At the end of the movie "Stand By Me," from a short story by Stephen King, narrator Richard Dreyfuss says something like, "You will never again have friends like the ones you had when you were 12."

During the summer of 1959, I was 12 going on 13. While our parents fretted over being bombed by the Russians, our biggest worry was catching cooties. My older brother accused me of having them, and I was pretty sure both of my younger sisters were major carriers.

In an age that I remember for endless, perfect summer days and warm star-filled nights, "sleeping out" was a rite of passage and probably should have been guaranteed in the Constitution. We (boys only) all had our gear, which consisted mainly of an old "army" blanket and a flour sack stuffed with wool waste. Where we slept out was of no consequence, only that we did.

Wandering the neighborhoods of a small town in the wee hours, in search of ripe cherries in early summer (my belated apologies to the Ruffing family) or apples and pears near the waning days, was a sacred ritual. I would do it again today if I were not absolutely certain that I would either fall out of a tree and break something, be arrested or shot -- or perhaps all of the above.

On one of those perfect summer nights in my treasure chest of childhood memories, it was just the three of us: a friend of mine called Buttons (no idea why he was called that), Spider (a nickname given to a neighborhood kid who was quite skinny) and me.

As we were settling in on Spider's back porch, we discussed our agenda for the night, tried to scare each other with "Rosemary" (a local urban legend) stories and generally goofed around.

Now, when you are a boy of 12 (going on 13), hungry isn't something you get, it's something you ARE ... and, as usual, we were. As we discussed where we might find some goodies, we heard someone coming around the side of the house.

Being that it was just around midnight, we were quite convinced that it was either Dracula, the Wolfman or that guy with a hook for a hand of urban legend fame. You can imagine our relief when my dad, just home from second trick at the plant, called out, "Anyone hungry?"

There was, at the time, a place in our town, Turtle Creek, that sold the biggest fish sandwich most people had ever seen. It cost a quarter in 1959 and for a nickel more you could get an extra bun and make TWO big sandwiches, because the fish stuck out a mile on either end of the bread.

Dad was packing three of these monsters, three extra buns and an ice-cold six-pack of Coke (the little 6-ounce bottles). Two sandwiches and two Cokes each! Jackpot!

Whether Pop knew beforehand how many of us would be there that night or just figured "six should do it" remains a mystery. I never asked, and Dad passed away about a dozen years later. I still miss him.

In case you were wondering, opening the Coke was not a problem because someone always had a "church key" in his pocket or on a chain around his neck.

If you were to ask if we finished everything, I would have to say, "Yes, yes we did!" There would be no fruit tree raid that night, just three very full, very happy young boys. Thanks, Dad, for the food, and especially for the memory.

It has been more than 50 years since that night, and if I close my eyes and listen, I can still see Buttons and Spider, still hear my dad's voice, and still smell those glorious fish sandwiches. The last I heard, Buttons was living somewhere on the West Coast. I don't know where Spider is or what he's doing.

Who knows -- maybe we'll meet again someday and talk about old times over fish sandwiches and Cokes. By the way, Richard Dreyfuss was right.

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