I was five years old, my brother two. Grandpa was in his easy chair, and Arnold and I were sitting in Grandpa's lap, enjoying a game he played with Grandma's magazines.

"Hubert, what will be on the next page?"

"A car?" I might guess.

"Arnold, what do you say?"

"A lady?" he'd venture.

Then Grandpa would turn the page, and no matter what surprise appeared we'd burst out laughing and giggle in astonishment, most of all Grandpa, by far the most lovable man in my world. But one page was different.

"Niggers stink," he said. He was not speaking metaphorically. He meant their odor.

"They carry razor blades," he warned. "They'll cut you."

He went on with our game.