Remember Max? He’s five. “Almost 6!” he reminds me. I wrote about him in my A Portrait of July 4 In Palm Heights (elevation 14’) column. Max is the precocious boy who was carrying the platter of deviled eggs above his head, to his mother’s consternation. Well, there he was ringing my doorbell again. This time he was alone. “I think my grownups need some help,” he announced. They are arguing and I don’t understand a thing they are talking about.”
Max took my hand and, against my better judgment, we walked to his house (two doors away).
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