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I get lots of junk sent to me via email. Most of it gets deleted without being read, but somebody recently sent me a great collection of old snapshots of Brooklyn. Among the photos was one that brought back a flood of memories.

It was a picture of a storefront on 13th Avenue in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn where I grew up. The name of the store was Miller's Appetizing. I can't imagine why anyone would have photographed that sign, but it reminded me of my Friday chore when I was a girl. Every Friday, my mother gave me a large, empty jar and sent me to that store to buy pickles and sour tomatoes for Shabbat.

Every week, I got the same instructions: "Make sure to get enough juice (by which she meant brine.)"

On the way home, I munched the sour pickle I'd get for a nickel -- or sometimes, a handful of Indian nuts.

Miller's was only one of the wonderful shops on 13th Avenue in those days.

The store where my mother bought fish was another. Inside was a large tile-lined swimming pool with live fish swimming around. My mother would peer into the water and then point out her choice.

The storeowner fished it out with a big net and put it on a wooden table. With a large mallet, he'd club it on the head and start filleting it, often while the fish was still wiggling. You might think this would kill my appetite for fish, but it didn't. Somehow what went on at the fish store seemed removed from what appeared on my plate at home -- broiled mackerel with lemon, fried flounder with ketchup, hot gefilte fish.

Next door to the fish store was Peggy's candy store. For a penny, I got my choice of about 30 or 40 types of candy displayed in a glass case. For a nickel or a dime, I could have an egg cream or a lime rickey at the fountain. On a special occasion, I might have a malted or a frappe (now known as a sundae.)

In the back of the candy store were public telephones. When I was a little girl, we didn't have a phone in our apartment. Every Saturday night, after Shabbat, my mother would go there to call my grandmother, who did have a phone. If somebody called us, which was rare, Peggy sent a local kid to come upstairs and get us. For this the kid got a tip.

A little farther up the block was the shoemaker. He had little booths with leather seats and footstools in his shop. That's where I sat and waited while he fixed shoes for members of my family. Italian tenors on the radio kept me company. I still remember the smell of shoe polish that filled the air.

On the avenue, there was also an appliance store named Baim & Blank. It doubled as a record store. It had little soundproof booths where I could listen to any 78 rpm recording I'd like to buy. My friends and I always took advantage of the situation there, spending whole afternoons listening to our favorites, rarely buying anything. The owner gave us dirty looks but never chased us out.

Those were some of the Jewish shops I loved, all of them on 13th Avenue, in the Jewish area. The shopping area covered about 15 blocks. On Saturday afternoon when I was a teenager, everyone came out for a stroll. The sidewalks were crowded. It was like Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. My friends and I, with our hair in curlers and covered with a scarf, hurried down the street for a last minute purchase of makeup or earrings in preparation for a Saturday night date.

At the beauty parlor that had just hired some gay hairdressers, nosy passersby pressed their noses against the glass trying to get a glimpse of the newcomers. One block off 13th Avenue, on New Utrecht Avenue, there were Italian shops. One was a store where you could have curtains and bed linens made to order. Their specialty was quilts.

That's also where every bride was taken to choose her dishtowels, sheets, bath towels, and aprons. I remember going there when I was engaged to plan my quilt. No department store quilt that I ever bought in later years could equal that one. It lasted almost forever.

On New Utrecht Avenue, there were Italian restaurants and pizza places. We could not afford to eat there. Occasionally, on a Sunday evening, we ate specials and beans at the Jewish delicatessen. Mostly, we ate at home and my father would figure out how much the Sunday evening meal would have cost at a restaurant.

My mother's uncle was the manager of a movie theater on New Utrecht Avenue. We always got free passes. On the way home, she'd take me for ice cream at the German ice cream parlor whose owner made his own ice cream in original flavors. That's where I went on my very first date when I was in 6th grade. A big group of boys and girls went for ice cream together. When the boys saw the prices, some of them took off and left the three sons of dentists to pay for all of those kids remaining.

On a recent trip to New York, I went to the old neighborhood in Boro Park. Not only were my old friends and neighbors no longer there, the shops I remembered were all gone. Nothing looked the same. The only recognizable things were my temple and my public school -- but they, too, didn't look as I remembered them.

Going there was a big disappointment. I don't want to go there again. Unfortunately, you really can't go home again, but you can remember with nostalgia the sights, sounds, and smells of the old neighborhood.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.