Thoughts, a mile-a-minute came into my head, as I had been given official license to do whatever I wanted. I didn’t notice the walk home, past “Catholic row” where children outnumbered parents by an average of five to one. I didn’t stop by to see Derek, Jim, John or David as I swung down Georgian Court, a road Mom called “The Gaza Strip.” She being resolutely ethnocentric and “World War II conservative.”
I hung a walking left onto Trevor Court, in a neighborhood (The Barnard Tract)n recently made famous in a book showing just how closed off one rich family was from the others, but this was never true for the kids, back in the 70s. No. There were pick-up sports games in all three academic seasons. Summer found us at Canandaigua Lake, visited by cousins, and many others. The Martins next door got a summer spot near us at the lake also, but were not always at my parents big blow-out parties. Then, in an act of coincidental synchronicity, the McQuaids bought the ranch house my dad had built by himself (minus plumbing and electricity) 25 years earlier. It was south of us and on the east die of the lake, near Bare Hill, the Iroquois meeting place.