It was 1936. My father was five years old, and he lived on the north side of Snowstorm City, the Italian section. This was during the depression and he was used to seeing men wandering through the neighborhood, looking for work, and often for food. His mother gave them sandwiches sometimes.
One day when my father was hiding in the backyard, playing some kind of childhood game, he saw a man come and go through the trash can at the curb. This was a fairly common practice. He watched the man root through the garbage until he came to the halves of an orange that my father had had for breakfast. The man picked up the leftover rinds and eagerly ate the pulp that still stuck to them.
Seventy years later, my father still remembers this scene. "I remember thinking how hungry that man must have been."