Several times a week a small delivery truck carrying ice would wend it’s jouncy way to my parent’s bungalow by the river, leaving wobbly-wheeled tracks in the sand of the one lane that led out there from the farm. The truck would grind to a stop in the little yard, and the delivery man would carry a huge block of ice into the back-porch room and place it in the ice box. Once, just after I had gotten a small tricycle-type toy, he came as usual. I became curious to see what would happen if the toy was pushed by the truck instead of my own two feet. I shoved the toy under the truck just behind one of the back wheels and hid behind a bush to watch. When the driver began backing the truck, low and behold, the little toy went too. All went well until the driver began to turn out of the yard. The little tricycle was crunched, emitting a loud noise. the driver immediately stopped in horror. Mom came screaming out of the house, fearfully expecting to see a mangled child. Their relief was complete when they only found a crumpled-up toy instead of a corpse. However, I was thoroughly castigated when I came creeping, thumb in mouth, out of my hiding place. Mom’s relief probably gave way later to a feeling of aggravation. Toys like that little “trike” came few and far between during those lean war years.