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 didnt 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. Wed 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. Wed 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 Ive 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 playmates 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. Jacksons 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 snails 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 Id 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, wed 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. Its only now that I realize my lack of response probably hurt her feelings, and for that Im 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 shed been elected Prom Queen. Some of the guys Id known in grade school, on the other hand, hadnt 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. Ill never know, and some things are best left undisturbed.
But wherever you are, thanks for the memories.
Spring flowers © Can Stock Photo / sborisov
Great story. Maybe one of them will see this!
Ah I was blissfully ignorant of boys until my teen years. You’re encouraging me to pick up a book of poetry, Dave. Thanks.
Dear friend, that was lovely, thank you for sharing your heart stories. I still remember my grade school crushes and I never told the target of my love:)
I hope you keep writing.I always enjoy your thoughts.
Love, Sue
Thanks much.
You are a fabulous writer. You need to ditch that doctoring gig and write a book or two!
Glad to see you found time to write again.. You have a true gift and should consider publishing these works into a book of short stories. They are poignant and thoughtful.
Thanks for the attaboy! It means a lot.
Beautiful!
I was reminded too, of a few early romantic crushes, wherein I never actually spoke to my true love.
Wasn’t that, in fact, the at least part of the ideal of Arthurian courtly love — nobility and chivalry to be sure, but also much unspoken, and love with the eyes…
PSC