Mary Ida Kelly, my mother, was born at home in 1920, and Henry Richmond Miller, my father, was born at home in 1916. They grew up, met, and married within twelve shady blocks of one another in Webster Groves, Missouri. In 1925 a five-year-old blonde, bushy-haired Mary Ida stood on Lockwood Avenue and firmly protected her hopscotch chalk lines from “Hank” Miller. With her hands at her waist, she swung her hips and said, “Listen here, Henry Miller. You and your friends cannot play marbles on my sidewalk! Go home!”
“Aw, you go home, Cotton Top, and quit bossin’ us guys around! You don’t own this sidewalk!” he responded.
It was not exactly the best start to a friendship, much less a future marriage . . ..
— Raking Leaves in the Wind