It was early in the summer of 1966. Brian and his family were moving into number 11 Albermarle Road, two houses up the hill from mine which was number 1. In a few months time, we would stop calling him Brian, and he would become…"Pol." The house next to mine was number 3, and its occupants, the Miss Miss family, were completely obsessive workaholics. Since they moved in a few months after us in the spring of 64, they had never stopped painting, trimming, planting, and then… painting again. As soon as one Miss Miss was applying the finishing touches to one side of the house, another Miss Miss was adding one more detail on a job finished just a few weeks before. We never really got to know them because they were always busy starting or finishing some other project, like painting the wood trim around the garage door, a newer slightly darker color. (Incidentally, I have never seen nor heard that name again, anywhere, in print, in conversation or otherwise, which leads me to think that maybe, they were in the Witness Protection Program, which would explain a lot of things.)

Number 9 Albemarle was the next house up the hill and the one adjacent to Brian's. Peg and Hal Green, the elders of the neighborhood lived there, without… their son Dale, who was already in college in Montana. He may as well have been a movie star, the way they talked about him, but we never, ever saw him. Peg held me close and helped me cry the day my cat bolted from under our car, not stopping to notice my Mom had already closed the garage door. Normally she started the car, then got out, and closed the door. This slight adjustment in the routine resulted in a broken neck for Muffy, and my first serious encounter with grief. Peg understood an 8 year old's attachment to his snuggly pet. She helped me through the ordeal by making it safe for me to cry, and than upgrading the repertoire of tricks her Boston terrier could do.

In the weeks that followed, she let me order him to sit, stay, roll over, play dead, or walk on 2 legs. Those were the people I saw every single day. My father wasn't home very much, he went to various meetings every night, and worked at an Air Force base on week-ends. Jimmy Miss Miss was close to my age, but he just followed his Dad around all day with paint buckets or potting soil.

Hal Green followed Peg around with a Vodka Tonic and small bags of smelly dog treats. They were pretty helpful advisors, as I learned to train my first Dog, a Beagle, my Dad brought home soon after the cat died. Every time Hal saw me and Major (spelled with out an O) he would call out with a gravelly voice "Looks like those Gaines Burgers are working out pretty good."

When the moving van pulled up to number 11, I was kind of excited. My mother had heard that the new family had a boy my age.

I had a couple of friends in the neighborhood already. Michael Shames had been there years before me, and was already dialed in with another family the "Mayrons." They had two sons, one a year older, the other a year younger than us. When my family moved in near the end of second grade, my Mother walked me over to their house to introduce me. When we arrived, Michael and the Mayron brothers were already involved with their GI Joe Action Figures. They barely looked up, as if I were late to an important board meeting and they had begun without me. Since I didn't have a GI Joe, my participation was limited to that of an "outside observer." To me it seemed that even I had a GI Joe, there would never be enough Birthdays and Hanukahs to acquire the incredibly huge assortment of boats, jeeps, and other accessories that littered the Mayron brothers' living room floor. I knew even then, that the Action figure arms race these boys were engaged in, was one my family couldn't sustain. The other kid my age in the neighborhood was Eddie Weil. Whenever Eddie played, he would name every member of the N.Y. Mets starting line-up, and then tell you their batting averages. The Mets were OK if your mother saved the milk carton coupons that you could exchange for Game Tickets.

My Dad, who always got the milk on the way home from work, was a price shopper, not a coupon collector, so we never quite saved up enough to see those guys lose. He did however, get 4 box seats every year to Yankee Stadium from the Title Guarantee company, so my initiation into the world of spectator sports included seeing Mickey Mantle up close and personal. This was actually more cool than being a member of the "Delwood Dairy Delegation" in the nose bleed seats at Shea, rooting for Eddie's ant sized, underachieving Mets. I remember thinking my recent attendance at the game might impress the new kid moving into number 11.

