Welcome to Western North Carolina...Trout Central!
13 years ago
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Monday, September 26, 2016
Summer of 1971
"I want what you have," my best friend, Wilma, said one summer day while we were out on RJ's boat on Morse Reservoir. "I want a man like RJ," she whispered to me, then she began listing all of his wonderful qualities. Her husband, Steve, who was just a few feet away, was not aware that his wife, the mother of his three children was desiring another man: my boyfriend.
By nurture (not nature) I was suspect of most people's motives. Hazel, my no-nosense, "not-fond-of-children" surrogate father for seven years (ages 5 to 12) had trained me well. All of my friends in high school were kept at arms' length; my secrets, my inner feelings were private; privy to no one. Silence meant safe. But Wilma was different. Underneath her overweight, unkempt appearance, "pretty" might have been lurking but I didn't see it, and she didn't care about her looks; attractiveness was not a priority for her. Wilma's focus was on being a mother and housekeeper. I liked her immediately. She was kind and warm and affectionate and easy and safe, so after a few months, I let my guard down to RJ's neighbor from down the street, and let her into my inner sanctuary.
The summer of 1971 was all about fun: boating, skiing, Corvette road rallies, weekend adventures to other cities, picnics, parties, and Steve and Wilma were part of it all. They fit well inside our circle of five or six couples RJ and I had known and played with for five years. Wilma began to take more pride in her appearance; she lost weight, began wearing makeup, and going to a hair dresser.
Late one Saturday night after everyone had left a party at Wilma and Steve's house, I collapsed on their couch, exhausted. The day had started early with boating, skiing, mid-day picnic on the lake, and a cook out. I fell asleep but was awakened by whispering. (If you whisper in close proximity to other people, trust me, they will hear you.) The whisperers were Wilma and RJ. Thinking nothing of it (Wilma was safe, remember?) I went back to sleep. A little while later, RJ coaxed me off the couch and into the passenger seat of his car. Still partially asleep, I leaned back in the seat and watched as RJ walked around the car to the driver's side and Wilma approached my side of the car. She leaned down and blew me kisses through the closed window and then stood up to say something to RJ. For several long seconds their conversation through whispers continued. Now, I was wide awake. All cylinders were firing. The engine was racing. The tachometer was in the red danger zone. But I kept calm and said nothing.
RJ backed out of Wilma's driveway, drove a few hundred yards down the street and pulled into his own drive. Still trying to sort through what just happened with my best friend and RJ, I got in my car, said "Goodnight, I love you," and left. Before I'd driven one block, I was able to assure myself that Wilma would never betray me and RJ would never cheat on me. Before I had driven two blocks, I changed my mind, drove around the block, passed both houses and found both Wilma and RJ's cars gone. I let myself in RJ's house, brushed my teeth with his toothbrush (Ya know how nasty your mouth gets when you're really upset about something? Yeah, my mouth was like that. Nasty!) Then I sat down on his couch and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. At 6:00 the next morning he came home.
So here's what happened, according to RJ. Nothing! That's what. Absolutely nothing. Wilma was having marital problems, and she just needed someone to talk to, and since RJ is so wonderful in so many ways--compassionate, caring, excellent marriage counselor--he came to her aid. He drove her around all night and they just talked. What a great guy, that RJ.
But Jim Bang was having none of it. Jim was my co-worker at RCA (I was a secretary; he worked in the mail room). He had heard my stories about the close platonic relationship between my boyfriend and my best friend. He didn't like it, he said. I was naive, he said. Too trusting. But, right in the middle of all of his suspicions about RJ, he told me he had a crush on me. Ah Ha! There it was. The real agenda behind him trying to convince me RJ was cheating on me. Nope! Not buying it! RJ was just being his usual wonderful, caring self.
Then Wilma dropped me like a guilty ex-friend. No explanation. Phone calls stopped. No more dropping in at her neighbor's house. No girlfriend lunch dates. No cook out invitations. No nothing. Zip! Nada! Poof! Gone!
