I am a romantic, I guess I've always been one. I remember pining away for my hero and next door neighbor, Dumpy. I was only eight years old. He was a whole year older and could do no wrong in my estimation. When I considerate it now we had sort of an "Our Gang" time. He was the hero and my brother and I were his followers. We had wonderful made up adventures. We slipped through the window to their basement, only to be scared of being discovered. Being scared made it that much more exciting.
He lived with his parents and grandmother next door. We lived in an apartment across the driveway. When I had an operation for polio, he rigged a walkie talkie from their kitchen to my bedroom. We explored the back of our apartment and one time the garages behind us were left open and the three of us explored the interior. These garages were used as storage unites, we walked through looking, but not touching piles of furniture and assorted things. It was spooky and fun. Our imagination took all sorts of turns figuring out stories about the pieces. Now that I think about it, this was perhaps one reason that I liked finding old things.
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