Betty don't...

“Look at it.” I held it above eye level so he could see it.

“I’ve seen it already.  It’s a big bottle,” he said grabbing another paper to fold and rubber band.

“Yeah, but…,” I said taking in the size of that bottle.  “It’s a pint.  A whole pint.”

“Yup, it’s big alright.  Never seen anything like it.”  He snapped the band against the paper and stuffed it in his carrier bag.  “I’ve heard it called a belly washer.”

“Ha ha.  That’s a good one.  Sure fills you up.  You want the rest of my moon pie?  I don’t think I can eat the rest and finish this baby off,” I said holding it towards him.

“Naah, I already ate one.  Toss it in the trash.  There’s the can.”  He was pointing at the side of the pink building.  We always called it the Greek’s, probably not acceptable in today’s society but we were kids and we repeated what we heard without thought to right or wrong.  It just was. 

I looked at my moonpie and decided it would be best not to finish it. Launched into an arc, it banged against the side and landed on the pavement. 

“Better get that,” said my buddy.  “I’ve been folding papers here for a while and I don’t think he would appreciate litter around the building like that.”

“OK.” I retrieved the melting moonpie and dropped it into the trash can.  Turning back I saw he was placing the last paper into a tight spot in the bag.  It was bulging with issues of The Evening Post, the afternoon edition of the Charleston newspaper.  He lifted the bag with a grunt and placed it on the wooden platform he had made to fit on the handlebars of his bike.  It weighed heavily to one side until he shifted its equilibrium.  With that he stepped on a pedal and pushed off.

‘OK.  Let’s go,” he said gliding to the right side of the road.

He had had this paper route for some time.  I always felt it a privilege to ride alongside after folding papers.  We had been friends since first grade.  This was his first job which he enjoyed until he had to go door to door to collect payment for the paper and his deliveries. 

“Lot’s of deadbeats,” he had told me one time.  “I so much like it better when they pay the paper directly.  I don’t have to go to their door and ask only to be given an excuse as to why they can’t pay this time.  It’s frustrating.”

He always had my sympathy about that.  For me it was a fun afternoon to meet in the Terrace in front of the Greek’s.  We’d spend a dime for a drink and another for a moonpie then settle into folding papers.  But this time the drink had been fifteen cents because it was the new Pepsi pint.  Sixteen ounces of sweet bubbly nectar.  Usually the drinks were eight to ten ounces for a dime.  This one was so much more for only an additional nickel. I had to have one.

These weren’t my first paper rolling days by any means. Clyde had had a paper route a while back.  His was in the afternoon too.  I helped him to fold papers when they arrived.  He picked them up and took them to the house and we’d fold them in the living room.  When he was finished he would load them on his scooter and buzz around the neighborhood tossing them into the yards.

So folding newspapers was second nature to me.  My only recompense was the company and something to do in the afternoons.  It was enough for me.  I think my buddy enjoyed the company.  I never went door to door with him when he made his collections, so I never shared the feelings about the paper recipients since I had never experienced their sorry behavior at collection time.

I hopped on my bike and whipped around the road, a horn blared from a car that was a block away. Ignoring it I raced up to R who was grabbing the first paper to be thrown.  His style was a flip of the wrist with a touch of power.  It was good technique for the Whamo Frisbee which would soon come on the market.  The paper would flip end over end until it reached the porch with a smack.  His aim was fairly good.  I never saw one disappear into the bushes or splash into a puddle after a rain.  It was an impressive record. 

His route took us down Woodland Shores Road.  We hung a right at the Annex, a side road that paralleled Woodland Shores.  At the end we made a u-turn and peddled quickly back to the main road.   Another right and we were halfway to the end of this street.  At the end we’d stop and look for cars.  In those days there weren’t so many. With nothing coming in either direction we  were up and pedaling quickly to cross and settle into the seat for the last half of his route, Stono River Road.

We peddled past his house on the left.  His rhythm was impeccable. Reach, fling, reach, fling. It was perpetual motion without a hitch.  Each house received a perfectly arced tube of paper.  His routine was perfect.

“Hey, paperboy!” came a shout.  “You got any extras?”

R braked and dropped his foot to the pavement.  He straddled the center bar of his bike, leaned forward and grabbed one from his bag.

“Yes sir, I do.  Just a dime.” He extended the paper roll to him.

“Thanks, boy,” he said. He flipped a dime with his right hand and retrieved the paper with the other.  R pocketed the dime while the man turned to walk up his drive. R looked at me as he stood on the right pedal and pushed off.

“Every day he does that.  I don’t know why he won’t just take out a subscription.  At least it’s a payment I don’t have to worry about collecting,” he said shaking his head.

There were only a few papers left in the flaccid canvas bag that had been taut with rolled papers.  When he turned to go down a side street it hit me.

“I can’t go any further with you!”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“You remember that Pepsi I drank?”

“You mean that new size?”

“Yeah, that pint of Pepsi.”

“Yeah. So?”

“It just hit me.  I gotta get home fast.”

He laughed.  “Just ‘cause it’s new doesn’t mean you have to buy it.”

“Yeah, but it was such a deal. A pint for fifteen cents. And the bottle was so big.  I just couldn’t help myself.  I had to try it after seeing the ads on TV.”

“Better hurry then.  You don’t want to be sorry.  Don’t forget the author Willie Makit.”

“Huh?”  I looked at him with a blank stare.

“You know the book?”

“Nuh uh.”

“The Twenty Steps to the Outhouse by Willie Makit and Betty Doant.” He began to laugh himself silly.

It was my turn to shake my head and pedal off.  It could possibly be a Betty Doant story here, I thought to myself. Pedal fast, pedal fast.  Feets don’t fails me now. Pedal fast.  No Betty, NO!

Poor Little Bongo

“Bongo lost his drum!

That was Bongo lost his drum sung by Burl Ives.  The record was revolving on the small white Alice in Wonderland 45 rpm record player.  The flat plastic arm moved up and down to the warp of the disc that revolved around the center pole.  It was Hayne’s record player and I had slipped that 45 onto the turntable so many times we could almost hear both sides at once.

“Here, put this on for a change, Rickey,” said my cousin.  I took it from his hands, looked at it and shook my head.

“Not again?”

“You got room to talk.  How many times you played that Bongo thing?”

He had a point.  I pulled the arm to the side, pulled Bongo off, and dropped  his record onto the stacker.   It caught midway on the retractable shelf.    I pushed the switch that retracted the shelf dropping his record onto the turn table.  The needle arm swung over and lowered to the surface skidding into the groove with a loud scratching sound.

“Don’t scratch my record.  It’s my favorite.”  Hayne was annoyed.

Bursting upon the air was the brilliant sound of Dance of the Sabers, an Armenian piece of music.  It was and way beyond the plane of My Bongo song. 

“Why do you like that so much?” I asked while my foot tapped to the wild beat.

“You can’t feel it?”  He was looking at me like I had Jello for brains.

“I don’t feel anything,” I said with a straight face.  It was music, just something you hear.

“That’s a lie,” he said.  “You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything.  I see your foot tapping away to the beat.”

“Huh?” I looked down. It was keeping time.  I had not been aware.  “Oh. I see.  Funny, I didn’t know.”

“For me this music takes me away.  I feel the circles danced and the sabers waved.”

“Huh?” I said.

“You really don’t feel that?”

“Nuh uh.”

