Patsy

From the moment I met Patsy, I adored her. One does not analyze relationships at seven years old, they either are or aren’t. Over the next 10 years of my life, my summers were spent at our family beach house. From the second school ended in June to the second it resumed in September, I was barefoot and blissed out on the beaches, boardwalks and playgrounds of our beloved village. And Patsy was my best friend. There are too many memories to count. Since she passed away many have been flooding to the forefront of my brain.

Patsy grew up in a large, Irish Catholic family. She carried the middle name of her mother, Eugenia, a relaxed, ethereal matriarch who, to put it mildly, gave her children lots of leash. Patsy was a beautiful, feral creature. She lived apart from the other seven-year-olds. We all went to the village day camp (which we called “group”) from nine to noon Monday through Friday. It’s just what you did. So when I would see Patsy at-large during these hours it was confusing—and fascinating.

I started tracking Patsy at the much less mature age of six. I observed her eating ice cream cones in the morning; standing atop the monkey bars like the child of a Wallenda, waving her arms wildly and wiggling her tush (a clear taunting of the fates); swimming outside of designated lifeguard areas (you just did not do that), and sometimes I heard her letting somebody really have it with the ferocity of an angry Hell’s Angel. She was a feisty, scrappy force, even at six.

One day, at the wizened age of seven, I approached her in the playground, a place kids would converge upon every evening after dinner. There was no parental supervision in those days; it was glorious revelry that somehow always found its own order (it could be a little ‘Lord of the Flies sometimes but that’s how you learn).

My strategy of approach was one of cautious curiosity. I vectored in across the sand, planting myself in her general vicinity and began casually digging

a hole. Holes were cool. They