Editor’s note: This is the fourth of a four-part series.

Bank Street’s Empire Theater was universally called “The Scratch House.” I have always supposed it earned the name because it was so afflicted with vermin. There definitely were rats and probably fleas and other bugs. That was natural enough, I guess, because of our eating habits while spending an entire afternoon watching two full-length feature films, several cartoons and a newsreel.

My grandmother often made us a broccoli rabe sandwich, soaked in olive oil and dripping with juice. We needed to lean over our seat to be sure the drippings landed on the floor, not on our clothes. As a well-heeled paperboy, I might spend an entire dollar on candy. At 5 cents each, that might be 10 or more varieties, including Juji bees, jujy Fruit, Good n’ Plenty, Charleston chews, Raisinets, Snickers and butter popcorn. No wonder my teeth were a disaster before I reached my teens.

Within the next block were seven grocery stores. The Sunshine Market, Jack Salowitz, Joe DiMarco, Frieda Gentilella, Joe Eisenstein, D’Amico and Miceli’s markets – all within a block of my home.

At the corner of Bank and Howard was Columbus statue. My sister and I would play around its base and rest under a great maple tree with a bench beside it. Carlo’s Café, where my mother was sometimes a waitress, had the thinnest pizza you could buy – not that there were other pizzerias. When I finally got old enough to date, Carol and I would often go to the restaurant run by the Espositos. The wife of the owner had been maid of honor at my grandmother’s wedding in Nocera Inferiore in Italy. We were taught to refer to her always as our commara out of respect for the relationship.

On the opposite corner was Cardelle’s Drug Store. Joe was a very kindly man who took a shine to me from my earliest years. I was allowed to sit among the large collection of comic books and read to my heart’s content.

I came to know all the great writings in our Western tradition through the Classics Illustrated. I could sit for hours among the stacks, while my benevolent benefactor smiled behind the counter. I was well-acquainted with Captain Marvel, Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and other funnies as well as Tales from the Crypt, The Old Witch and the Vault Keeper.

Mr. Cardelle was an active member of the Kiwanis Club, and that brought me to one of the seminal experiences of my childhood. I could not afford to join the Boy Scouts where everyone had to purchase a uniform. So I didn’t get to go away to summer camp at Wahkanah. But the Kiwanis Club sponsored a special end-of-season free week for kids who didn’t go to camp with the scouts. Joe sponsored me, and I fell in love with Gardners Lake and morning songs and nighttime campfires and easy camaraderie. It was there that I eventually met John Kashanski, counselor to the older kids and one of the most treasured relationships of my life.

Also across the street from my home was Dean’s Poultry. You could go into his place and pick out a live chicken in a cage and have Mr. Dean chop off its head and de-feather the bird with the giant machine on the premises. He would pull the insides out of the chicken and put them aside with the neck for my grandmother to prepare as a soup base or chicken livers and bacon.

In front of Dean’s was Doug Williams’ bicycle shop. Turners’, the place was always named, though Doug was the exclusive manager. Doug had infinite patience and kids were always welcome and in attendance as he repaired every imaginable damage to a two-wheeler.

For me, the great feature of his place was the pin-up corner. Did girls really look like that without their clothes?

Maloof’s ice cream was our immediate neighbor. Mr. Maloof owned a collection of homes next to my grandparents’ house. His daughters, Florence Rothen and Mrs. Mc Gill lived with their families in separate houses next to the Maloofs. I was told that my grandparents had owned the land before Maloof built his brick ice cream factory next door.

Opposite our house was the Lee Key Laundry. We all had fun with that name, of course as the crew worked at that steamy location without air conditioning and the sidewalk often had water emanating from the “Leaky” place.

The Cripps family was upstairs, and all the kids were aware of Billy, about my brother’s age. He had part of his finger cut off during a paper drive for the Scouts during the war. He had jumped off the collection truck while his finger was caught in the gate and ripped off his digit. Nothing interests kids as much as physical deformity.

In the house directly behind us was a wonderful old Irish woman, Agnes Douchette. Her French-Canadian husband was long gone, but her large family was in and out of the house all the time.

Dukie was a terrific gardener and I learned the names of all the flowers from her. Her house was the only place I could walk into without knocking.

When I was as young as 6, I would go over to Duke’s and read the Sunday comics to her while she ironed clothes in her kitchen. She must have taken in laundry for a living, since she was always in the kitchen working during the day.

At night I would join her and her son, Joe, as we would listen to the radio. “Fun for the family night” was Friday and we would listen to “Meet Corlis Archer” and “Our Miss Brooks” and “Amos and Andy.” In fact, listening to the radio was an activity that I shared with several of our friends. The guys would sometimes get together and listen to “Escape” and “Inner Sanctum Mystery” at Ritty Monthous’s house.

My home adjoined a pair of alleys. Directly west of 565 Bank was the large brick building called “The Triple X.” My favorite neighbor was Jimmy Delmore, who owned the package store in that building. He was the kindest and gentlest man I ever knew.

When I would play ball between my house and his store, I would throw a tennis ball against his building. His windows on the side were all barred, and every so often I would accidentally hurl the ball into his window and the ball would reverberate against the bars and create a terrible din. A few seconds later, Jimmy would come out with the sweetest smile on his face and look at me without a word of complaint.

The third of my Nonna’s closest friends was between P.G. Mono plumbing and the funeral monument place. Mrs. Cappuccio was the most reliable source for fresh basil – the indispensable ingredient for my grandmother’s sauce. Her home featured a huge parrot and a rich backyard garden.

Past Gruskin’s Hardware and The Café Bar was a house set way back from the street. Here lived our black neighbors, the Cornishes. I remember Otho, Earl, Reese, Bill and Carmella. Bill was a classmate at St. Mary and a special friend.

I was timid about roller skates and hesitated about trying them on until he persuaded me to try my luck. It was one of the most adventurous days of my childhood.

My friend was absolutely fearless as he drove from Town Hill to Columbus on metal skates. I could barely stand up on them. But we spent one entire Sunday racing up and down the concrete sidewalks with their driveway bumps and metal entrances to the basement and the intersecting streets. It was so exhilarating! In less than one full day, I too became fearless and oblivious to the crashes and scrapes.

Within this small area of the smallest geographical town in the small state of Connecticut there was this rich variety of businesses and homes, marvelous people and memorable structures. The Italian club on Division Street had a bocce court and the town dump offered BB gun hunting for critters. Columbus Park would present us with fireworks and celebrations. Every possible green grocery or cheese or meat could be found with a five-minute walk.

There were clothing stores, hardware stores, bars, paint store, drug stores, tradesmen and grocers. Not one of the establishments was part of a national chain. We were black and white, Italian and Polish and Irish and Greek and Arabic and Jewish. As kids we skated on the sidewalk, played ball in the alleys, played kick the can in our back yards, and soldiers on the hillside.

At 6 or 7 I could walk all the way to downtown, go to the grocery after dark, or stay out until the street lights came on. I could go into 50 stores and never see a stranger. I could sit on the low wall in front of my home on a Sunday afternoon and listen as a motor car would start down Town Hill and gradually fade into the distance toward State Street, the humming of its motor echoing softly past me.

We would put a placard in the window of our living room so the ice man, riding behind the horse-drawn wagon, could know what size cake of ice to leave us for our refrigeration.

These are my memories of years delivering The Evening Day, in New London, when I was less than 10 years old.

Gil Shasha is a retired attorney living in Mystic.

Your Turn is a chance for readers to share stories, opinions and photographs. To contribute, email times@theday.com.