Chris' and my hangout before second grade  and then for  later generations of kids was an A framed  church  built in the 50’s as  a commune like  barn.  Noone from the neighborhood went there for service and  it was empty most times except for two hours on Sunday.  As kids we skirmished like mites across every stair and corner, attempting  the roof peak which rose  three stories and punished  with broken arms and  bruised  faces.    

Behind it was a row of run down frame cottages from the 20’s and 30’s,  one of which dropped me  through its roof, landing me  in a bathtub with my foot run through by  a nail.   We were unsupervised for ten to twelve hours and given no direction from our mothers except to "go outside".     

Jumping off three story bridges into marine traffic, skiing narrow canals, running  biking and driving to collision with retirees, gigging alligators,  lobster trapping in 8 foot seas, roof diving,  and skateboarding  spiralling ramps at the Burdines often ended  with  sunset  naps aboard ditched riverboats easing  into the New River's bottom.