I'm missing Sam this morning, and I'm trying to define exactly what meaning he gave my life.

My favorite thing at age 16 was to snarl "How phony", and leave it at that.

Sam showed me the truth is usually there underneath the horse shit So now at age 61 I still spot it easily...I'll demonstrate: Page one of today's NYT (but one could look any day of the week and find similar) thrills over a new show of photographs...."Some of these pictures will be on view at a new show at KMR Arts in Washington Depot, Conn., juxtaposed with an anatomically resonant series on sidewalk cracks that she produced in the ’70s. "

The sidewalk cracks may have merit, but Is this writer an idiot?

Bell Island

Creepy people lived there. People we did not know, or whose fathers were "away", people who didn't have the right number of digits on their hands or people who lived by another set of rules, like the Ripleys, Chip (off the old block or on the shoulder, either would apply) and Bobby? Billy? and unknown other brothers who terrorized the grade-schoolers and coated their black hair with grease and combed it in ducks ass Elvis styles . I wasn't old enough to know whether certain girls found them attractive, I would guess yes, very much so . They stood out in a classroom full of healthy skin and chestnut-haired girls and flat-top, buzz cut little boys. Their faces were pale, and even in fifth grade I feel that they smoked.

Entering Bell Island, visitors crossed an old WPA sytle bridge, where usually a mean-looking adult was drowning a pillowcase full of kittens, or teenage boys were dropping rotting fish on boaters on their way in or out of the cove that connected to Farm Creek. On the right, you'd see a creepy little house, a miniature cottage with a spooky wishing well and a sign singing "Sponsored by the Bell Island Garden Club" . It was red, and year-round it had blooms in its window boxes. Something made it ominous and the last place a little kid would want to break in and vandalize. Very Hansel and Gretel if anyone had asked me, of course no one did..... this was all going on in my mind.  The streets were so narrow, and cars were parked bumper to bumper along the sides, unlike in Rowaton proper where it was quite unacceptable to park anywhere but one's garage or personal driveway. Unless attending a large party....then the cars were everywhere and our local cop, Vinnie Velotti, patroled and directed  drunken guests  toward home if needed. 
Adding to the foreignness of Bell Island was the size and height of the houses.  They were generally tall, 3 story Victorians built right up to the sidewalks, and in my ignorance they screamed "Brooklyn" or "The Bronx" or "Newark", all crowded and evil and undesirable locations in my little mind.  How naive I was!  Only now do I know the island was exclusive and the homes were for the rich, the crowding and oldness had cachet and  to be packed into such close proximity with the neighbors meant the Ammerican Dream had been Achieved! 
Now I look on the iinternet on a hot North Carolina afternoon and I see that Bell Island's house are priced in the multi-millions, that tear downs have occurred and the new structures are fake Nantucket style mansions. I'm certain all the frightening things I noticed as a child are gone, the brown and tan Victorians if they still stand are painted unthreatening gray with dark green shutters.  Everything nice and normal.  No more little girls will lie in bed at night and wonder what it would be like to touch the white flesh of Chip Ripley, or even his younger brother Bobby......