“The air is alive with the twirling of dancers.  It sings with blades of steel slashing away. It would have me jumping and twirling.”

I felt sad for a moment.  I never felt these things.  I listened.

“Just let the beat take hold, Rickey.”

Like a dullard I looked at him. He was smiling.  His hands were waving in the air, head bobbing.  “I sense the wind in the notes.  It lifts my mind and spirit into the space around us. DEEyu deeyu.”

His last words were his vocalization of the notes in a portion of the tune.  I watched him, trying to understand what he meant.  His eyes were closed and he was wrapped up in the piece as it rolled out of the speaker.  I closed my eyes trying to capture his enjoyment.  Squinting through my lashes I saw his smile and the total involvement with the music.  It was as if the world for him had disappeared and he was transported into another one.

I tried to hear Bongo Lost his drum in my mind but the Saber Dance was overwhelming, destroying any rhythmic continuity.  From Bongo Lost to dat dat dat dat dadadatat became the oft repeated refrain in my mind as it tried vainly to restore the Bongo tune.   Finally, I gave up.

The rattling Sabers were coming to the close.  I looked at Hayne.  Again the total commitment to what he was hearing translated into his arms swaying, a growing smile and eyes focused on a world I couldn’t see.

It was possible, I thought, that this music has more meaning than my song about Bongo.  The music was just a silly tune and the words were even sillier.  His music did have a more impressive sound.  There was nothing silly about it that was for sure.  When it ended Hayne’s eyes opened he was elsewhere until the birds outside roused him.  His disappointment was just noticeable. 

He smiled at me.  “Can we play it again?”

“Sure.  It is your record player.  I wish I could see what you see.”

“Listen this time, and relax.  Let it flow over you.  Stop thinking or trying to understand.  Just enjoy it.”

I leveled the needle at the outer rim. It caught and began its journey through the groves in the plastic once more.

“OK, I’ll try.”  I closed my eyes as the first notes flew from the vibrating needle.  Wham!  It hit me wave after wave in quick succession.  My heart began to race with the beat pumping out into the air.  My foot began tapping.  I began to wave an imaginary baton whipping it up, down, around my head and punching outward.  It caught me and I was lost to this world.  The room dissolved and there were the sabers flashing light, glinting rapidly, high and low.  Lost to this world and traveling along the punctuating notes in rapid fire, it began to dawn.

The last note faded and, along with it, the distance to which I had been transported.  Not as nice here as where I was but where was I?

“You were there,” answered Hayne.

“You heard me?”

“You were talking trance-like. Yeah, I heard you.”

“So Where is there?” My mind couldn’t quite grasp what had happened.

“With the music.  It opens up the world in a new way.  I sit in this chair day after day.  My life is confining and I found a way to escape it in that song and others.  It takes me to a world and in it I can run and play and fly even.  You take it for granted.  You’ve always been able to do those things.”

“I can’t fly.”

“You know what I mean. You and everybody else can walk and run and play ball.  I can only dream about it.  But in the music I can feel all those things.  It’s wonderful.  The Dance of the Sabers is especially wonderful for me.  It will always be my favorite.  I found the world anew in it.  That’s why I play it so much.”

“So why do I play Bongo Lost His Drum so much?” After what I’d just felt that song seemed so silly.

“You just weren’t ready.  Your heart and spirit respond to lighter entertainment.  You have always been like all the other kids.  You’ve never been confined to a wheel chair.  You’ve seen me but never really placed yourself here to see what it was like.  You’ve just included me in all the games as if I were like everyone else.  I don’t think you have ever really thought what it would be like to be in my place.”

I hadn’t. He was completely right.

“So I would take longer to come under the influence of music’s ability to shift me to someplace I might have dreamed of?’

“Something like that.  I’m used to my chair.  I can almost go where I want when I listen.”

Hayne was younger than I was but so much older.  I could have learned so much more from him right then but I heard the television speaker. 

“Hey there! Hi there! Ho there!  You’re as welcome as can be. M-I-C-K-E-Y….”

“It’s the Mickey Mouse Club!  We gotta go!”

I grabbed the hand grips to his wheel chair and pushed him into the other room parking him in front of the set.  He smiled and sang along with me and the Mouseketeers as the show commenced.  It was another form of transportation into the world of Disney the greatest of family entertainers.  Hayne’s face lit up as he joined in the dancing on the screen.  We were both with our pals there in that illuminated box.  We were both confined to the spot but just as much a part of the singing, dancing and talking as any other well-adjusted normal kid.

A mother's love should never be forgotten

The light wool uniform was a tad baggy but not uncomfortable in the summer sun.  It was a light gray and had the feel of pajamas except for the number on the back and the stripes on the shirt and pants.  A blue stripe along the seams and the number thirteen weighing upon my back decorated the otherwise nondescript outfit.  I had my glove in my hand and my cap on my head.  I was ready to walk to the school. 

I looked back at the little box of cinderblocks I called home. 

“Pink,” I thought.  “Of all the colors to paint a house. Pink. Yuck.”

My folks had moved here recently to be closer to my grandparent’s house since I had been staying there during the school week.  It was a good feeling to know that my parents missed me enough to move closer so that I could walk to our house instead of my grandparent’s.  Yeah, it was a good feeling but it didn’t quite make up for them not attending the game I was headed toward.

I had made the baseball team.  Well it was Little League, but still.  Yup, I was a little leaguer and heading down the road to my first actual game. 

“I better walk,” I thought. “I might get grease from my bike chain on to my brand new uniform and that wouldn’t do.  They might not let me play.”

The road wound out of the subdivision onto Stono Shores Road.  I picked up my pace from my usual mosey and hurried along the side until I got to the Municipal Golf Course.  Old Man Adams always ran us off the fairway when he caught us but it never stopped us crossing over to get to school.  He wasn’t around so it was clear walking ahead.  Crossing Maybank Highway was no problem.  It led to Johns Island and nobody cared so it was a lonely stretch of two lane black top to the bridge crossing the Stono. 

I ran across like always because it was a road and my parents had always told me to stay off the road unless I wanted to be run over by an automobile.  Though there wasn’t one I had no wish to tempt fate.  It was always possible an out of control Ford could come barreling out of nowhere and run me over leaving me on the side of the street like a flat cat, two days old. 

So I scooted across holding my glove firmly in my hand.    My folks had bought it for me last time we were in Silver’s.  It lay on the counter smelling of new cut leather, and aphrodisiac to a young boy enamored of baseball legends like Pee Wee Reese and Mickey Mantle.  I reached up on the counter and pulled it off and slipped it onto my left hand.  The feel of it was firm and caressing.  I plopped it onto my face and inhaled deeply.  The rich new leather smelled of calf and oil bursting with the promise of super stardom on the baseball field. 

I punched my fist into the pocket and felt the slight stab of pressure against my palm. 

“Wow!  That’ll protect my hand against the sting of a line drive,” I exclaimed.

My dad nodded at me as he looked around for my mother who had walked into the lingerie section. 

“Can I get this?” I asked him.

“Get what, son?”

“This glove.  I’ll need it since I’m on the team.  All the guys have their own glove.  I’d really like to have my own so’s I don’t have to borrow one when I go to the games.”

“You don’t need a baseball glove,” he said still looking around the store.

“No, I guess not.”  I took it off my hand slowly feeling the luxury of a real baseball mitt slip away.  I put it back where it was but lingered looking fondly at it.

