[Mister Bent]

I grew up in central NJ where summer was hot, humid and prime mosquito feasting season. The particular and peculiar freedom of summer break meant no responsibility greater than making my bed and being home in time for dinner.

I remember the scent of honeysuckle, rich and sweet in the humid air, and cut grass that stained the toes of my Chuck Taylor's green. I remember the sound of our house, too large for just the two of us, silent and settling in the summer heat, the only sound the steady drone of the giant air conditioner in the dining room window, the drip of water into the pan below it.

In those days, before over protective parenting became a necessity, a single parent like my mother could cast her kid to the day and not worry that anything worse than a skinned knee or poison ivy would befall me during her absence.

I rode my yellow, banana seat Schwinn everywhere and explored new home construction sites and the town junkyard. I brought home scraps of lumber for my fort, and irreparable lawn mowers to "fix." I pounded nails into boards and I took the lawnmowers back to the junkyard.