CINCINNATI

 Last week I wrote about a personal experience on "Cincinnati Sunday."  I'll do that again.  This popped into my head this past week.  It came to me because of a piece of foam rubber I have used on a chair in my garage for . . . many years.  Here's the background.

When I got out of the Army in 1967, Suzanne and I already had a daughter, Stacey, born while I was in Vietnam.  They lived in her parents house while I was away.  We purchased a three-bedroom home just before I was released from active duty.  My in-laws had provided us with a baby bed and dresser.  

Eleven months after my release, we had a second daughter, Michelle.  The oldest was okay in her bed in a separate bedroom.  My parents had a very old baby crib that looked like a play toy but it was just the right size for an infant.  The problem was, it didn't have a real mattress.  

At that time, I worked for Oldfield Equipment Company on Seymour Avenue in Elmwood.  John Oldfield and his partners owned quite a bit of industrial property on that street.  One of the tenants was the American Excelsior Company who manufactured products for packaging, cushioning, engineered foam, etc.  I went to them with my problem.  They fixed my up with a piece of foam rubber about 4" thick and cut to just the size I needed for the crib.  

So, Michelle slept in that little old crib at our bedside for a month or two.  When she had pretty much outgrown the little bed, friends of my in-laws lent us another baby bed.  

Of course, 12 months later we were gifted with another daughter, Amy.  The old crib was perfect for her next to our bed.  The other two were fine in there baby beds until Amy needed to go into her bedroom.  She was the best of babies - maybe because she liked that foam rubber mattress so well.  After a few months, Amy was given one of the baby beds and Stacey stepped up into a big girl's bed.  It all worked out.  

The small piece I have in my garage was the extra that they cut at American Excelsior.   I hope I thanked them properly.  I've been sitting on that piece of foam at my workbench for years and, until just the other day, forgotten from where it came.  Memories.