Mike Horan, now gone, is a past neighbor and friend to whom I owe a spiritual bouquet of Masses, rosaries, prayers and thoughts for all that he did for me. First he let me practice for hours on his basketball hoop over his garage. (Mike was not as avid about basketball as I was.) And then he invited me for fishing expeditions aboard his parents’ cabin cruiser in Manhasset Bay. I found out that Porgies were not only fun to catch, but quite edible fried.
He moved to Bethpage, and we made a golfing date, which for some unexplainable reason I never kept. Shame on me. But his cheerful memory and that of his family, especially Danny, who loved my stash of process Swiss cheese, regale my memory. His sister Pat, though older, was a breath of convivial air. And so we meet, and lose, God’s chosen ones.
Civilization 