My Cousin George, son of my father's older brother, was just my age, tall and blond, with a hard chest, a thin belly, and a Southern drawl. He lived in Walterboro, South Carolina, a thousand miles from Rock Island, so I only saw him a few times during my childhood. We drove down to visit once, but usually my Grandma Davis took me down on the train.
What I remember most about my visits was the sizzling heat, the humidity,
and the beefcake. No one in South Carolina owned a shirt. I had never seen so many sleek muscular bodies.
We went swimming in the warm salty Atlantic Ocean.
At night Cousin George and I took our baths together together in scalding-hot water, and then slept naked together under thin sheets -- "only fools wear pajamas," he insisted.