The Deck was behind my house, built on top of the garage, at the termination of the driveway. But the Deck was also build beyond the garage, apparently, it covered most of what used to be a legal Philadelphia Street/Alleyway. My Father showed us an old map of the neighborhood, and how the back of our garage was adjacent to an old street/alley, a place that somehow got forgotten before the houses were built all around it. But the Alley wasn't empty, when he built the deck over it. A lone, shitty tree, was growing up before I was born. And my Father cut a hole in the deck for it. The Deck was surrounded by the walls of adjacent homes on all sides, except for the driveway. But it was ours, and our alone, as the only neighbor with widows looking onto our deck, had windows made of thick, swirling marble glass, which only let the light through. Regardless, back to the burgers, my Father used to make for us. Thick, puckish patties, with grilled onions and terrible tomatoes, all meant to fit on a 'Thomas's' English Muffin. Back in those days, we still had the 'huckster' on the corner to sell us vegetables, a job which no longer exists. The 'Huckster' was just a neighborhood guy with a pickup truck and scale, and a microphone, who just drove around, screaming into the speaker, advertising produce, all sorts of fruits and vegetables, none of which were particularly good. This was before everywhere in Philly had a close grocery store; He sold Christmas Trees during December. Regardless, there is no point to this story. Just wanted to write down some things about how I grew up, lest I forget.