I was excited about meeting him and had my fingers crossed, just hoping he didn't have any GI Joe stuff. I walked over with Majr glad to be there before the other kids noticed. Maybe the new kid could be my best friend. The movers were still carrying stuff up the steep driveway and into the house, passing his father who was waxing a square and odd looking car.

As I approached, Brian came out of the open doorway and headed down the stairs toward me.

He looked at me through some pretty thick glasses, with plastic grey frames held together with some white tape at the bridge of his nose. "Hey". "Hey" I answered. "You live here?" he said. "Yeah". And I looked towards my house, pointing at it with my chin. "The house with the flag pole?" he asked loudly. "Yeah, my Dad is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air National Guard. He's very proud of it. This is my dog, Majr. My Dad said I couldn't of named him Major if his promotion hadn't gone through. He didn't wanna have a beagle that was a Major, unless he was a Colonel. Anyway, he got to be a Colonel… maybe on account of we have a flag pole." Brian's looking at me through these glasses and as I check him out, I see he is engaged in a losing battle trying to keep his incredibly thick bushy brown hair parted on the side like the guys in "My Three Sons." Looks like a battle he's been having for quite a while.

Where you from?" I asked. He smiled, tilted his head way back, stuck his chest out, threw his arms back, and then, looking at me under his broken glasses he bellowed… "THE BRONX" sort of oinking the ONX part. "But we lived in Yonkers for a while before this" he said, pointing at his new house, with his chin.

"See our car? It's a VOOLLLLVO. It's from Sweden." Now you have to realize that this is way before half the soccer moms in Westchester drove them. The word soccer mom didn't exist yet, and calling someone's household a two car family was a nod to their accomplished status. The Colonel's new car was a Plymouth, it's only option, an AM radio. Power windows were something he considered to be a mechanical liability, one that could cost him some of the hard earned money from his week-ends at the base. Brian… was proud of the Polivy family car.

Then he said those magic words. You like the Yankees? I breathed a sigh of relief and we began to talk about our team. Back then no one knew Mickey Mantle was an alcoholic. We traded names, each of us trying to one up the other, with our knowledge of the team's line up, repeating the names to each other loudly, in the absence of adding any useful information. I would say "You like Joe Peppitone?" "PEPPPPITOOOONE" he bellowed back, followed by "you like Elston Howard?" "ELLLSSSSSSSTON" I echoed, trying to copy his slightly Bronxian accent.

We went through the whole starting line up this way, and were nearly through the relievers in the bull pen, before the movers were putting their packing blankets away and closing up the truck. His father was still working on the Volvo.

When we ran out of Yankees, our conversation reached an awkward silence. Just than his mother called out from the top of the stairs. Brian, please take Samantha, for a walk. We looked up and saw the Schnauzer ready to go with the matching plaid leash and collar combo. Majr was a Beagle. Small, but a sporting dog, and one that unlike Samantha, had never been to a groomer.

Pol looked up at Samantha, then down through his glasses at Majr. It was at this moment that he said –"Wanna know something?" Before I could answer he bellowed "MY UNCLE…IS THE SHAH OF IRAN" This came out of nowhere. I was at a loss. To be honest, I wasn't sure where Iran was, and I doubt if I knew what a Shah was. Who does? But what I did know, was that this pronouncement was a test. Some kind of..check me out challenge. I guess I was supposed to say… "Bullshit!" Did we say bullshit at 10? Maybe not. –"No way"…might have been the answer. We weren't up to –"get outa town," or "I may have been born at night, but not last night." On the other hand… Maybe it's true. Maybe some people have Shahs in their family. I don't know what I said, I only remember thinking… this is awful. Silly. Weird. Shah? Nah. I am not buying this, what's this new kid talking about.

"Briiiiiiiannnn! Come and get Sammie!"

He said to me "I'll prove it to you." Now, understand that I really want to like this guy. I wanted a new pal on my street. So….. I stood there on the lawn, just me and Majr, as Brian charged up the hill, past the yapping terrier, and through the open front door.