Jim was waiting at my desk with a big smile. "See, I told you. Who does that unless they have something to hide? Guilty people do; that's who." So I broke up with RJ, convinced by my co-worker that he was doing the "nasty, nasty" with my best friend, and began dating Jim Bang.
But true love fights for what it wants, and it will do whatever it has to do to keep its love from leaving: flowers, cards, expensive gifts, long love letters, late-night tearful phone calls, and tap, tap, taps on its love's bedroom window at 2:00 in the morning. And then there was that uncanny coincidence over and over where true love just happens to be in the exact location where its lost love is with another man.
Then RJ said the one thing that changed everything. "I promise you this, Carol Louise. If you come back to me, this time next Christmas there will be the sound of pitter patter running through the house." So for the promise of marriage, babies and happily ever after, I went back.
Six years and counting with my middle-school crush, Christmas was months away. Still no proposal, no ring, no marriage, no babies, and I was beginning to think that happily ever after was just a fantasy, an illusion, something that did not exist. But that thought was short-lived because every girl knows that her Prince Charming is out there, somewhere, just waiting to rescue her. Every girl does know that, don't they?
By nurture (not nature) I was suspect of most people's motives. Hazel, my no-nosense, "not-fond-of-children" surrogate father for seven years (ages 5 to 12) had trained me well. All of my friends in high school were kept at arms' length; my secrets, my inner feelings were private; privy to no one. Silence meant safe. But Wilma was different. Underneath her overweight, unkempt appearance, "pretty" might have been lurking but I didn't see it, and she didn't care about her looks; attractiveness was not a priority for her. Wilma's focus was on being a mother and housekeeper. I liked her immediately. She was kind and warm and affectionate and easy and safe, so after a few months, I let my guard down to RJ's neighbor from down the street, and let her into my inner sanctuary.
The summer of 1971 was all about fun: boating, skiing, Corvette road rallies, weekend adventures to other cities, picnics, parties, and Steve and Wilma were part of it all. They fit well inside our circle of five or six couples RJ and I had known and played with for five years. Wilma began to take more pride in her appearance; she lost weight, began wearing makeup, and going to a hair dresser.
Late one Saturday night after everyone had left a party at Wilma and Steve's house, I collapsed on their couch, exhausted. The day had started early with boating, skiing, mid-day picnic on the lake, and a cook out. I fell asleep but was awakened by whispering. (If you whisper in close proximity to other people, trust me, they will hear you.) The whisperers were Wilma and RJ. Thinking nothing of it (Wilma was safe, remember?) I went back to sleep. A little while later, RJ coaxed me off the couch and into the passenger seat of his car. Still partially asleep, I leaned back in the seat and watched as RJ walked around the car to the driver's side and Wilma approached my side of the car. She leaned down and blew me kisses through the closed window and then stood up to say something to RJ. For several long seconds their conversation through whispers continued. Now, I was wide awake. All cylinders were firing. The engine was racing. The tachometer was in the red danger zone. But I kept calm and said nothing.
RJ backed out of Wilma's driveway, drove a few hundred yards down the street and pulled into his own drive. Still trying to sort through what just happened with my best friend and RJ, I got in my car, said "Goodnight, I love you," and left. Before I'd driven one block, I was able to assure myself that Wilma would never betray me and RJ would never cheat on me. Before I had driven two blocks, I changed my mind, drove around the block, passed both houses and found both Wilma and RJ's cars gone. I let myself in RJ's house, brushed my teeth with his toothbrush (Ya know how nasty your mouth gets when you're really upset about something? Yeah, my mouth was like that. Nasty!) Then I sat down on his couch and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. At 6:00 the next morning he came home.
So here's what happened, according to RJ. Nothing! That's what. Absolutely nothing. Wilma was having marital problems, and she just needed someone to talk to, and since RJ is so wonderful in so many ways--compassionate, caring, excellent marriage counselor--he came to her aid. He drove her around all night and they just talked. What a great guy, that RJ.