“Oh, there she is,” said dad.  “Let’s go, son.”

He walked off but I stayed on half listening to his words and half wandering into a daydream.

“Batter up!” yelled the ump as I stood on the pitcher’s mound staring at home plate.  I slapped the ball into the pocket of my brand new, genuine leather Spalding baseball mitt.  Whap! It made contact as I studied the hand signals of the catcher behind the opposing team member cracking the bat against his cleated shoes.  I shook my head.  The catcher proposed a new signal.  It looked more promising to me with this batter.  I nodded. For a minute I looked around at the lead the runner on first had taken.  He quickly sidestepped back toward first.  I was satisfied.  I knuckled the ball as I began my windup.  All the power in my body went into that pitch and WHAP! It sliced through the batter’s swing and into the catcher’s mitt.  I smiled as he tossed it in a high arc back to me, the ump’s shout of “STIKE ONE!” echoing in my ear.

I caught it easily in the webbing of my glove.  Out of the corner of my eye I caught the runner edging off first.  I whipped around placing the ball directly into the glove of our first baseman.  The runner sprinted for second, missing it by a fraction of a second as the slap of hardball against leather sounded an instant before he was tagged.  The second out for our opponents.  The second baseman tossed the ball to me.

Now to strike this man out.  I leaned toward home plate watching the catcher’s fingers.  No.  He sent another signal. No to that as well.  I nodded to his third signal coiled my body and slipped that ball through the air right past the magic space into soft leather.

“STRIKE TWO!” yelled the umpire over the crowd’s roar.

I retrieved the ball after it was tossed from first to third to second.  Once again I leaned toward the plate and nodded to the first signal.  As I wound up to burn that ball across the plate the crowd was roaring “Rick-ey! Rick-ey!”

“Rickey! Son?! Are you alright?” My dad touched my shoulder waking me from my place on the mound.

“Huh? Uh, yes sir. Sorry,” I mumbled.  I looked up at the glove on the counter then at my dad.

“Couldn’t I please have my own glove?”

“Son, we can’t afford it right now.”  It was his only answer to my questions about buying something I wanted.

“What’s the matter,” asked my mother as she walked up to us carrying boxes under her arm.

“Oh, Rickey, wants me to buy some baseball glove.   I told him we can’t afford it.”

“Don’t you remember I told you he’s joined the Little League?” asked my mother.

“Little League? What’s that?”

“Baseball, daddy.  I got on the team.  That’s why I need my own glove.”

“Oh. You said you could borrow one, didn’t you?”  He was looking at me with a firm stare.

“Yes sir, I can, but …”

“Well no need to buy one then,” he answered.

“Yes sir,” came my usual disappointed answer.

“Dear, can’t we make an exception this time?  He did join up to play baseball.  Can’t we support him by getting the glove?”  It was my mother.  It was completely out of character.  Any time my dad put the kibosh on something it was totally kiboshed.  She was treading unsteady ground here.

“He said he could borrow one.  We don’t really have the money to buy another toy.”

I almost jumped in to say, it’s not a toy, but discretion and my mother’s quick look stopped me before I could ruin the moment.

“He wants to play baseball.  What better way to play than with his own glove?  If it’s the money I could cut some things from the grocery list for a few weeks.  The glove is only ten dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money for something frivolous.”

“Maybe so but to a child it isn’t frivolous.  Didn’t you want something as a child that your parents thought frivolous?”

Dad seemed to drift away.  A frown grew across his face. He nodded.

“Yes, I do.”

“You always said you wanted your son to have better than you.  Couldn’t we splurge a bit for him this time?  He went out especially to get on the team.  The other boys have their own gloves I bet.  It is baseball, after all, the American past time.”

“We had cricket.  I don’t know anything about baseball,” he said and it was so true.  He had no clue when he saw my baseball card collection.  He just shook his as he fanned them out like a deck of cards. 

“He would really feel more like a player with his own glove.”  My mother was fighting hard to bring him around.  I looked up pleadingly at my dad. He looked at me with that frown.

“You think you can juggle the grocery money?”

“Yes, I do.  Shall we let him get it?” She smiled at my dad.  He melted under that smile’s warmth.

“Well, if you think you can swing it.”

“I do,” said my mother.

Dad looked at me and nodded his head.  “Go ahead, son.  Get the glove.”

I had the glove in my hand and was standing in front of the cashier before they could change their minds.  Dad took out his wallet and counted out the price, then handed it to the lady behind the counter. I grabbed my glove and ran outside.  I couldn’t believe my dad had just bought me my own baseball mitt.  It was a rare occasion indeed.

My folks came through the door.  Dad looked at me the spoke in his hard voice.

“You need to thank you mother, son.  She is the one who will be finding the way to afford that thing.”

I wrapped my arms around my mother.  Holding her tight I said over and over, “Thank you, momma.  Thank you.  I’ll be the best player on the team.  I promise.”

I could see a tear in her eye as I looked up.  She looked down at me and said, “You just enjoy yourself.  You don’t have to be the best.  You just enjoy yourself.”

The bus was running when I got to the school.  The coach was counting the players as the got on board.

“Hurry up, boy!  We’re going to be late.  What’s your name?” he asked as I got on the bus.

“Rickey,” I answered waving my glove at my buddy.

“Last one,’ he said. “Alright Charlie take us to the game.”

I sat on the bench after my first time at bat.  The other team’s pitcher threw three sizzlers over home plate while I stood there with the bat on my shoulder.  My team mates kept yelling for me to swing the bat, just swing the bat.   I was out my first time at bat.  The coach decided I was a better bench warmer than player so for the entire season I warmed it.  I never even got to play my usual spot in the field during Little League games.  I was only an outfielder when my buddies were choosing up sides to play for fun.  At least I did when I was chosen.

My glove?  It stayed well-oiled and in the closet after my Little League career was finished which was one season on the bench.  My batting average was 000 and my RBI’s were zero.  It’s hard to make averages when you are mistaken for a football player.  I figured that was the problem since every time I left the bench to grab a bat the coach would yell, “Get your tail back!”  Not everybody can be a star, much less a player.

And, yet, my mother showed no disappointment in my baseball career.  Both my parents worked to make ends meet which meant they were never able to make it to any games.  I never understood at the time but with age…  My mother.  She has always been one in a million.  She always went to bat for me.

There is JOY in Mudville tonight

I love this place.

The thought trickled through my mind as I pedaled along the side of the road.  The air was warm as it passed over my body.  The cicadas filled the surrounding countryside with the buzz of joy at being above ground.  The flavor of honeysuckle mingled with the explosion of new growth  fragrances surrounding me and my Columbia.  The warm sun played across my face as I closed my eyes and rested my legs in a glide.

A horn snapped me from my reverie and I jerked the wheel to the right.  I bounced along the rutted patch bedside the macadam surface.  The car sped past giving me a wide berth.  I edged back onto the paved surface, my heart pounding.  Daydreaming on a bike is not a good thing.  Those cars can kill.  A dog barked from behind a fence paralleling the street.  I laughed at him, stood on the pedals and push with all my might.  My bike and I shot past as I leaned into the rush of warm wind.  In the distance I could see the waver of the air above warming tar as the road returned the heat captured into the air around it.  It almost looked like a lake.

