Tony Redmond was easily the sexiest father on Pelham Road. That is the only reason I let him...
I digress. In our early teens, we would sleep over at Mark Redmond's house. Often, I would sneak in to bed with Mark and we'd play spoons until something arose. Mike Goldman would snuggle too, sometimes,
Until one or both awoke. The trick was to get either or both to a happy ending before they woke. Not easy.
Afterwards, we'd wander downstairs. Aldora had this yummy light, baby blue thick pile carpeting. If you were interested in getting recircumsised you could walk in to their house with your shoes on. One could always rely on Mark's mother.
Aldora wasn't strong. She was a titan. She was Marcia's closest friend. True courage. You knew where you stood with her. One needn't read the room when either she or Tony were in it. The room read you.
I was too young to drink coffee. On the Redmond's (or shall I say Rèmon!) kitchen counter was a glass jar of coffee grinds. I've seen coke addicts take less gusto inhaling than I did with those grounds.
After Mike, Mark and I wandered downstairs, which usually only occurred if both were satisfied, Mr. Redmond would, if the gods be praised, make breakfast. He had certain breakfast making traits which, in my home, would have caused the wrath of any, usually all, of my 3 elder
For example, Tony would leave both fridge & freezer doors open whilst removing requisite ingredients. The use of the
for the Oranj de Rémon was de rigueur.
Often, I would express my amazement that such events could occur in a home like
Mark and I spoke briefly a couple times at our 40th high school reunion. The years didn't fade away. The years simply never were.
