“Hey! Where you going?!” I knew the voice. I knew it well. A Gladdis Kravitz Popeye, if you will. Gravelly, purposeful, with that guttural laugh, he’d yell to me from the porch as he, hearing my “beep, beep” call, would run outside to catch me in my disappearing act before I turned the corner.

After all, it was his neighborhood job. He took it seriously — and he relished the relentless taking care kinda ribbing he so generously doled out. Food was usually involved, too, if he could catch you to get you in for a burger, a sandwich or a Twizzler. The scoop was what he was after. He had that bait, too, but you couldn’t get away without a good grilling, burger aside, a lecture and a heaping helping of teasing. Always the scoop — on what I was up to and how my dad would feel about it all. It was a few million steps beyond nosy neighbor. He had to know. It was part of our neighborhood family pact.