My buddy’s house was just a few yards up the way.  His driveway made a steep climb into his yard which was two feet higher than the paved surface.  A car was approaching from the opposite direction but I knew I could make it with just one more hard push.  I stood again pumping with all my might and leaned into the turn. Up I went with the blast of a horn where I had been.  Seems that driver was going faster than I thought but I escaped whipping up and over the drive entrance onto the grass in front of the house.  I dropped my bike on the run to the front steps.

I knocked on the door.

My friend opened it.  His smile was broad and I entered.  His mother yelled a welcome from the kitchen to me.  I looked in and said hi.

“Care for a bite to eat?” she asked.  “I was just fixing breakfast.”

“No ma’am.  I ate before coming over.”

I sat in the living room reading the latest issue of Superman while they ate.  Lois was in trouble, again, and Superman was just about to jump into the air--she was falling, naturally—to catch her mid-fall when R came in wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Finished!  Ready to go?”

Leaving Lois halfway between the top of the Daily Planet and the sidewalk, I dropped the comic book on the end table.  We rushed to the door when R said,
“I got an idea.”

He ran into his room.  He carried some clothes pins and a deck of cards on his return.

“We’re gonna ride motorcycles today.”

“What?”

“Here, take these.”  He handed me two playing cards and two clothes pins.  I followed him out to the bikes puzzled as to his intent.

“I saw this the other day.  Some kids in town were riding around making the motor sound on their bikes.  This is how they did it.”  He picked up his two-wheeler leaning it on his shoulder.  He bent one of the cards along the edge and attached it to the bar holding the fender to the wheel axis.  The far end poked into the spokes.  He did the same to the back wheel.

He had to show me how to provide enough of the card into the spokes since I folded it in the middle which fell short of the mark. 

“OK!  Let’s go!”  He jumped onto the seat and pushed off with a mighty thrust down on the pedal.  His bike made a roaring sound as it flew forward.  I looked on in admiration as my face lit up with a grin. 

Up, up, and away.  I leaned over the handlebars and pumped my legs hard in a clockwise direction.  The forward momentum took on speed and the cards in my spokes erupted into a loud roar.  I was blasting away when I hit the top of the driveway.  A slight jump brought me back to the surface with a clack of fender against body and the thrill of the wind brought out the wonder and excitement of being alive.  With a continuous roar my bike slipped from a forty-five degree angle down into the upright of road surface in a matter of seconds.  The street was free of traffic and open to the two of us burning up the surface and the air with our noise.  A wild “YEEHAH!” escaped my lungs which was answered by another from my buddy who was pedaling with all his might into a twenty mph run with the bursting of cardboard against spoke after spoke after spoke.  The reverberations matched the cicadas in volume.

“KEE YA KEE!” I yelled into the wind whipping my cheeks. 

“GERONOMO!” came an answering call.

Neither of us waited at the corner.  One after the other we whipped out into the road called Stono Shores flying to the right side.  There was no traffic, lucky for us, as we sidled up to the edge of the pavement.  I gave my legs an extra hard push as I rode up beside R.  We traveled, pushing our legs as fast as we could, like lightning.  The trees lining the ditch flew past us. 

Free on a summer’s morning before the sun beat down like an oven.  The air was still fresh with the cool of the night lingering.  Yet we could feel the heat promised by the sun’s climb into the arc of noon.  But what did that matter to two kids flying down an open road on “motorized” bicycles?  We were free!  The day was ours!  And we pedaled on.

The terrace was a focal point for all of us.  The school, RTS—fondly referred to as Rotten Tomato Soup, but in reality was Riverland Terrace School, our grammar school for the first six years we spent in the institution of learning—was the place to meet being centrally located.  There was a baseball diamond for those inclined to glove, bat, and ball.  There was the playground itself located to the right in a sandy area in the front of the old brick building.  The school yard itself was split down the middle by a sidewall leading to the fence that separated the school yard from the street in front.  As noted, the playground containing swings, monkey-bars, and see-saws lay to the right of the sidewalk.  The yard left of the sidewalk was paved up to the automobile entrance.  To the left of this entrance for cars was the basketball court.  Beyond that and deeper into the grounds was a tennis court and over to the left of that bicycle racks.  The afore mentioned baseball diamond lay to the left of the school building stretching out into the back area which could be used as a football field after baseball season.

We rattled in through the back gate which was wide enough for single file walk through.  Our roaring entrance to the yard was noticed by the kids batting a ball at home plate.  We pedaled through the sand. It slowed us down immediately. Jumping off our bikes we yelled hello to the batter.   Dropping our bikes we ran over to home plate.

“Hey guys!” R was enthusiastic about batting the ball to those in the field awaiting pop flies.  “Any chance we can play a game?”

The guy with the bat nodded, “If you two want to play we can choose up sides.  We got enough now for four each.”

“Come on in guys!  We’re gonna choose up sides.”  The boys with gloves ran in toward the plate.  “You want to choose?”  He spoke to R.

“Yeah, let’s pick our players.”  And so it would start.  When I was standing alone after the choosing had been done, R finally said, “OK, Rickey, you’re with us.”  His reluctance was noticed.

We took to the field, since the bat and ball and gloves belonged to the guys here first.

“Can I borrow your glove?” I asked J.  He tossed it underhanded.  With fumbling gestures I finally got it under control and headed out.

“You take right field, Rickey,” said R as I ran toward first. 

“I thought maybe I’d try first base this ti…,” I said.

“Nah, E will take care of that.  You run on out to right field.”

Once again, I was relegated to right field.  Nothing ever happened in right field.  I usually stood out there watching all the action but never being in the middle of it.  Oh well.  It was a pretty day.  The sun wasn’t too hot yet and the cicadas were loud as they could be.  It was the perfect atmosphere to drift away on some fantastical trip known as a day dream which I did immediately.  I was in full flight upward into the warm flowing air alongside the Daily Planet eying the distance above where Lois was plummeting to her death.  But not this time as I cut through the air screaming upward arms out stretched to catch her midair…

“Rickey!!”  Several voices were yelling my name.  I snapped out of my day dream, Lois would have to plummet to her death or wait fixed in the air. 

“LOOK! UP IN THE AIR! CATCH IT!” 

What?  What were they screaming about?  I looked where they were pointing. It was a pop fly!  It was racing towards me!  Me! In right field!  What do I do!?  It was heading straight for me!

As protection I put my glove up to block out the ball.  As it happened I placed my glove in such a position that the ball slapped into the leather pocket.  My fingers closed automatically trapping it.

“You’re out!” I heard someone near the plate yell. 

“I’m out?” I mumbled to myself.  Then I realized, the ball was in my glove.  I had caught it!  What would normally have been a homerun for the batter was an out.  Wow! I caught it.

“Great catch, Rickey!” I heard it repeated several times.  Some of the kids were running out to slap me on the back.  “You done good.  J is out.  You got him out.  He’s ticked.”

Oh, great, I thought.  Now I have the star athlete mad at me.

“Come on in fellas.  Our time at bat.”

“Come on, Rickey.  We get to bat now.”

I tossed the glove to J, who was scowling at me, as I ran to home plate.  Everybody was all smiles and slapping me on the back with congratulations.  It was a heck of a feeling.