But Jim Bang was having none of it. Jim was my co-worker at RCA (I was a secretary; he worked in the mail room). He had heard my stories about the close platonic relationship between my boyfriend and my best friend. He didn't like it, he said. I was naive, he said. Too trusting. But, right in the middle of all of his suspicions about RJ, he told me he had a crush on me. Ah Ha! There it was. The real agenda behind him trying to convince me RJ was cheating on me. Nope! Not buying it! RJ was just being his usual wonderful, caring self.
Then Wilma dropped me like a guilty ex-friend. No explanation. Phone calls stopped. No more dropping in at her neighbor's house. No girlfriend lunch dates. No cook out invitations. No nothing. Zip! Nada! Poof! Gone!
Jim was waiting at my desk with a big smile. "See, I told you. Who does that unless they have something to hide? Guilty people do; that's who." So I broke up with RJ, convinced by my co-worker that he was doing the "nasty, nasty" with my best friend, and began dating Jim Bang.
But true love fights for what it wants, and it will do whatever it has to do to keep its love from leaving: flowers, cards, expensive gifts, long love letters, late-night tearful phone calls, and tap, tap, taps on its love's bedroom window at 2:00 in the morning. And then there was that uncanny coincidence over and over where true love just happens to be in the exact location where its lost love is with another man.
Then RJ said the one thing that changed everything. "I promise you this, Carol Louise. If you come back to me, this time next Christmas there will be the sound of pitter patter running through the house." So for the promise of marriage, babies and happily ever after, I went back.
Six years and counting with my middle-school crush, Christmas was months away. Still no proposal, no ring, no marriage, no babies, and I was beginning to think that happily ever after was just a fantasy, an illusion, something that did not exist. But that thought was short-lived because every girl knows that her Prince Charming is out there, somewhere, just waiting to rescue her. Every girl does know that, don't they?
Sunday, September 25, 2016
The Penthouse View
He was shorter than I had remembered (125 pounds, 5' 7"), but he was even better looking at twenty-five than he was at seventeen: slender built, black hair, olive skin, and pretty brown eyes with long lashes that would make women envious. And here this handsome man was, the object of my eighth-grade crush, standing on my porch (my porch!) picking me (me!) up for our blind date. My self-esteem sky rocketed. I was standing confidently on the balcony of the hundredth floor penthouse looking out over the city of possibilities: Mrs. Carol Coal, babies, happily ever after. But wait. It was a blind date; he didn't choose me; his friend chose me. My self-esteem took a tumble over the edge of the balcony and went SPLAT! on the concrete below. I could tell by the expression on his face, he wasn't happy with his friend or me. As we walked to his blue Stingray, I wondered what excuse he would use to end our date early: "I'm not feeling well; I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take you back home." "I forgot. It's my grandmother's birthday today and I never miss Grammy's birthday party at the nursing home." "My cat is sick and I need to go check on her." But, he didn't end our date early, and when he pulled back into my driveway (my driveway!), he said he wasn't leaving until I agreed to go out with him again. Oh, the view from the penthouse was looking better and better: wife, mother, happily ever after.
As handsome as RJ was, his personality dwarfed his good looks. I had never known anyone as smart or clever or cunning or funny as him. What this amazing man saw in me was baffling. He was everything standing next to my nothing. He was the popular prom king who dated cheerleaders; I was the skinny, bucktoothed reject who no one wanted to date. Now, eight years later, he was a Rose-Hulman engineering graduate, a real estate broker, and an attorney. I was a secretary at a downtown law firm. None of my deficiencies seem to matter to RJ. Much to my amazement, he was enamored with me (me!). As time went on--one year, then two--I became more comfortable spending time in the penthouse, but the sliding door to the balcony was locked, obscuring the view of possibilities. What about the marriage, the children, the happily ever after?
Two years passed and I asked the question, "When are we going to get married?" "When I get married, I'll be the one doing the asking." he said. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Ouch! That hurt!" Am I right? You were thinking that, weren't you? Yes, it did hurt but then he said, "Next year, around Christmas time, I promise, there will be little feet pitter pattering around this apartment." That announcement eased the pain because I thought he was talking about marriage, children, and happily ever after. A year and a half later, at Christmas, the pitter patter he was referring to was a six-week old kitten, Kitty Kat, my Christmas present.
