Now just a dang minnit, how would eBeth know?
When i was just an as-yet-unshaven adolescent, i conceived a deep and abiding affection for Louise--red haired Louise. Then at a dance, Louise decided that i should get out there and dance, and when i protested my ignorance of the ritual (small lie, to cover abashed confusion) she said she would teach me. Well, i was right smitten then. So i took to composing long, intricate and soulful letters to her, to be delivered to her by my friend Randy (who rode the same bus). Alas, they were written in a language largely incomprehensible to her (English). I drew careful line-drawing characitures of the Beatles (then newly popular) for her, and she was quite pleased--until she learned that they had been done by me, and not by Randy. Randy was not playing me false, but Louise was playin' it for all that it was worth. In those more innocent times, sex did not rear its ugly head. By the time it did, i had wandered away to other, greener pastures.
I heard that Louise had taken up with that guy in Elmwood--you know, the guy who was an usher at the movie theater? (Great career move, that.) The years passed by: i attended university for three years, spent three years in the Army, got out, drifted about, tried my hand at this and that. One day, i stood in line at a snack bar in a department store in a city near the scene of my hilarious youthful attempts at romantic criminality. I had a job as a salesman at that time, and was well-dressed (in the parlance of the country boys, from whom i truly spring, i could sell **** to a hog farmer), and still sufficiently youthful to have a slim build. I did not do badly with the ladies at that era. I had the very powerful sense of being observed, and a faint sense of malevolence. I purchased my sausages, and turning, happened to glance slightly upward. I saw, riding the escalator, Louise and her mother. Louise was giving a me a look calculated to peel lacquer from a japaned box. I could not fathom the angry comtempt evident in that gaze. Time has given me a modicum of wisdom with which to make a surmise. Louise then showed the signs of incipient matron-hood. Her hips and belly cried out multiple child birth, and here was a woman approaching 30, shopping with her mother. And there i was, dressed to the nines, mustachioed, so obviously not-married-and-not-about-to-be, no doubt, to her resentful eyes, projecting the image of the devil-may-care rake. I did briefly wonder if her erstwhile theatre usher had taken on a more stable avocation.
Ah, life is so strange . . .
Think I was bright red (and walking on clouds) for at least three months after, John.
oak, Interesting forum/question on 'serial' lover. No, I didn't keep any of my old flames address or telephone numbers. I've had a few girlfriends, and only one other gal would have made it to Mrs status, but she got married on me when I was stationed in Morocco for one year. I got one of those "Dear John" letters, but couldn't do anything about it, because she lived in California, and I was stuck in the middle of the desert in Morocco. Everything turned out much better that way for both our lives. c.i.
Oh Rae, such joy and pleasure for you. he he he good night rae, happy memores. sweet dreams
G'night, John. Sweet dreams to you, my friend.
Setanta, not only are you an historian , but you have your very own built in HISTORY. Gosh I bet you broke lottsa hearts twixt then and now. You do have the gift of the "gab" as the Irish say
Poor Louise.
hmmmmmm, let's see. there was Gregory Barker. He got me a lovely ring and bracelet and necklace set for my birthday. The little 'stones' looked like kernels of corn. Then there was Jeffrey DeRuiter. His parents owned the florist shop that I still order mrs. hamburger's birthday flowers from. Then there was second grade.
Be willing to bet my last dollar that Miss ehBeth has a trail of broken hearts to her name.
when it comes to cereal i still remember Cap't crunch with crunch berries as an old favorite, but i wouldn't really call it an old love.
specially when you have milk with it.
oldandknew wrote: You do have the gift of the "gab" as the Irish say
The first time i visited the oul' country, i was asked by my grandmother if i were going to kiss the Blarney Stone. Her maiden name was Donovan, and she and her father were both born there. I did so, to my considerable discomfort. I had to lie on my back, with almost half of my body weight suspended about 150' above the ground. The Blarney Stone is a stone in the inside of the outer wall of the keep known as Blarney Castle. Had a photo of the castle that could have been a travel poster, and lost it. I was gratified that it made my grandmother happy, given my trepidation with regard to heights, it had been a trial to accomplish the act. As you can see, the event has had no effect on me.
That girl chile is a caution, no doubt about it . . .
Visited the castle, but never kissed the stone, darn it!
c.i.
At that time, there was an oul' fellah there with one of those fold-up polaroids, who took yer black-and-white photo on the spot, an another who spent the day seated on the stones (it is in front of a hole in the parapet, anciently used to drop rocks, boiling water, etc. upon the English and other uncivilized visitors), holding on to those who take the plunge, so that they will be reassured, i guess. My size and weight, if i'd have gone down, that little man would never have stopped it. Gave the photo to my grandmother.
uhoh! Anytime you see a pyramid with a large exclamation point in the sarcophagus...better get the hell outta Egypt.
er, Ireland.
Setanta, that was a dear story....Poloroid land camera.
Yea, why did they call them things "land camera?" Nobody would'a used it in water....... c.i.
