Tag Archives: childhood

Unrequited Love

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In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
From “Locksley Hall” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

And when very young, to that which cannot nor should ever be.
Dr. Dave

When I was in the fourth grade I had a terrible crush on Jeannie, a blond, blue-eyed girl to whom I pledged my eternal undying love. Her twin sister, Carolyn, was a gangly brunette with glasses and braces. She was in that awkward stage through which some girls are destined to suffer and just didn’t hold the same fascination. As a callous and superficial nine-year-old kid, I saw Jeannie as beauty idealized – a living Barbie doll. Which, as most of us learn as we get older, is one of the worst criteria on which to base a relationship.

In my mind I would walk her home, hand in hand, and gently brush her lips with mine before she disappeared into her house. I would protect her from the slings and arrows of playground torment. I would be hers forever, and she, mine.

The only problem was she had no idea any of this was supposed to happen. We’d never had even a brief conversation in passing because I was too terrified to say anything. The best I could hope for was catching a glimpse of her as I rode my bike past her house, which worked out only once in two years.

Donna, the only girl I ever talked to, was more like a sister to me. We’d walk the block or so to her house and talk of simple things, much like two very good friends. Many of my adult relationships with women would follow the same two separate tracks of friend or love interest, something I’ve recognized only as I write this.

I continued to pine for Jeannie during fifth grade. She liked to play jacks with the other girls (go look it up, kids) so I bought her a set for Christmas – ten little metal spikes and a small rubber ball attached to a cheap piece of cardboard. I wrapped it and the next day unceremoniously shoved the package into her hands. “Here,” I said before turning away, avoiding the inevitable rejection.

My infatuation with Jeannie was potentially far more dangerous. I knew racial differences existed in the mid-1960s – when I was five years old a playmate’s grandmother called me a “little black liar” after a minor skirmish – but I was blissfully unaware that a poor Puerto Rican kid with kinky hair had no business being even remotely interested in a nice, middle-class white girl. I did not know that less than ten years previously a young African-American boy named Emmitt Till was savagely beaten to death in Mississippi for allegedly whistling at a white woman. I might have become St. David the Naïve, martyred for stupidity, were it not for being tragically socially inept. We moved to another school district two months into sixth grade and I never saw Jeannie again.

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;
Tennyson

Love may be deaf, dumb and blind, but karma has a wry sense of humor.
Dr. Dave

There was another blond girl in my new class. Anita was, as older folks would say, cute as a button: short hair; small, upturned nose; fair skin and bright, smiling eyes. Had I been paying attention I might have noticed, but avoiding further humiliation took priority.

A few days before school let out for the summer, our sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Jackson, organized a class trip to the Chiricahua National Monument, a “Wonderland of Rocks,” about two hours from Bisbee. That morning we gathered at the playground with our sack lunches where Mrs. Jackson and a few volunteer moms herded us into their cars. I felt honored to be invited into the back seat of Mrs. Jackson’s station wagon.

We headed out Route 80 to Double Adobe Road, memorable for the frequent, gut-dropping dips in the otherwise straight and boring black top. My family had made the drive a couple of times in our navy blue ’60 Chevy Biscayne, with the wide flat fins and the trunk that could hold at least a couple of bodies. My stepfather loved to take those dips at speeds far greater than the snail’s pace I was used to in town. From there we picked up US 191 North, passing through McNeal and Elfrida, then east on Arizona SR 181 until we turned on to Bonita Canyon Road and into the park.

The road rises gently for a few miles and Bonita Creek flows past the roadside picnic area where we stopped. We ate lunch, waded through the icy water and explored some of the trails. One girl cut her foot on a sharp rock in the creek and I cleaned it with alcohol I’d brought, figuring it might come in handy.

As we were getting ready to leave, Anita came up to me and, out of the blue, said, “You know, I really like you.”  As with Jeannie, we’d never spoken a word to each other (or at least that is what I remember), but now the shoe was on the other foot and I was stunned. Any flattery I might have felt was completely overwhelmed by sheer terror and I said nothing.  It’s only now that I realize my lack of response probably hurt her feelings, and for that I’m sorry.

Truly, youth is wasted on the young.

I acquired a Bisbee High School yearbook during a trip back to Arizona in 1972. Carolyn, Donna and Anita had become lovely young women. Jeannie was the All-American girl; I would not have been surprised if she’d been elected Prom Queen. Some of the guys I’d known in grade school, on the other hand, hadn’t quite gotten their edges smoothed out. Ricky, the class clown whose twin sister once yelled, “Sit down, Junior!” in class, wore sunglasses for his yearbook picture; he might have had a future in stand-up comedy.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.
Tennyson

What he said.
Dr. Dave

More than half a century later I can only imagine what happened to them. Maybe they all got married, had kids and grandkids, and lived happily ever after. Or maybe, like most of us, the joys were enough to withstand the inevitable pain and sadness that occasionally tests even the best relationships. I’ll never know, and some things are best left undisturbed.

