In the summer of 1968 a new family moved into the neighborhood. He was a doctor. She was a lawyer. They were of Indian descent with four children. The oldest of the girls was Leslie. She was the same age as I was. We became fast friends and were always doing something together. There were early Saturday morning wake up calls when I would hear knocking at my bedroom window. “Come out and play!” she would insist. Hurrying to eat a quick breakfast I would rush out the door. There were times when I was inside her home her mom would be getting ready to prepare supper. One particular afternoon she was making Spanish rice. When I told her it was one of my favorites I was invited to stay. During the meal I was asked what mom was having for a meal that night. “French Fries”I told her as I took another bite of the rice. “Oh I love french fries” Leslies’ sister Cindy yelled out in delight. A new tradition was started between our families that year. The same night they had Spanish rice would become the night mom would have french fries. I would take Cindys’ place at their table. Cindy would take mine. Every week I would look forward to sharing a meal at their families table. The summer of 1969 was especially hot that summer. You could even hear the cars tires kissing the hot pavement going down the streets. Wanting to cool off at the neighborhood swimming pool we asked if we could go. Giving their permission we couldn’t wait to get our bathing suits on. Grabbing our twenty five cents and a towel we were on our way. Not far from Northwest high school we took our shortcut I was so excited to go that I had forgotten my flip flop shoes. The asphalt was hot and I found myself skipping into a run. Leslie had to run just to keep up with me. Once I was inside the pool the water cooled my sore feet.