One of the things I think of in remembering the Sixties is how I didn’t dwell too much back then on days gone by, most likely because at twelve years old by midpoint, I was anticipating my future, longing to be a teenager and be able to participate in all the off-color shenanigans I observed the older neighborhood kids doing. I believe I’ve already mentioned somewhere (several times) how I trailed after the slightly older Carol Reed, who, herself, seemed desperate to hook up with one of the merchant marines, chums of her sister Sylvia (affectionately known as Bunny)’s boyfriend. She also had a mad crush on George Harrison, and I was thrilled to be asked occasionally to accompany her to the candy store half a mile away from our block in order to rummage through the latest batch of what would later become Beatles memorabilia in hopes of snatching up pictures of her favorite moptop. South Brooklyn, even near the Redhook section where we lived, was a magical place back then and looms larger in my memory than it could possibly have been in life with all its Italian and Scandinavian immigrants and their enormous broods. There were kids everywhere, and I envied their rapid and somewhat exotic maturation being of plain old Irish extraction myself, and having to be seen and not heard and follow other arcane rules that lingered long after they had proved useful. The Sixties were not the best time of my life, but in retrospect, they don’t seem so bad, nor bring me down so much as recalling the turn of the century, when fifty was approaching and I was reminded, through unfortunate circumstances and a great need for companionship, that I had not remained on speaking terms with any of those childhood friends.
© Michael D. Brown 2013
Originally posted at 6S Social Network