Feeling awkward awaiting the evidence I knew would be suspect, I stood alone on the edge of the lawn. His Dad was still busy rubbing the funny car, so Majr and I practiced our sits and lay downs. Over my "Good Boy Majr" their schnauzer kept yapping, interrupted by Hal Green barking from his upstairs window. "There ya go Jeffrey, He'll be flushing Quail by Christmas!" What's a Quail? I wondered, and why flush it?

After about five minutes Brian came out of the house, unleashed Sammie, and bounced down the hill carrying a big book. He put it right in front of us on the newly sodded lawn, which in 1966 on Albemarle Road was kind of impressive. It was the World Book Encyclopedia—Letter I-J. He opened it to a book mark and said "see for yourself." I followed his finger down to the lower half of the right hand page. There–Staring back at me was–Muhammad Reza Shah Pahlevi! I didn't know what to do, or say.

I mean the guy was wearing a suit that looked like it came right off the Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band wardrobe rack! But I'll be darned, it said Pahlevi right there, which I guess may not have meant much….if it weren't for his face! He had a gargantuan nose…. but the weirdest thing, were his eye brows. Huge. I mean he could shave them off and sell them as toupees.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Brian was looking over my shoulder checking me checking out the picture. I just knew this was a test. He was like, breathing down my neck. Then he glared at me through those glasses, challenging me to contest the proof. The quiet was broken by a clinking sound. Hal Green had descended from his window perch and stood behind us rattling ice cubes in a bright green aluminum tumbler. Under his other arm, the over-trained, snorting Boston Terrier, struggled to free himself to join Majr and Samantha, who were sniffing each others butts. Just then Brian's Dad walked up, his head, glowing in a halo; that I now know, to have been the effect of the sun reflecting off the trunk of the gleaming Volvo. "Brian… have you made a new friend?" I looked up at him and squinting through the glare I could see…Oh My Gosh… his nose….a match!

I stood there, stunned, mentally placing brass buttons and epaulets on his shirt. The eyebrows were really scary. But this guy, and the guy in the book…two of a kind. What could this mean? I looked at Mr. Polivy, then back to Brian with the broken glasses, and damn if he didn't have some big eyebrows too. His father offered his hand. "I am Sidney, Brian's Dad." I felt kind of scared. These guys know some pretty weird people. Never before had I met anyone with relatives in the World Book Encyclopedia.

I was still thinking this can't be, but was too weirded out to call the new kid a liar. And, it is definitely not cool, to appeal to someone's Dad for help anytime, much less the first time you meet him. Plus…I can't let his father know what I'm really thinking which was…… he's got eyebrows that could be squirrel tails. My voice was so small. "I'm Jeff. This is my dog Majr. He's named for our family. Morty, Adele, Jeff and Rose. He doesn't get an O. My Dad's a Colonel." Pointing once again with my now inferior chin, towards our house, I added; "that's his flag." Mr. Polivy could not have been nicer. "Major is a fine name" he said. "If you keep doing such a good job training him, maybe he will earn his 'O' one day." He was so kind and soft spoken. I guess Brian got the kind part from him. He stood next to his father just daring me to say something about the picture. He was trying hard not to laugh, which gave him a really goofy grin. While Hal Green and m. Polivy were talking, Brian picked up the book. "I told ya" he said.

I guess you might say he won the round.

We never really talked about the Shah again that summer. We didn't have to. We became fast friends. Rode our bikes everywhere, had family cookouts, ate too many hot dogs, and saw the fireworks on the fourth of July at Highlands school. This was the beginning of many, many, more adventures. Everybody loved Pol. Our circle of friends grew. He could throw a football further than any kid his age. No one, past or present, has ever thrown one from deep behind one telephone pole on that street, to deep behind the next one. That was our "just before dinner" football field, and he was the best Hail Mary passer I've ever known.

When he had the ball, all us kids just ran as fast as we could down the street, because he was the one that could save the day. His Guitar heroics would come later. But whenever I think of the home where I grew up, I will always hear Brian's voice, and to me, he will always be laughing.