with a bottle of Pepsi. (My mom always bought the kind of bread that would not stick to the roof of one's mouth, but, as she put it, "would stick to your ribs!" Health bread was not my idea of a good snack.) As we munched on our favored snack, our mothers would wince, believing that our combination was food fit for convicts. We were undauntedly convinced to think otherwise. Occasionally, we tossed a frozen pizza into the oven to complete our late night feast.

During these affairs we would occupy our time in idle conversation, watch television, or involve ourselves in a singular form of diversion, paging through the telephone books in search of the city's strangest names.

When the party was held at my house, the usual schedule was not complete without my father grabbing our legs and dragging us from the couch and across the carpet. Rarely could we walk our arms fast enough to avoid a slight case of "rug burn."

Instead of bread and pizza we had popcorn and homemade cookies. As my mother was never an advocate of carbonated beverages, soda pop was seldom seen in our refrigerator. (To this day, she will bristle at the mention of "cola.") If we did have pop, it was the less-revered Lady Lee or Jewel brand.

Mary and I got along quite well, as neither of us possessed any fiery attributes. We were both mild mannered and soft-spoken; to my great relief, she shared my lack of enthusiasm for sports.

I was always amazed at her capacity for food; she ate heartily, yet remained a mere wisp of a shadow. Another of her characteristics which I deemed truly awesome was her ability to sleep undisturbed while her mother vacuumed around her bed.

It is difficult to venture those attributes which Mary may have associated with the essence of my character; maybe it was my joke, instead of tears, after an injury, or the humor which would evoke her smile and easy laughter. At any rate, I could have had no finer friend throughout the initial stages of my life, and although we now are far apart, and living in our separate worlds, those memories of our companionship shall persist for all time.

Steve, my other neighborhood buddy, lived next door. We were much closer in age than Mary and I, with our birthdays being only six months apart. I spent quite a bit of time with him, though more so during the summer months; we were in separate grades in school and that seemed to make a slight difference in our friends. In grade school, more than any other higher school of education one is more aware of age, somehow relating that directly to one's social status; in effect, a person of a higher grade should not be caught dead conversing with his younger neighborhood friends, at least not at school.

Once apart from our peers, we were the greatest of friends. We often sought out windfalls in the woods, which made terrific "camps," or simply hiked along the creek bed. Names were bestowed upon various landmarks according to their appearance; one drop-off was christened "dead man's bluff" while a small grove of wild chives was called "the onion field." There was a seemingly endless amount of diversion in the woods and we used it to our best advantage.

It was Steve I chose to accompany me on family excursions to parks and wildlife refuges; he was more game to tromp through the woods than were many of my companions.

One of the attributes which gave Steve rare character was his flawless honesty with respect to one's appearance or annoying habits. He would as quickly inform a person of a rip in his garment as he would another who was oblivious of the mucous running from his nose. If there was something amiss that by most standards should be set aright, he would see that it was done. Through Steve's keen insight and equally sharp ability to verbalize these faults, I was made aware of the fact that I walked "pigeon-toed" and soon corrected the matter through close observation. Personally, I feel grateful to Steve. There is no crime in voicing that which, with time or practice, can be overcome.

Some people who are quick to express the faults of others also lack all tact and sensitivity. This was not so with Steve. In his perceptiveness, he unquestionably found room for a great amount of personal concern and interest. Perhaps the most touching instance in which I witnessed this demonstration of care was when I was yet quite young. We were playing outside on the Tarzan swing in my backyard, when, without warning, a loud clap of thunder issued forth from the gray sky. So completely taken by surprise was I that I began to cry. It would have been so easy for him to mock my fright, but instead he jumped up and headed for his house, yelling, "Wait here!" Several minutes passed before he returned carrying a banana. He presented it to me, saying, "This will cheer you up!" He was not aware that I truly disliked bananas, but I was so touched by his show of affection that I humbly ate the fruit and thanked him for his kindness. That little episode of human kindness shall forever remain dear to me. It also altered somewhat my view of bananas.

Summer vacation brought almost unbelievable happiness, a magnetic appeal akin to freedom, for I was generally allowed to spend time as I wished. I seldom encountered schoolmates, and if there was a rendezvous, it was never brought about by my doing. It was far more convenient to call upon my two neighborhood friends, or to simply amuse myself.

Summer was not complete bliss, however, for yearly it brought a dreaded horror to life…camp! My first encounter following Kindergarten…Day Camp. I was terrified upon discovering that I was to exist amid a mob of virtual barbarians for the better part of each weekday. This lasted for but two weeks, yet it seemed an eternity. Each morning I boarded a school bus brimming with children to then endure a jostling, thirty minute ride to the location of the camp itself. Once there, we were to join our assigned group and the daily activities would commence. There were art projects, games, competition, hikes and swimming lessons. Many activities would have been quite pleasing had I been in the company of friends. However, shyness had no place at camp, and I felt constantly ill at ease.

An additional undesirable factor possessed the name "Betsy." In effect, Betsy was the group bully, resembling, ironically, the "Peanuts" character "Lucy" in both form and personality. On one of her particularly shining moments, she told me and another equally shy girl that she would make us sleep overnight in the boys' tent on the last night. Needless to say, we were scared silly although the threat could never have materialized.

Another camp, owned and operated by the Girl Scouts, was also a source of much summertime duress, although I recall very little about this camp other than the fact that the homeward-bound bus was a welcome sight.

The final camp to which I was sent for a week's time during two consecutive summers, was a King's Daughters Camp. I never relished the idea of rooming with people I did not know, yet here I was obliged to do so. Again, the camp was regimented into various activity schedules to which each camper was to adhere.

I was friendly, but not outgoing and confident, and as time crept by at a snail's pace, I became more and more hounded by loneliness. I wrote my family many postcards lamenting my undesirable situation, but time thus spent only seemed to make the problem worse.