But wherever you are, thanks for the memories.

Spring flowers © Can Stock Photo / sborisov

 

The Hallowed Eve

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Halloween is a great time for any kid, but it was really special for me. Candy was a rare treat the rest of the year. I might get a five-cent Milky Way at the movie theater, or leftover candy from Mom’s bridge parties. An evening devoted to harvesting free chocolate and sugar from strangers was a Bacchanalian orgy.

I knew Halloween was coming when the local grocery store started selling wax whistles—bright orange, completely edible and irritating as wax whistlehell to adults. I’d blow it like a harmonica for hours until the temptation to devour it took over. Then I’d break off a note at a time, savoring the taste and consistency, until it was gone. That was it until the following year: no replacements allowed.

Big, red, edible wax liwax lipsps, another favorite, gave me an excuse to “kiss” a girl with no risk of shame or teasing. However, it didn’t take long to bite completely through the middle support, rendering them fairly useless for kissing. And they didn’t taste as good as the whistles.

My grade school hosted party in the auditorium/lunch room the week before Halloween. Being in the school building after hours was strange and exciting, like being granted a backstage tour of Disneyland. I’ve forgotten all the activities save one: The Gypsy Fortuneteller. She knew my name and several things about me, as if she could read my mind! Later, however, I found out it was Curtis Morgan’s mother, ruining the mystery.

When I was younger and money was tight, we made costumes out of anything available. Cutting holes in the bottom and sides of a paper grocery bag turned it into a robot body. A bath towel became a superhero cape. One year my mother tried to use white liquid shoe polish to paint a clown face on me until I started screaming because it burned my skin. I think we settled for lipstick circles on my cheeks.

In later years we bought costumes from the dime store. They were made of flammable polyester until 1973 when Uncle Sam mandated fire retardant after reports of kids inadvertently being turned into Johnny the Human Torch. The eyeholes in the accompanying mask usually cut into my lower lids and made seeing almost impossible. The nose holes were too small to be useful and I remember sticking my tongue through the small opening for the mouth until it was sore.

Finally, the big day (or night) was upon us.

Evening shadows arrive in mid-afternoon when you live in a canyon in southeastern Arizona, creating an odd mix of clear blue sky with no visible sun, compelling you to turn on the house lights to cook dinner or do homework. But it’s a great time for Trick or Treating when you’re a kid—dark enough to provide ambiance but light enough to scare away the monsters.

I don’t ever remember mothers shadowing kids while they plundered the neighborhood for booty. If the porch light was on, the house was fair game. If it wasn’t, kids knew not to bother them. My sister and I would knock on the door, yell “Trick or treat” and open our pillowcases. We’d feel the soft thud of candy hitting the bottom and run on to the next house, never stopping to see what we’d gotten.

We’d go home and empty our haul onto the bed after we’d hit all the houses we could. There were full-sized candy bars—not those “fun-sized” ones you can buy today—and other goodies like popcorn balls, suckers in cellophane wrappers, Pixie Sticks and Kraft Caramels (I saved the more valuable chocolate ones for later).

One old woman usually gave us a more practical “treat”—a new pencil. I was grateful for whatever I got and the pencil was a curiosity, not a disappointment. But the perspective that comes with age recently provided some insight. She had lived through the depression when everything was scarce, so a new pencil was probably far more valuable than any bit of candy.

One year Halloween was cancelled because a murderer had escaped from the county jail, accosting a woman in her home for a meal before moving on. Or maybe that was a schoolyard rumor started to spook us. Like many memories, the truth doesn’t matter as much; it’s the story that counts.

But I got older and the annual ritual lost its appeal. Trick-or-Treating became something the little kids did. Having a surly adult glare at you and say, “Ain’t you a little old for this?” accelerated the process. I wouldn’t prowl neighborhoods again until I had kids of my own.

Halloween is one of the few childhood experiences that doesn’t bring baggage into adulthood. We accept Halloween’s passing without regret. It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown doesn’t affect me in the same way as A Charlie Brown Christmas. There is no Polar Express moment, bursting into tears on the first reading, mourning the irrevocable loss of innocence and wonder.

It was a good run while it lasted. I celebrate Halloween now by sending obnoxious noise-making Halloween cards to other people’s kids. It’s good to be the big person.

Photo credit (C) Can Stock Photos