Mmm mmm good!
While sitting at a Formica kitchen table inside the two-story white colonial where my boon companion, Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr., lived with his close-knit family, I expressed a feeling of extreme satisfaction after sinking my teeth into a scrumptious chocolate chip cookie — a fireworks extravaganza for my taste buds.
I was in seventh heaven.
“That’s music to my ears,” proclaimed Mrs. Vonnie-Kaye Brough with a broad smile as she poured me a glass of ice-cold milk to wash down the deliciousness. “Since I use double chocolate chips in my recipe, these little gems were always a big hit with Robbie’s elementary classmates at holiday parties.”
“These are like little firecrackers going off inside my mouth, Mrs. B,” I complimented the busy homemaker, coming up for air after taking a big gulp of the pasteurized moo juice.
When the “bathroom boys” came over to the church parsonage to celebrate the end of our first year in junior high school with a backyard beach party, the red-haired stripling invited me to attend a family barbecue for the Fourth of July weekend, promising a spectacular fireworks display to end the memorable evening.
With the exception of the week my family made a trek to the Empire State to visit Grandma and Pappy Price, he called me like clockwork every single Saturday night to ensure I didn’t forget about our pre-planned rendezvous.
The night before the big event, sleep was elusive as we both couldn’t stop thinking about the fun and excitement the next day would bring.
Shortly after parking my purple bike in the cement driveway of the California Avenue residence — directly across the street from Ewing Park — the following afternoon, the class clown answered the front door in nothing more than a securely wrapped bath towel, causing these baby blues to pop out of my head.
Hmm, I didn’t know this cookout was clothing optional.
“Hardy har har,” exclaimed Robbie with a mischievous smirk as he invited me into the entrance hall of their home. “If you arrived a few minutes earlier, you would’ve caught me in my pajamas; because my siblings and I were helping our mom make chocolate chip cookies, and we totally forgot about the time.”
I’m glad you remembered to wear your swimming trunks.
As this pair of rising eighth graders played follow-the-leader through the dining room and into the heart of the home, they found the stay-at-home mother and her only daughter, Aimee, busily making potato salad and a few other usual staples for the family picnic in the backyard.
Upon looking up from her meticulous work when her scantily-clad offspring announced the arrival of his invited guest, the God-fearing woman turned three shades of red and lit a fuse under her oldest son’s hindquarters with her pointed remark.
Boy, you best get up those stairs this instant and put some clothes on, or else you’ll be dodging my rolling pin till sundown!
In a flash, Robbie did a disappearing act, leaving the bath towel behind.
Once I finished a very tasty midday snack by wiping the milk mustache from my upper lip, the gridiron baller returned with proper attire, acting as if his mother wasn’t just about to snatch a baking utensil from the counter and chase his naked butt through the house.
“Let’s go out to the garage,” suggested the amiable young man, grabbing me by the arm to make a quick exit. “Considering you’re part of a Boy Scouts-like organization, I thought you’d be the perfect guy to help me assemble a tent—an early thirteenth birthday gift — in the backyard.”
You definitely hit a home run with that assumption, because I’ve helped put up my share of tents since joining Royal Rangers after moving to Ellwood City.
By the time we found a level area to set up the portable nylon shelter, my intimate friend’s younger brother, 10-year-old Chris, sauntered out the back door sporting a pair of tie-dyed boardshorts to help us with our laborious task.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t come downstairs in a bath towel like your older brother, otherwise your mother would’ve put both your butts in a sling,” I snickered while putting several tent poles together.
“We’ll save that for when we go skinny dipping down by the Connoquenessing Creek,” quipped the soon-to-be sixth grader as we all burst into a fit of laughter.
Not long after taking part in a high-spirited water gun battle that pitted the junior high schoolers against the Walnut Ridge Elementary students with no clear winners, we sat down at the picnic table for a festive outdoor meal featuring a mountain of burgers and dogs, courtesy of the grill master himself, Mr. Robert “Bob” G. Brough Sr.; after which we wrote our names in the night sky with sparklers before watching a colorful bouquet of fireworks going off across the street at Ewing Park.
Following the breathtaking exhibition lasting a full twenty minutes, sponsored by the organizers of the arts, crafts and food festival, I politely asked Mrs. Brough’s permission to use their telephone to call my dad for a ride home.
Instead of calling your father to pick you up, why don’t you ask permission to spend the night at our house?
My eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of having a sleepover with the Brough brothers.
After making my phone call, I shared the exciting news with the boys, “It looks like we’re having a pajama party tonight!”
Bickering over who was going to give up their bed for me, the man of the house suggested a more reasonable solution to the apparent quandary. “Why don’t you fellas just sleep in the tent tonight?”
Before another needless quarrel broke out as to who I was going to sleep next to, this problem solver quickly interjected, “I call dibs on being the monkey in the middle.”
“And nobody will have to poop in a bucket,” assured the Brough’s number one son, thinking about the time he had to do just that when camping out in my garage attic hideout. “We’ll leave the back door unlocked just in case someone has to use the bathroom during the night.”
Everyone had a good belly laugh recalling his flamboyant theatrics when he reiterated the “purported” horror story the following day.
The funniest part? When Robbie emerged from the garage with his “business in a bag” to toss into the burn barrel, only for Mags to holler after him, “Don’t forget to reline the painter’s bucket before you climb back up into the rafters!”
Classic Northside hygiene.