My mother would have had a fit if these boys had lived in our neighborhood. She would have locked me in the bedroom and put bars on the windows.
Luckily for her, (not me), they were teenagers in 1953 Pensacola when I was still a curly-haired baby in Miami.
Bill, Tommy, Buck (yes — that Buck) and Roy were hot-blooded young studs on the hunt. They pursued girls, of course, but also fast cars, faster squirrels, and contraband watermelons (so the story goes) to cool in Pensacola's Carpenter's Creek — back when it was still a sparkling spring-fed swimming hole instead of the drainage basin it got turned into.
Three of the four were in town last week for a high school reunion out on Pensacola Beach.
A few nights before the big bash, Bill, Roy, and Roy's beautiful dynamo of a wife, Bette, came out to the woods for dinner. Roy's a helluva cook and he and I had a blast collaborating on dinner.
. . . But that's a whole 'nother story.