Going into the fifth year with my middle-school crush, the penthouse with no view was getting crowded--my best friend Wilma liked the view of possibilities with my man, too--so I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, walked through the front door, out into the street, and right into the arms of Jim Bang.
As handsome as RJ was, his personality dwarfed his good looks. I had never known anyone as smart or clever or cunning or funny as him. What this amazing man saw in me was baffling. He was everything standing next to my nothing. He was the popular prom king who dated cheerleaders; I was the skinny, bucktoothed reject who no one wanted to date. Now, eight years later, he was a Rose-Hulman engineering graduate, a real estate broker, and an attorney. I was a secretary at a downtown law firm. None of my deficiencies seem to matter to RJ. Much to my amazement, he was enamored with me (me!). As time went on--one year, then two--I became more comfortable spending time in the penthouse, but the sliding door to the balcony was locked, obscuring the view of possibilities. What about the marriage, the children, the happily ever after?
Two years passed and I asked the question, "When are we going to get married?" "When I get married, I'll be the one doing the asking." he said. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Ouch! That hurt!" Am I right? You were thinking that, weren't you? Yes, it did hurt but then he said, "Next year, around Christmas time, I promise, there will be little feet pitter pattering around this apartment." That announcement eased the pain because I thought he was talking about marriage, children, and happily ever after. A year and a half later, at Christmas, the pitter patter he was referring to was a six-week old kitten, Kitty Kat, my Christmas present.
Going into the fifth year with my middle-school crush, the penthouse with no view was getting crowded--my best friend Wilma liked the view of possibilities with my man, too--so I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, walked through the front door, out into the street, and right into the arms of Jim Bang.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Critical Thinker
In the year before I met RJ, I was a busy girl in the dating department. There was Sam and Larry and Larry and John and Ben, but only one of the Larry's interested me--the first one; the one after Sam. At twenty-five, he had his own business and he drove a Corvette. At 5' 11" two hundred pounds, Larry was a giant next to me. His disheveled black hair, brooding dark eyes, day-old beard (even after shaving), muscular frame, and "my-way-or-the-highway" bad attitude was what attracted me to him. Big and mean. But I was confident I could win Larry over and tame his inner giant.
WRONG!
Larry was an Ayn Rand devotee, which if you think about it, makes "my-way-or-the-highway" make sense. From Larry I learned that Rand was a Russian-born novelist who wrote The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged and from those two books came a philosophy called Objectivism. Ayn wasn't much interested in altruism (helping others); she didn't believe in a higher power; and she thought that from using reason that is acquired from concrete, proven facts (i.e. science) came the truth. Larry said that consideration for others was not his thing and that his focus was on himself. Big, mean, and self-absorbed. But I was confident I could change Larry and tame his inner egomania.
WRONG!
"Be a critical thinker." That's what Larry repeated to me over and over. "Don't accept what you see, read and hear; question everything." When I told him that after I died, the most important thing I wanted people to say about me is, "She was a good person," he chuckled. It was one of those "oh-you-poor-little-naive-thing-you" chuckle. "What does being good even mean?" he asked. "And who makes up the rules that differentiate between good and bad? Have you ever questioned the rationale and motives behind those rule makers and their rules?" Then he went on to say that people should remember me as "smart" not "good." Before that could happen, he said I needed to work on my grammar because it was atrocious. Big, mean, self-absorbed, and critical. But I was confident I could change Larry and tame his critical nature.
WRONG!