The first three up slammed the ball out to left field.  And then it was my turn.  R tossed the bat to me. It clattered to the red clay at my feet.  I picked it up and whacked it against the side of each shoe like I had seen the players on TV do.  At the plate I leaned it against my leg as I stooped to pick up some dirt.  I rubbed it into my hands like I had seen so many other kids do, for what reason I hadn’t a clue.  Then I hefted it to my shoulder just a couple of inches high. I stood like a coiled spring ready to unleash fury on the hide covered sphere.  That was baseball talk which sent my mind on another day dream.  I awoke to that hide covered sphere burning across the plate into the catcher’s hand.

“Stee-rike ONE!”

“Choke up on the bat!” said the voice behind me.  I also heard some groaning and complaining about somebody being the worst baseball player alive but I couldn’t think about that because the pitcher was into his windup.  I cocked back ready to let loose the fury of…  The ball whistled past into the leather protected hand behind me.

“Stee-rike TWO!”

The moaning and groaning behind me grew.

“The bases are loaded.  Swing the damned bat!”

Damned?  Someone yelled damned in the playground?  I lowered the bat and looked behind me.  The ball tagged the bat and sailed behind the plate.  Stunned I looked down.

“Ball one!” someone yelled.

“You still got a chance!  Clobber it!”

Once more my steely eye lit upon the pitcher who was lifting the ball to his glove.  He nodded.  He wound around and sent the ball flying straight at me.  I jumped back.

“Ball two!”

“Come on, Croucher!  Hit the ball!”

“Hell!  Just swing the damned bat!”

Once more I heard cursing but refused to give it credence with a glance.  Instead my bat, choked to death, rose above my shoulder.  My body became a mighty spring once again.  I was wound tight.  I watched the ball leave the pitcher’s hand.  All of a sudden I knew it was mine.  The bat left my shoulder slicing through the air.  The might of my swing was met with the loudest crack I’ve ever heard.  The ball sailed past the second baseman.  He missed it since he was staring in shock at me. It bounced into the outfield.  The outfielder was daydreaming, which all outfielders had a tendency to do when I was at bat, and missed the ball as it rolled quickly past him.

His team was screaming at him to throw the ball.  My team mates were screaming just as loud at me to run.  I ran.  I hit first and they continued to yell. The guys on second and third had rounded through home plate.  The player on the base ahead of me was touching third and headed to home when the outfielder finally realized his team mates were yelling at him.  He scrambled for the ball and fell into the sticker bushes that grew wild out there.  When he got up and threw the ball I had just touched third.  I slowed but everybody at home was yelling for me to run.  And I did.  The ball was high in the air.  My feet were churning up the red clay dirt leaving a trail like fire ablaze in my tracks.  The ball caught by gravity arced down.  The catcher stood on home plate, mitt in the air waiting patiently.  It closed with the glove.  I closed with home plate.  Neck and neck.  I slid.  My back pocket ripped away from my jeans.  I heard the ball thwap into the glove.  At the same time I heard, “SAFE!”

That’s when the argument began.  Everybody crowded around the boy who had yelled safe.  The scuffing of feet, the waving of hands, curse words fouling the air filled the playground all at once.  But the decision had been made. I had been called safe.  We had four runs.  It was our ball game.  And, yet, since it was me that had actually hit the ball, it was a controversial game.  I doubt seriously if anybody else remembers that game that summer long ago except me.

Then, again, it may be the game of my left field daydream.  Who knows?  Memory often takes on a life of its own.  That may be the case here.

It's a pirate's life for me...

Robin Hood slashed his way through the King’s soldiers in a straight path to the Sheriff of Nottingham.  The clang of metal on metal rang through the stone castle.  Parry and thrust to slip solidly into the midsection of the man in front of him.  A hard pull backward and he falls to aged floor.  A shadow caught his eye.  His arm moved up and to the left as the sheriff sliced downward with his broad sword, both hands clutching the handle in a death grip on its arc downward. The clang echoed through the hallway ratcheting along Robin’s weapon into his arm with a resounding quiver of bone and flesh.  The blade nearly fell from his hold.  He fell backward with a cry.  The Sheriff advanced seeing the advantage by swiftly slicing to the side.  Robin’s control came back in a flash as his body automatically moved to deflect the heavy blade.  The Sheriff moved aggressively forward beating Robin back step by step ever waiting to for that mortal opening.  His foe, barely keeping the steel from its butchery, moved in whirling the blade into ever closer contact. Robin feinted to the right. The Sheriff’s sword automatically swung into its advantage but met air.  Our hero had slipped through that mighty swing and leapt upon the stone stairway.  His enemy’s sword sounded against the floor as Robin jumped again to a point behind the man recovering his weapon.

“Hold!” cried Robin.

The Sheriff considered his cry, turned to seek the mortal spot only to be halted by the jab of Robin’s sword at his chest.  The leather, cleanly sliced, became wet with blood…

“Rick!  What are you doing?”

“Huh?”  It was Clyde waking me with a start.

“I was…uh…just about to slay the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“Robin Hood? Again?”

“Yeah. I like Robin Hood.”

“Maybe you do but do you have to always be Robin Hood.  What about a pirate.  Remember?  We saw Treasure Island last week.”

My mother had dropped us off at the theater to see Treasure Island the week before.  It was good, but Robin in Sherwood held my imagination.

“Treasure Island was good,” I agreed, “but Robin was English.”

“Well so were the pirates.  Didn’t you hear Long John Silver’s accent?  Arrgh, miteys.  Shiver me timbers and a bottle o’ rum.  Besides on the wall, there, is a pirate.  Cutlass and all.”

It was true.  On the wall was a pencil drawing done by my uncle, three of them, actually.  A hardy soul, one eye patched and a tricorn hat atop a bandanaed head stood dark against the light wall.  His face was fierce.  His cutlass, menacing.  And beside him was drawn a voluptuous pirate of the female persuasion.  She stood in dark shorts fit over shapely legs seemingly reaching for miles.  Her bosoms, Clyde had informed me of what bosoms were, were lightly clad with a low cut peasant’s blouse.  Her black hair tantalizingly rolled over her shoulders onto the soft contours…

“Hey!” yelled Clyde.  “You going into a trance?  You act like you’ve never seen these wall drawings.”

Actually I hadn’t until that moment and suddenly I wanted to be a pirate and find this woman, who to me had become, not a pirate, but a damsel in distress taken from her plantation on the shores of Carolina in the year sixteen hundred and something. 

“OK.  I want to be a pirate.  We need to save this lovely creature.  She’s in need of saving.  Shall we go?”

Clyde looked at me.  It was an odd look but he quickly changed, shouting along with me. 

“Yes!  To ship! Set sail for the Island of Treasure!” he yelled jumping onto the mattress, grabbing the bedpost and leaning over the edge.  I could see the salty spray of the ocean soak him as he watched the horizon.

“Go below, Schmee, and search out our cutlasses.  I see a ship on yon horizon.  We will board her.  Away to the armory for our weapons.”

“Hey!  Don’t call me Schmee.  That’s Cap’n Hook’s first mate in Peter Pan.  That’s a cartoon.  Treasure Island was real.  I wanna be Hawkins.”

“Quiet, Hawkins.  We don’t want to scare off the ship laden with treasure to our port side.  Away man.  Bring us our weapons.”

“Aye Cap’n Silver. Hey Clyde.”

“Yeah, mitey?”

“We don’t have cutlasses.  Could we, maybe, use Uncle Charles’ swords?”

“They are called fencing foils and I don’t know.  He might not like it.  Don’t we have some sticks?”

“Maybe but they won’t give the sound of metal like a real sword.  Come on.  We won’t hurt ‘em and he’ll never know once we put them back.”

