My father in his San Francisco store, the De Luxe Groceteria, not exactly the proud, optimistic-looking fellow thirteen years before
. The neighborhood was going to the dogs, charge customers were running up three-figure balances and paying a couple bucks on account when the mood struck them, plus riding the bus back home across the bridge every night with a briefcase stuffed with quarts of milk was probably getting old. Three years later, he had the place sold and was continuing in the grocery business in a lower-stress capacity, one that had a pension to boot.
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