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I remember some of those words...not quite muffled by the screen door... slowly wafting across the street on the muggy summer breeze...the same way you heard the sounds of my house, and Mark's house, and Michael and Charles. Our small neighborhood was a sort of extended family of children, many of whom were caught in the crossfire of their parents stormy relationships. But I rarely ever remember talking about it. We all knew or at least suspected what was going on in each others homes, but our lives together were outside those homes...on the spray painted baseball diamond in the intersection or on the stoop.

Our battles were with the Big Kids who tortured us daily with insults and charlie horses. [But I got a couple of them back years later by being indifferent when they at last realized I was a girl!] I also remember how your dad was always sweet to me. How he always seemed to get a kick out of the friendship I had with the Basile boys. He always smiled at me and called me honey.


At first glance, from a distance at least, you really look alike. (Different eras of fashion, clearly.)

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