“Well….  OK.  Get the weapons, mitey”

Happy as a lark I raced into the closet and pulled out two fencing epees.   I placed my hand behind the guard.  I swiped at the air criss-crossing an imaginary foe.   I moved like lightning just as Robin had done on the stone stairs battling The Sheriff. 

“Cut it out, Hawkins!  Bring me mine and steady on now.  The ship approaches.  Stand to shipmates!” he yelled across the bow of the bed.

I slipped my sword through the loop in my pants.  It dangled at my side. 

“Ready Cap’n.”  I stood beside the bed.

  “HEY! I don’t want to be standing in the sea,” I said.  “I want to be next to the mast.”

“That’s the Cap’n’s spot. Not the crews’.  You’re not in the sea. You’re standing on the gunnel.  That’s where you have to be to throw the grappling hooks.”

So I crouched along the side of the bed awaiting my chance to board the ship that was coming aport, according to Clyde.

“Ready with the grappling hooks!”

I grabbed the imaginary hooks and began to twirl the rope over my head.

“NOW!  Throw and pull!”

The weight of the hook circling my head I launched over the side.  It caught the railing and I pulled with all my heart.

The crew went over the side.  I scrambled with them.  My feet hit the deck of the prize ship.  My sword was in my hand and I tugged at it to get it free of my scabbard.  The blade was too long for my arms. I had to grasp the blade and continue pulling it upward. Hand over hand until it was free from my belt loop, uh, its scabbord.  Once free I tossed it straight up to catch the handle.

Clyde became a member of the crew of the ship to be plundered---since it was only the two of us on this adventure, we had to jump sides. 

“Avast, mitey,” he said.  “You shall die by my blade.”

“Not on your life!”  I yelled. We circled one another our swords whipping the air. 

I lunged.  He parried. He knocked my blade aside driving his steel to my midsection.  Being a squirrely youngster I dodged and hacked at this weapon.  I swiped at his thrust with overly zealous cracks of steel against steel.

“OW!” he yelped.  “Not me, you bozo.  The sword! The sword!”

“Sorry.  I won’t do it again.”  I backed off looking for an entrance to deliver the point of death.  In his moment of pain he left himself open.  My arm extended forward, my body following, shoving the tip within inches of his side.  He stepped away like a matador, the tip of my weapon grazing his shirt.

“Too close, varlet!” He moved in with a ringing of steel as he deflected my instrument of death.  He whirled around me bringing his mortal sting along my right side but reflexes dealt a swift deflection and my death once again was avoided.

Once again we circled one another.  I noticed a red welt on his arm where my sword had whacked it.  It must have hurt because he was paying more attention to that than my movements.  And there it was my chance to split his gullet.  I lunged with all my might.  His move was lightning fast.  I missed him completely.  He looked triumphant at having cheating death once more. I saw his smirk.  Then I heard the SNAP!

We both looked in the direction of the sound.  My sword had bent double in the side of the bed.  The bend was quick and bowed by the weight of my small frame, hardly enough to do harm I thought, but the snap was the sound of the blade breaking.  The first four inches of my sword lay on the floor after bouncing to a standstill.  What I held in my hand was a fencing foil slightly bent and short by those four inches. 

Clyde lost the triumphant look of escaping death.  He looked at me.  He looked at the sword and then me again.  He looked at his weapon and with a quick flip of the wrist divested himself of sword and any activity with it.  He walked away quickly to the front room and grabbed a comic book.

My days as a pirate were over.  I had broken one of my uncle’s prized possessions.  I was alone with the broken foil in hand.  And, as it happened, that was the moment my grandmother came through the back door with a bag of groceries.  Clyde was up and in the kitchen before I could say, “Hello Grandmother.”

He was out to the car and grabbing bags to bring back in.

I still had the weapon in my hand as I walked into the kitchen.

“Rickey, what have you done now?  You know your uncle doesn’t want you playing with his things.  And those are not toys.”

Clyde came through the door with a bag in each arm.  He looked at me.  His grin glinted white teeth.

“Hey, nef.  What are you doing with my brother’s fencing piece?  I told you not to touch that.”

“You see, young man.  Clyde knows not to play with those.”

“Oh, Rickey,” said Clyde through his grin.  “What did you do?  That sword is too short and where is the safety piece on the point?  You broke it, didn’t you?”

“What?” said my Grandmother, “See here, young man!  Give that to me.”

She took the blade from my hand. 

“Go sit on the couch and don’t move.  Clyde, what am I going to tell your brother.  Can’t you watch Rickey closer?  You oughten’t to let him get his hands on Charles’ things."

“I know, momma.  He was in the other room and I got caught up in my Blackhawk comic.  It won’t happen again.’

I caught the twinkle in his eye as I turned the corner into the living room. I fell on the couch. I picked up my Robin Hood Classics Illustrated Comic and dived into the world of Sherwood.

“ Maid Marian here I come to save you,” I said quietly.

