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"Forgive and forget", they say. Looking back 45 years later, grudges no longer have a purpose. Yesterday, I discovered on Facebook of all places, that my very first best friend had died. Although peaceful and sober in the end, I learned that Chaz did not find his his purpose until the very end. God took him before his talents and dreams could be realized and before I could say goodbye. His name was Charlie. I called him "Chaz".

From Chaz I learned about unconditional love and acceptance. Lost and afraid in a small town, with no friends or prospects of them, I remained on the edge. I was a 7 year old outcast, anxiously awaiting to fit in, somehow, some way. I moved from New York City to a small town on the Great South Bay in 1963. I was used to playmates in the city streets, stickball, handball, Red Light, Green Light 1,2, 3. They welcomed me on my new block by throwing rocks and calling me four eyes. The next door neighbors were fun alright unless daddy was "in his cups" like the one time he taught us how to shoot a rifle in the basement and the other time his wife was wandering around town in her bathrobe looking to kill him. The kids were not that available to go out and play.

I learned to live in my head and in my books. But in spite of my book worm facade, I loved to ride bikes, play in the dirt piles and rummage through the model houses that were being built in the unfinished "development". I learned that my playmates were me, myself and I. That was, until the fateful day I met Chaz. It was a blustery March day. I had new go-go boots and a purple low rider bike. Feeling free from the neighborhood trolls and demons who would taunt me, I tore around the corner of the schoolyard block. Suddenly he called at me and said, " Girl, hey, girl, can I try your bike? You look cool, girl, girl. Hey, can I ride it, girl"? I was suspicious, but amazed. I stopped my bike.

There was something different about him. Although I thought he might be like all the rest, I took a chance. I never saw anyone who looked like him in this neighborhood. He looked tanned and muscular, but not lean and he had mass of straight black, long hair and big brown chocolate eyes. He asked me if I liked the Rolling Stones and if I wanted to go to his house. "Would you like to play with me?" This was such an unfamilar question, I had to stop and think.

His mother opened the gargage door and sat us on the plastic slipcovered couch. She has a complicated Italian name that I could not remember. But she

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