One day Larry and I, along with several other couples, went on a Corvette rally in southern Indiana. We were fourth in a line of eight Corvettes winding through small town streets and narrow country roads commanding the attention of everyone in our path. On a country road somewhere in southern Indiana the lead Corvette made an abrupt left onto a narrow, one lane dirt road. He was flying and each Corvette made a fine precision left turn, one right after the other. The dust kicked up from the road was so thick we couldn't see; Larry backed off the accelerator, but it was too late. Suddenly we were flying through the air. When we landed we were sitting next to two Corvettes bogged down in mud. We had missed a 90-degree turn in the road and ended up in a farmer's newly plowed field. Within minutes the farmer arrived and he was not happy. So many were talking at once, speculating on what happened. I walked up to the farmer and said, "We were driving too fast and we missed the turn." Larry pulled me away from the group. "SHUT UP! You don't know what you're talking about. JUST KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" On the way home later that day, I sat quietly, afraid to say a word for fear of reprimand. When we pulled into my driveway, I let myself out of the car and walked alone to the door. Big, mean, self-absorbed, critical, angry. But I was confident Larry would call me after his temper tantrum subsided.
WRONG!
I sat by the phone and waited for Larry to call. He did call, eventually, but it was years later, and this is what he said, "It was you I loved and I was about to ask you to marry me, but on our last date you didn't speak to me all the way home, and I thought you didn't want to see me anymore." Big, mean, self-absorbed, critical, angry, and...
WRONG!
Oh so wrong for oh so many reasons. Thank goodness, he thought I didn't want to see him again, because in my enchanted forest, fantasy world, I probably would have said yes.
WRONG!
Larry was an Ayn Rand devotee, which if you think about it, makes "my-way-or-the-highway" make sense. From Larry I learned that Rand was a Russian-born novelist who wrote The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged and from those two books came a philosophy called Objectivism. Ayn wasn't much interested in altruism (helping others); she didn't believe in a higher power; and she thought that from using reason that is acquired from concrete, proven facts (i.e. science) came the truth. Larry said that consideration for others was not his thing and that his focus was on himself. Big, mean, and self-absorbed. But I was confident I could change Larry and tame his inner egomania.
WRONG!
"Be a critical thinker." That's what Larry repeated to me over and over. "Don't accept what you see, read and hear; question everything." When I told him that after I died, the most important thing I wanted people to say about me is, "She was a good person," he chuckled. It was one of those "oh-you-poor-little-naive-thing-you" chuckle. "What does being good even mean?" he asked. "And who makes up the rules that differentiate between good and bad? Have you ever questioned the rationale and motives behind those rule makers and their rules?" Then he went on to say that people should remember me as "smart" not "good." Before that could happen, he said I needed to work on my grammar because it was atrocious. Big, mean, self-absorbed, and critical. But I was confident I could change Larry and tame his critical nature.
WRONG!
One day Larry and I, along with several other couples, went on a Corvette rally in southern Indiana. We were fourth in a line of eight Corvettes winding through small town streets and narrow country roads commanding the attention of everyone in our path. On a country road somewhere in southern Indiana the lead Corvette made an abrupt left onto a narrow, one lane dirt road. He was flying and each Corvette made a fine precision left turn, one right after the other. The dust kicked up from the road was so thick we couldn't see; Larry backed off the accelerator, but it was too late. Suddenly we were flying through the air. When we landed we were sitting next to two Corvettes bogged down in mud. We had missed a 90-degree turn in the road and ended up in a farmer's newly plowed field. Within minutes the farmer arrived and he was not happy. So many were talking at once, speculating on what happened. I walked up to the farmer and said, "We were driving too fast and we missed the turn." Larry pulled me away from the group. "SHUT UP! You don't know what you're talking about. JUST KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" On the way home later that day, I sat quietly, afraid to say a word for fear of reprimand. When we pulled into my driveway, I let myself out of the car and walked alone to the door. Big, mean, self-absorbed, critical, angry. But I was confident Larry would call me after his temper tantrum subsided.
WRONG!
I sat by the phone and waited for Larry to call. He did call, eventually, but it was years later, and this is what he said, "It was you I loved and I was about to ask you to marry me, but on our last date you didn't speak to me all the way home, and I thought you didn't want to see me anymore." Big, mean, self-absorbed, critical, angry, and...
WRONG!