Heart and soul

"I'll pick you up after," said my mother.  "Behave and listen to the teacher."
"Yes ma'am."  Another night at the church meeting with my Sunday School class.  This was more of a party atmosphere, however.  The more difficult classes had been conducted during Sunday School meetings in the mornings before church.
"Hey, Rickey," shouted my buddy.  He received a look of disapproval from one of the Bible study teachers. Yelling in the church hall was not approved.  He saw her look.  His shoulders slumped just a might along with his facial features.  "Sorry, ma'am."
"Hey, buddy," I said in a more quiet tone meeting up with him inside the door.  "What's going on tonight?"
"Well, the most difficult classes are over.  This is more an introduction to the baptismal procedures.  Teach asked me to open the folding chairs and put them in a row.  Wanna help?"
"Sure."  We approached the wall where the folded chairs were leaning.  I grabbed a couple.  With one on each side, I walked to the last opened chair and placed it beside it.
"Is everybody here?" I asked as I flipped the seat out.  Shoving it next to the one he had opened I turned to head back.
"Yeah.  Some of the girls brought friends.  They are trying to get them to attend church with us."  He grabbed two more and turned to go back.
There were several girls bunched in the corner chattering away.  Every once in a while they would look at my buddy and me and laugh.
"What do think they are laughing at?" Their laughter brought a frown to my face.
"Aah, who knows.  Probably us but, then again, something else entirely.  Like I said, who knows."  My buddy was a year older than me and so much wiser.  If he didn't know nobody could.
I continued to frown in their direction as I returned to the line of chairs folded against the wall.  My hand touched one.  My feet stopped.  My eyes became riveted to a mane of black hair with auburn highlights.  I was mesmerized by the play of the overhead lights on her luxurious locks dancing rhythmically while she talked.  She wore a pale blue sweater over an off white dress.  I was captivated by this girl who had her back to me.
"Whoa, Rickey.  You better get your eyes back in your head and carry that chair over there."
"Huh?  Oh, yeah.  Who is she?"  He was always up on the visitors to the church.
"I don't know her.  She came with Joan.  I think she goes to St Andrews."
"I'd sure like to get to know her."
"You'll have to wait til after.  We gotta get these chairs lined up."
"OK," I said picking up the chairs.  I glanced over to see her again.  She turned toward me.  It was like electricity shot through me.  I was stopped in mid stride, my mouth dropping.  She had the palest skin and the most perfect mouth of blushing red I had ever seen.  I was entranced.  She had to have noticed as her eyes, with beautiful thick lashes, glanced at me.  Then she smiled.  If I hadn't had that chair in my hand I would have oozed into the floor. As it was, I tripped over my own feet as I started back to the lined up open chairs.  She saw that clumsiness and smiled.  I smiled back and ran smack into my buddy who dropped his chair with a clatter.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I don't know.  You see  her?"
"Yeah, so what?"
"Isn't she the most wonderful girl in the world?"
"Huh.  She's alright I guess.'
"I gotta meet her."
"Alright children.  Time to take your seats."  The adults were clapping their hands for our attention.  I snapped to.  We took our seats.  The brunette was a couple of rows in front of us.  I gazed with fascination at the rich dark of her hair as she turned in my direction.  I saw a twinkle in those dark brown eyes as she smiled at me again then turned quickly to the front.  I was certain my heart's pounding was audible to everyone within a mile's radius.
"Hey, she noticed you," my buddy poked me in the side.  "Rickey's got  girlfriend."  I poked him in the ribs.  He poked me back.  Before I could gather steam for another elbow to his side...
"Alright, you in the back.  Rickey!  Settle down.  We need to get started."  I straightened up. The brunette and Joan turned to look.  They laughed receiving a stern look from our instructor.
While the teacher talked to us all, I drifted in thoughts of the future which looked so rosy in my imagined life with this girl with raven hair and alabaster skin.  I watched her and her friend as they whispered to one another glancing back at my buddy and me.  The teacher talked on and on.  When would she quit?  When would this be over?  When could I meet this dream sitting two rows ahead of me?
After what seemed a never ending speech the teacher finally said, "And that should do it.  You all know where to meet next Sunday morning to dress for the Baptismal?  Come early.  God bless you all.  You may now enjoy the refreshments in the corner."
I was up and away but she and Joan were gone.  My buddy followed me over.
"You going to get some cookies?"
"Cookies?  My future just got away from me and you're thinking about cookies?  Where'd she go?  Did you see?"
"She's over there getting cookies.  Seems she's more practical than you."  He started toward the table.
"Hey, wait!" I shouted.
He turned back to me.  "What?  I'm going for refreshments.  You come if you want or don't."
"But she's over there."  I was blushing.
"Isn't that what you want?  Just a minute ago she was your future.  If you don't talk to her she'll be in your past."
"I...I don't know what to say."
"Hello's always a good start."  He began walking again.
"Wait!"
"Look, I'm going to get a cookie before they are all gone.  I might get yours too since you don't want one.  Just head over there.  It'll be easy."
I was nailed to the floor.  My feet wouldn't move.  My face was on fire.  She glanced in my direction.  I raced for the bathroom.
Maybe I can stay in here until my mother comes to get me, I was thinking.  The door opened.  My buddy came in.
"Everybody's beginning to leave you know," he said.  "What happened?  You were so all fired up to meet that girl and now you can't even be in the same room?"
"I don't know.  I'm scared.  I don't know what to say.  I don't know how to act.  I'm a big baby."
"You are so right about that.  I talked to her.  She's really nice.  You'd like her.  Come on out.  Just say hello."
It was a battle.  The desire to meet her was there.  It was strong.  I felt another surge of the previous urgency.  I walked out into the room.  Almost everyone was gone.  She wasn't at the refreshment table.  I walked in that direction looking around.
I heard the piano before I saw her.  Tinkling across the ivories was a new tune recent to the DJ's.  "Heart and Soul" was coming loud and clear.  I looked in the direction of the black upright.  She was there, her back to me.  Her fingers were bouncing along the keyboard and the lilting tune was loud and clear.  It seemed to pull me in her direction.  I listened as I progressed across the floor.  It brought a smile to my face as I came up to her.
"That's pretty."
She stopped.  Facing me she smiled.  "Thanks.  It's the only think I know how to play."
"It's beautiful.  Maybe you should become a pianist."
She chuckled.  It was lovelier than the tune she picked out again on the keys. "I don't think so.  Can you play?"
"I used to pick out chopsticks but have forgotten how it goes."
"Oh, I know that one, too.  Let's try it together."
My two fingers and hers began to beat out the tune.  We were laughing.  Our eyes played over each other's faces as we tapped out the tune.  It was a heavenly moment.
"Lynette!" Came a voice over the piano.
She stopped.  As she turned she spoke, "I guess I have to go."
"Now?' I blurted out.
"Fraid so.  Joan's my ride home."
"But...  Will you be back?"
"I don't know.  Maybe."
"Lynette?"
"Yes?"
"I hope you do."
She smiled and turned joining her friend.
"Bye," I said watching her disappear into the night beyond the door.

At C of C many years after I ran into her again.  She was even more lovely.  She didn't remember that evening at the church.  Even so we dated for a while but that's another story.    

