When I was in third grade, we moved from Pittsford to Brighton. There was a large blackberry tree in our backyard next to the Whitmore's property line. I was turning eight. I was on a ladder, picking berries and shoving them in my gob as quickly as I could. Black juice was dribbling all over my hands and face. Mark C. Redmond made my acquaintance.
I was about 14 years old, a bunch of us were painting Mark's house. Mark's dad, Tony, was a sort of legend. He made good fellas seem only a little good. Tony is one of the reasons I became an attorney. My father greatly admired Tony's wit. Brat, like father like son, was a bit of a pussy. Tony was cool, and Mark was too. He still is.
Tony would make weekend breakfasts for Mark and his friends. One of Tony's signature dishes was Orange Reymon (pronounced with a Steve Martinesque French accent). I was not a coffee drinker, however, I loved opening their coffee jar, sticking my nose in as far as I could, and inhaling the aroma. Can't do that in the Age of Covid.
The Redmond's lived next to the Goldmans.
Jonathan "Jon" Kunz was helping. I was standing on the front of the house, somewhere in the middle, vertically and horizontally. I straddled the eaves over two of the first floor living room bay windows, facing out. I reached up to grab an inverted spire with my left hand. In my right hand was another inverted spire. My body formed an X as I looked at Mark on the front lawn, and I said "Look, I'm Jesus Christ." Mark replied "Your a [expletive] idiot." Somethings never change.
Our tennis court saw more skateboarding, ice skating and floor hockey than it ever saw tennis. When Stuart MacKenzie kicked my ass in floor hockey, which he did with the finesse of someone who barely needed to try, I would cry. I still do.