Oh so wrong for oh so many reasons. Thank goodness, he thought I didn't want to see him again, because in my enchanted forest, fantasy world, I probably would have said yes.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
First Love
When there was nothing, I was desperate for anything. I wasn't picky. Ugly can't be picky. All of my friends had boyfriends; I wanted one too. Five years of longing for a boyfriend. Zip. Zero. Nothing. Then a look, a long stare, a whistle, a date. Then another date and another. There was Sam and Larry and Larry and John and Ben. And that was in a six-month period in 1965. When there were a lot to chose from, the choices became more difficult. I wanted the best of the best. Handsome was at the top of my list of mate specifications. No ugly for me. Nah! Nope! No way! Ain't gonna happen. Call me shallow. I wanted pretty. Don't judge me; you know you want pretty, too.
It was the summer in my twenty-first year. I enjoyed the sudden attention from the opposite sex but I didn't trust it. I had been trapped in ugly for so long that it became part of who I was: uggggg lee. Why were men looking at me? Is my slip showing? Do I have toilet paper sticking out of my shoe? Is my dress stuck up my crack? It confused me, but it felt so good.
In June, 1966, another one of my middle-school crushes had just broken up with his girlfriend, and his friend set him up on a blind date with, yep, you guessed it, me. The stars were aligning; I couldn't believe my good luck. Below is a post I wrote on February 3rd.
Note: The towels were over the mirrors so I didn't have to look at ugly. Sad, but true.
It was the summer in my twenty-first year. I enjoyed the sudden attention from the opposite sex but I didn't trust it. I had been trapped in ugly for so long that it became part of who I was: uggggg lee. Why were men looking at me? Is my slip showing? Do I have toilet paper sticking out of my shoe? Is my dress stuck up my crack? It confused me, but it felt so good.
In June, 1966, another one of my middle-school crushes had just broken up with his girlfriend, and his friend set him up on a blind date with, yep, you guessed it, me. The stars were aligning; I couldn't believe my good luck. Below is a post I wrote on February 3rd.
For most of my middle school and high school years, Mike Nickels owned my heart. But love loves to love and when love loves in overdrive, there's going to be some detours now and then. My heart wanted Mike, but it also yearned for Johnny Yount and Gary Perkins and Gary Estes and Bobby Ellis. Those were my five main love interests who took turns being my spoon pillow.
It was all innocent enough; I wasn't looking to stray. It just happened. I was standing outside one of my eighth grade classrooms, when the most handsome and popular senior boy walked by me with his cheerleader girlfriend and an entourage of about five other seniors. Since the high school was attached to the middle school, it wasn't unusual to see upper classmates strut their stuff through our hallways.
It was love at first sight. "Sorry Mike, Johnny, Gary, Gary, Bobby. Ronnie Coal is my spoon pillow now."
My fantasy love affair with the most sought-after, popular senior prom king lasted only one school year. He graduated and I never saw him again. "So I'm back Mike, Johnny, Gary, Gary, Bobby. I'll change the pillow case."
This is a drawing of me at my vanity writing my future name: Carol Coal, Mrs. Ronald Coal, Mrs. Coal. Carol Louise Coal. It has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Speaking of "ring," he did buy me an engagement ring fifteen years later, but that's another story for another time. I lied about never seeing him again.RJ would be my first love, and I hoped my last. But, alas, the stars strayed from their alignment and luck changed sides.
Note: The towels were over the mirrors so I didn't have to look at ugly. Sad, but true.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
In a Blink
In a blink, summer is gone and fall has once again begun sprinkling leaves all over our driveway. I've propped my eyes open with toothpicks because I don't want to blink and lose fall as fast as I lost summer. Where did it go? Why does it feel like tomorrow is yesterday already?
Before I got sidetracked in June by a crazy political reality show that could very likely become a real life horror show, I was rambling--just moseying on down life's winding road, walking backwards some seventy years.
