It was 1968 in Jersey City, New Jersey; I was 4 years old and just starting to learn how to answer the telephone.

My mother loved to tell the story of the day we were home alone together in the house. She was upstairs folding laundry as I watched television downstairs.

The phone rang, and before my mother could reach the top of the stairs she found me placing the phone back in its cradle, hanging up.

"Who was that, Michael?” she asked?

I looked up at her, standing on the stairs and said, with shrugging shoulders, "I don't know! It was some man. He asked me if this was Chicken Delight, so I said, 'No! It's just me...Michael. A plain boy, watching Bozo!"

My mother loved telling this story.

Bozo was a huge part of my childhood. I loved him, had all of his toys and appreciate that he will live on in our memories.