The cootie game

"Alright children," she said with a smile, "you can enjoy the snacks we prepared for you.  Now don't forget to memorize your Bible verses for our next meeting."
She rose from her chair.  I saw she was having a hard time of it leaning against the wall next to her.  She smiled at me and waved me toward the table in the corner covered in cookies on plates and bottles of Cocola.
"Go on, Rickey.  Join your friends.  I'll be back shortly."  She walked slowly and deliberately to the next room closing the door behind her. Turning toward the snacks I saw HER talking to my buddy.  I felt a twinge of anger at their conversation.  Jealousy was new to me.
"Save me a cookie," I said.  They were home made instead of the usual Oreos.
"I brought them in," said the most beautiful twelve year old girl in my existence.  "I helped mama bake them.  Chocolate chips.  You said you like chocolate chip cookies, didn't you Rickey?"
Blushing the words came out, "Uh huh."
"Aren't you going to have one," she asked looking at me as my mind wandered off into the future and our marital bliss to be.  "Rickey?"
"Huh?" I blurted out returning to the present.  "Oh yeah, a cookie.  You betcha.  I love chocolate chips."
Taking one I looked at my buddy who was frowning.  Was he feeling that twinge of jealousy I had felt moments ago?
"She baked them for me," I said, smugness in my face so close to his.  His eyebrows bent onto the bridge of his nose as a light steam wavered from his ears.
"I baked them for you too," she said to my buddy.  Her face was bordering on crimson.  His was lightened by a smile.  Voicelessly he mouthed the sound Nyaah in my direction.
She had returned to the table.  Replacing the tray she picked up a cup of Cocola.  A quick gulp of the cool liquid put out the fire in her face.  My buddy and I faced one another in a challenging position when the words, "Let's play spin-the-bottle," were whispered.
"We're in church!" one of the other kids said.
"So?" came the reply.  "It's just a kissing game."
Kissing?  Kissing? What was that kid talking about.  He was a couple of years older than most of us.   He'd been eyeing my girl all evening.
The other kids mulled it over.  There were four guys and four girls attending this Bible class in preparation for  baptism and communion.  We had been meeting on Sunday afternoons for about four weeks.  Two more and we would be welcomed into the baptismal pool after passing the test and Bible verse memorization.  It had been an awakening for me because I had begun to notice how pretty the girls were.  Glenda was the prettiest by far in my book.  It appeared the other boys had borrowed the same book because they all gazed at her as time allowed and at times when it didn't.  Personally, I was smitten with feelings that were completely new.
"What about cooties?" I asked immediately regretting it.
"Cooties?" She asked in mock terror.  "You think we have cooties?  It's you boys who have cooties.  What makes you think we want to get cooties from you?"  Her demand was focused on me.
"Uh....I. uh..."
"Why would we want to kiss any of you?"  She turned folding her arms across her budding chest which I noticed, really noticed, for the first time.  Heck, I didn't care about cooties all of a sudden.
"Oh, I was just kidding.  It's a kid's tale.  Cooties don't exist," I said leaning toward my buddy and whispering, "Do they?"  He looked at me like I was from outer space, a bugged eyed green interloper.
She didn't notice my eyes wavering over her introduction to puberty.  When I did, my face blazed scarlet.
"So?  What y'all wanna do?" asked the older boy.  "Wanna play or not?"  He was looking at My girl while asking.
Immediately, she answered. "Yes!"  The rest of us nodded consent.  One of the bottles from the table was placed on the floor by Mr. Sophisticate.  We all formed a circle around it.  I was worried that my nervousness was evident as I plopped down across from her.  She avoided my gaze concentrating on the older guy catty-corner from her.
"You all know how to play?"
The girls nodded yes.  The rest of us shook our heads.  Kissing?  Break the cootie barrier?  Not something that had entered our heads.  Ever!
"You guys are just kids.  Maybe you better sit it out.  I'd be happy to kiss any of these fine young women."  What a smarmy jackass.
"Well, here are the rules," he started to explain when my buddy spoke up.
"Shhh.  I think the teacher is returning."
We scrambled to our feet.  As the door opened we wandered in different directions.  Smarmy guy had the bottle behind his back.
"You children doing OK in here?"  asked the teacher who had poked her head around the half opened door.
"Yes ma'am.  We're testing each other on verse memorization," said mister bottle hider.
"Well, that's good.  I trust I can leave you alone for a while longer?"  Her face beamed with that trust.  A couple of us kids blushed as we told her yes.
"Alright, then.  I'll let you continue your practice."  She closed the door.  We listened to her footsteps recede.
With the click of the door we were sliding back into the circle.  Mr. Know-it-all was placing the bottle on the floor once again.
"Here's the rules.  One person spins this bottle.  Who ever it points too when it stops spinning has to kiss the spinner.  Now if a boy spins and it points to one of the boys he spins again.  Same for the girls if it points to a girl.  Got it?"
"Yeah," came the nervous answer.
I saw she was watching him as he spun the bottle.  It made a rasping sound as it moved on its side. He kept looking at her, licking his lips, as it spun.  It slowed, stopped and pointed at the girl next to her. She looked disappointed.  I was disturbed.
"Oh yeah, I forgot.  To kiss the two have to go into that closet for privacy."
"What!" exclaimed the girls.
"Well, yeah.  Kissing is kind of private don't you think?"  he said with a wink.
"The girl got up.  She was smiling.  I was certain she must have played this game before.  No cooties on her mind.
He smiled, took her hand and led her into the closet.  The door closed.  We looked at the clock.  We stared at the clock.  Two minutes.  I looked at my buddy.  He shrugged.  I looked at the clock.
"How long does it take to kiss a girl?" I blurted out.  She gave me a look I hadn't seen before.  Hurt? Anger?  Girls whatcha gonna do?
Finally they emerged.  Her hair was a mess and her clothes were a bit rumpled compared to her entering the closet.  His face was covered in pink lipstick.  His hair was mussed up too.  What the heck.  I thought kissing was touching lips.  Shouldn't take that long.  Maybe it was too dark in there to see.
"OK.  It's my Lady's turn now," he said handing his kissing mate the bottle.  She looked a bit dazed, placing the bottle on the floor.  With determination she spun it.  It scraped the floor as it turned.  It slowed.  It stopped in front of my buddy.  He looked at her.  She smiled at him.  He was up in a flash as she led him to the closet.
There was a noise outside.  We jumped up and mingled.  The door opened.  Our teacher poked her head in again.  She was mentally taking a head count.
Stepping into the room she pointed with her finger ticking us off.  "Five...six.  Two of you are missing."
"Yes ma'am.  Bath room break."
"Oh, OK.  I'll be back to check on you.  Your parents should be arriving soon so get ready."  Her trusting smile pulsed guilt into our hearts.  When the door shut the guilt departed and our fannies were parked in front of the bottle once again.
That had take ten minutes and the closet was still closed.
"Hey!  The rest of us want a turn."
The door opened.  My buddy appeared to have never combed his hair in his life.  His partner's eyes were glazed and she looked short of breath.  maybe cooties were for real I thought.  Looks like they might be catching something.
My buddy cleared his throat.  Looking at his partner he spun the bottle.  It stopped pointing at me.  the laugh it brought was accompanied by a louder SHHHH!
He spun it again.  It landed on....  My face turned three successive shades of crimson.  ...my girl!  I looked at him.  He smiled at me as he took her hand helping her up and into the confines of the darkness behind the closet door.
Agony set in.  I didn't know what agony was until that moment. It was only a moment though.  Behind the door was a muffled slap.  The door came open.  She ran out and sat in her spot once more.  My buddy sheepishly walked out a hand print across his face.  I turned to her.  Her head was down but I could see it was fire engine red.  I smiled.  He sat beside me.  He shrugged.
"I thought it was all part of the game."  He grinned.
She didn't.
"Kissing!  It's a game of kissing!" she spat at him.
What in the world, I wondered, had happened.
His sheepish grin returned.  "Well, you can always try."
I looked at him questioningly.  Daggers spurted from her eyes.
"Your turn," he reminded her.
Yanking it from his hand she placed it in front of her and spun it.
GLORY BE!!!  IT LANDED ON ME!!! Oh, wait.  It's a kissing game. I didn't know nothing 'bout no kissin'.  What the heck will I do?  She was standing in front of me offering her hand.  Her smile was warm and fetching.
I forgot my panic and stared into her smile. I became warm all over and became fluid of movement as I took her hand.  The warmth of it enhanced mine as I stood to walk with her into the unknown.  She looked back at me as she led me into the.. . I didn't care.  She could have led me anywhere as long as my hand was in hers.  Those eyes offered I didn't know what but I was willing.  The darkness was complete when she shut the door.  Once I couldn't see her the panic flooded in.
"Uh....I...."
"Shh," she said.  "Just relax.  It's going to be alright." I could feel the warmth of here face as she leaned into me.  Her lips touched mine.  They were soft and warm.  I wanted to dive in.  My arms went around her waste and I leaned into the embrace of ...
BAM! BAM! BAM!
"She's coming.  Hurry up."
I like this.  I don't want to leave.  As those thoughts evaporated the panic once again rose.  My stomach dropped to my toes and I pulled away.
"We gotta go!"
In the darkness I lost track of the feelings that had engulfed me. The fear of being caught became adamant.  I couldn't see it but I felt the disappointment she felt for me increase.
I flung open the door and ran to the table.  The nearest warm coke I raised to my lips and took several gulps.  She strolled out looking at me.
"Washing the cooties away?" she asked.  I could feel the derision in her voice.  "It's alright I don't have that many."
"No, I..."  The thought was never completed because the door opened.  Our teacher walked in smiling.
"Gather your things, children.  Your parents have begun to arrive."
I looked at her.  She looked at me.  Her hand touched her lips.  She aimed it in my direction palm up  and blew across it.
I turned red, grabbed my Bible and ran into the hall.  I'm sure it was laughter that followed me out.