It occurred to me today while I was taking a shower (the shower is where I get most of my ideas for this blog) that if one thing in my past had played out differently, I wouldn't be where I am now: exceedingly happy and in love with my best friend. Timing is everything and seconds count. Turn left instead of right and your life changes forever. Heartache, pain and suffering along the way builds character, gives perspective and insight, develops wisdom even though we don't know it at the time. I shutter to think that had I not said yes to that cowboy from Greenwood on that July night, Jason would not be here today and Amy wouldn't be in my life. What if I hadn't cancelled my marriage to the football star from southern Indiana just two days before the wedding? What if the lawyer I dated for nine years had taken the opportunity to ask me to marry him anytime before that night when I broke up with him? What if Mike Nickels had been a better kisser?
Speaking of Mike Nickels, let's go back in time to middle school, where it all began. All through middle school and high school, not one boy liked me. Why? I was ugly, okay? There I said it. Are you happy now? Here is a self-drawn picture of me from those middle-school years.
I was boy crazy, but the one boy who was at the top of my list of six crushes was Mike Nickels. What I knew about sex and doing the nasty, nasty when I first met Mike was nothing, nothing. Just one year before, a friend had told me how babies were made and I was sick for days. Yuck! Yuck! But there was something about Mike that made the thought of doing the nasty, nasty not so bad, bad. He was gorgeous: slender yet muscular, great hair that stood up in a flat top perfectly, big beautiful gray blue eyes, masculine voice, aloof, distant, not interested in me. It was all there. Oh, how I loved that boy.
I did everything I could to get Mike's attention in school, but to no avail. I was invisible. But then one day it happened; he noticed. It was our junior year, we were in Spanish class together, and I said something funny that brought the class to out loud laughter. I looked over at Mike, and he was smiling. Finally! He noticed me. After that, nothing...until that is one year after we graduated.
1965. I was a secretary at Kunz & Kunz, a law firm downtown Indianapolis. At one hundred pounds, I was fifteen pounds heavier than my senior year at Lawrence Central. My pimples were gone, contact lenses had replaced my Coke-bottle glasses, and my mousey brown hair was now platinum blond. Men were starting to notice.
"Mike Nickels called" my mother said one day after I got home from work. "MIKE NICKELS!!! The Mike Nickels??" I asked. I wanted to know every little detail about the call. What did he say? How did he say it? Was she sure his name was Mike Nickels? But before she could answer me the phone rang again. It was Mike Nickels. Would I like to go out Saturday night, he wanted to know. My heart was racing as I accepted his invitation. Saturday night. 8:00.
I changed outfits a dozen times before settling on a pair of white pants with a blue top that people said showed off my blue eyes. Mike picked me up sharply at 8:00 and we buzzed The Cup before heading to the Pendleton Pike drive-in. I've forgotten most things about that night with Mike except for two things: He was heavier than I remembered him; more fat, less muscle, and then there was that thing that happened that changed forever what could have been between Mike and me.
Mike, my heartthrob of five years, the man my cuddle pillow was named after, reached out for me in the passenger seat, beaconing me to come closer. I slid next to him. We were side by side now, his arm around me. My heart was pounding. I knew what was coming: a kiss. A kiss that I had imagined a thousand times. He leaned his head down, his lips within inches of mine. I could smell popcorn on his breath. Then it happened. The moment our lips touched, his tongue pried open my mouth, plunged past my teeth, flailed around inside my mouth, and then headed down my throat. "WHAT THE HE..?" was my first thought. Gagging, I pulled back. Saying nothing I slid back over to my side of the car. I had kissed a boy before--actually it was a girl in sixth grade pretending to be a boy so I would know what kissing a boy would be like--but it was nothing like this; just lips on lips, like in the movies. "What just happened?" I wondered as I sat staring at the movie I had up to this point in the evening been ignoring.
In a blink it was over. Poof! Just like that. My fantasy love evaporated into the hot summer night over Lawrence. I never saw Mike again.
Before I got sidetracked in June by a crazy political reality show that could very likely become a real life horror show, I was rambling--just moseying on down life's winding road, walking backwards some seventy years.
