Some nice memories

I remember these summers in Howell, New Jersey that were just wonderful. I didn't have a family, none that I will claim anyway, but it was nice being a kid there. I'm going to try and rescue good memories in my life, because they are all I have to show of it. And, I suppose I will share them with God because there sure as hell isn't anyone else around anymore.

But those summers were something. Things got uptight for me when I was like 9, so I guess we are talking the summer of my ninth year and before. First, it's not just me who says the weather has changed: very extreme now. Back then, it was almost perfect seasonal weather. Summers were absolutely glorious. Even the rain seemed warm.

Local kids were rabid about sports: and we played everything -- baseball, basketball, football, stickball, we ran races. Lord knows, we liked boxing I guess because we sure as heck fought with each other enough.

Back then, Paul Fiquet was my neighbor and best friend. He was like a year older than me. We didn't have much choice about becoming friends. In a rural place like Howell there were only so many kids nearby and it was inconvenient to have a best friend down the block because that block was like a quarter mile, at least.

Sometimes, Paul was the only thing that kept me going being in that house. Oh, and there were girls. I was never, ever one of those little boys who thought little girls had "cooties" of any kind. I think God must have made me to adore women -- because I fell in love easily a dozen times before I was 10. Mostly, I was in love with Debbie Ketchur and Jennifer Hunter. Debbie's family moved out after I was eight so I spent most of my time mooning over Jennifer, who was my friend Danny's sister.

Funny thing is Jennifer went on to marry another friend of mine, John Urig. He was a nice enough guy. And, he was a fair pick-up basketball player, a good shortstop in baseball and an amazing stickball player. That boy could wear the hell out of a rubber ball.

There were these blackberry bushes right down this dirt road in back of my father's house. They produced the most outstanding blackberries in the history of blackberries. Adults never went back there, so mostly kids used to pick them and eat them. They were wild and delicious and there was nothing wrong with chomping on them. In fact, they were wonderful -- and they only belonged to kids; how appropriate.

Those summers went on forever, and I loved them. I went back to the old neighborhood some years ago. Michelle Anderson still lives there. She is all married and had kids. We were all married. Of that group way back, I feel comfortable saying I was probably the most married. Before all that, though, there were just a bunch of kids running around a rural, backwater town having their fun in their own world. That world ran parallel with adults' world, of course. But it was our own, for good or bad -- and it was definitely more for the good.

Tom Atkinson was the best athlete on our block in that world, and would never be what he became later. It was all so innocent, really. It's been a good long time since I played stickball. In fact, I never played it again after I left at 9. Damn shame, really. Wonderful game.