Baby Bootlegger
Helen Mazunas hauled her ratty little wooden wagon along the rough sidewalk in Nashua, New Hampshire, intent on making her deliveries. The bottles clattered under their canvas as the wagon bounced, and she turned to make sure none had fallen out. She knew that the clear liquid in them was for grown-ups only. She was just five years old—the stinky stuff that Mr. John called his “namie” (home-made) didn’t interest her. But when she knocked on doors, the adults who answered were always happy to see her, but only after a few furtive glances up and down the street.