It occurred to me today while I was taking a shower (the shower is where I get most of my ideas for this blog) that if one thing in my past had played out differently, I wouldn't be where I am now: exceedingly happy and in love with my best friend. Timing is everything and seconds count. Turn left instead of right and your life changes forever. Heartache, pain and suffering along the way builds character, gives perspective and insight, develops wisdom even though we don't know it at the time. I shutter to think that had I not said yes to that cowboy from Greenwood on that July night, Jason would not be here today and Amy wouldn't be in my life. What if I hadn't cancelled my marriage to the football star from southern Indiana just two days before the wedding? What if the lawyer I dated for nine years had taken the opportunity to ask me to marry him anytime before that night when I broke up with him? What if Mike Nickels had been a better kisser?
Speaking of Mike Nickels, let's go back in time to middle school, where it all began. All through middle school and high school, not one boy liked me. Why? I was ugly, okay? There I said it. Are you happy now? Here is a self-drawn picture of me from those middle-school years.
I was boy crazy, but the one boy who was at the top of my list of six crushes was Mike Nickels. What I knew about sex and doing the nasty, nasty when I first met Mike was nothing, nothing. Just one year before, a friend had told me how babies were made and I was sick for days. Yuck! Yuck! But there was something about Mike that made the thought of doing the nasty, nasty not so bad, bad. He was gorgeous: slender yet muscular, great hair that stood up in a flat top perfectly, big beautiful gray blue eyes, masculine voice, aloof, distant, not interested in me. It was all there. Oh, how I loved that boy.
I did everything I could to get Mike's attention in school, but to no avail. I was invisible. But then one day it happened; he noticed. It was our junior year, we were in Spanish class together, and I said something funny that brought the class to out loud laughter. I looked over at Mike, and he was smiling. Finally! He noticed me. After that, nothing...until that is one year after we graduated.
1965. I was a secretary at Kunz & Kunz, a law firm downtown Indianapolis. At one hundred pounds, I was fifteen pounds heavier than my senior year at Lawrence Central. My pimples were gone, contact lenses had replaced my Coke-bottle glasses, and my mousey brown hair was now platinum blond. Men were starting to notice.
"Mike Nickels called" my mother said one day after I got home from work. "MIKE NICKELS!!! The Mike Nickels??" I asked. I wanted to know every little detail about the call. What did he say? How did he say it? Was she sure his name was Mike Nickels? But before she could answer me the phone rang again. It was Mike Nickels. Would I like to go out Saturday night, he wanted to know. My heart was racing as I accepted his invitation. Saturday night. 8:00.
I changed outfits a dozen times before settling on a pair of white pants with a blue top that people said showed off my blue eyes. Mike picked me up sharply at 8:00 and we buzzed The Cup before heading to the Pendleton Pike drive-in. I've forgotten most things about that night with Mike except for two things: He was heavier than I remembered him; more fat, less muscle, and then there was that thing that happened that changed forever what could have been between Mike and me.
Mike, my heartthrob of five years, the man my cuddle pillow was named after, reached out for me in the passenger seat, beaconing me to come closer. I slid next to him. We were side by side now, his arm around me. My heart was pounding. I knew what was coming: a kiss. A kiss that I had imagined a thousand times. He leaned his head down, his lips within inches of mine. I could smell popcorn on his breath. Then it happened. The moment our lips touched, his tongue pried open my mouth, plunged past my teeth, flailed around inside my mouth, and then headed down my throat. "WHAT THE HE..?" was my first thought. Gagging, I pulled back. Saying nothing I slid back over to my side of the car. I had kissed a boy before--actually it was a girl in sixth grade pretending to be a boy so I would know what kissing a boy would be like--but it was nothing like this; just lips on lips, like in the movies. "What just happened?" I wondered as I sat staring at the movie I had up to this point in the evening been ignoring.
In a blink it was over. Poof! Just like that. My fantasy love evaporated into the hot summer night over Lawrence. I never saw Mike again.
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Saturday, September 10, 2016
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