At the insistence of my darling bride I share the following story of my first crush.
I don’t
remember when I started feeling nervous around her, but it was long before my
first memory that includes her. In that
recollection we were little kids, age five or six to my knowledge, sitting in a small, brown classroom at church suffering through another session of Sunday School. The room, I remember, had one window in it
that constantly teased me with thoughts of escape. Through it I could see piles of rocks and dirt
patiently waiting for someone to come outside and throw them around.
But on that particular
day she was in class so the pull to break free wasn’t as strong. I did not know why but I always felt confused
and anxious when she was around. When
she would talk to me the little Keebler elves who I imagined worked in my belly
would stoke small fires that sent heat radiating up through my chest and into
my face, causing my checks to burn and turn red.
That Sunday found me perched on a display table in front of class, all
dressed up in my little white shirt and tie, killing it, as usual. I remember the day in part because of my own
pride. The jokes themselves escape my
memory, all but one at least, yet I remember clearly her face looking up at me
and laughing. Giggling at what I can
assume was an on day for me.
She was
sitting with the few other students in a row of chairs that spanned our tiny
classroom. The table I sat upon provided
somewhat of a stage for what I considered to be my duty to entertain my fellow
classmates and to offer something of a relief from the endless religious
rhetoric that was heaped upon us during that hour. My audience was starved for comedy and I
provided.
Our teacher
patiently explained, “God caused darkness to cover the land.” Then sensing an opening I jumped into the
lesson yet again with a wave of my arm and an inquiry, “So if they can’t see
how do they eat?”
A quick scan
from attentive face to attentive face told me that the other children were
waiting to shower me with praise and with the laughter they struggled to keep
locked behind gaping smiles, but first needed closure; a follow up statement to
warrant their release of admiration. At
this point I realized that my desire for attention had once again outrun my
thought process and that I had accidentally stumbled into a joke without yet
knowing a punch line.
This happens
frequently so I did not panic, merely bought some more time for my brain to
think through it by opening an imaginary fridge in front of me and acting out a
blind man searching the shelves for food.
It was then I decided the only way to save the joke was to ignore the
fact that one doesn’t need sight to eat.
“I mean, are they just gnawing on their thumbs while trying to eat an
apple?”
A quick
demonstration with an invisible apple from my fridge and a sly grin to the
others let them know that my witticism was complete and that I was pausing for their
approval. They obliged with an outburst
of genuine laughs. It was then that I stole a quick glance at
her to see if she too thought my joke was a little funny and that’s when I saw
the laughing and smiling face I remember.
That bright young face that is, to this day, so easily recalled through
years of memory. Round checks, long
loosely woven curls of amber brown hair that framed her face in bubbly
girlishness, and large, shimmering brown eyes.
Volcanoes, fireworks, and fabled scout water, or maybe all three at
once, lit up inside my chest. She
thought I was funny.
To
be honest I felt somewhat panicked. I
had never felt so anxiously happy in all my young life and the feeling, while
exhilarating, was uncomfortable. But the
uneasiness that made the feeling abrasive still wasn’t enough to make me desire
it less. In fact I craved it. More than the juice box at the end of my
t-ball games, I longed for her attention and admiration. And yet, now that I had it with a simple
Sunday School joke, I didn’t know what to do with it.
My face felt
numb but I tried to hold a smile. If the
smile failed then my face would melt into an entranced stare, completely captivated
by her subdued charm. Couldn’t let that
happen. If I did then the whole class
would know I liked her and soon that information would get back to the boys at
school and before I could have a chance to explain myself I’d be labeled as a
girl-liker. Neglect a trial and without representation, I would be found guilty
of breaking the cardinal rule of kindergarten—don’t like girls. The punishment for which consisted of an irrevocable
stigma from the fellas and a standing cordon of one’s person as a cootie
barrier.
But I did
like her. And it was more than a “guys,
settle down. I only like her so she’ll give me her cookie at snack time” kind
of liked her, I mean I actually liked her. I’ll-hold-your-hand-if-you-hold-my-hand
type of liked her. And I knew it the
moment she called my name to imitate my joke.
Excitedly grabbing
a similarly imagined apple from her own invisible fridge, she pretended to
munch on both the fruit and her hand as I had done. She then took it one step farther and tried
to build upon the joke with her own addition. Playfully, she bit at her thumb
until finally pretending to have gnawed it off completely. She did a terrible job. I mean, the premise of the joke had potential,
I guess, but her execution was plain awful and no one else in the classroom
laughed except me. I even knew at the
time that her gross addition to the joke wasn’t funny. In fact it was more
revolting than anything, but her simple interaction with me caused a strange
excitement within that I could only express through unstable laughter. Our gaze held and the class ended. In a microcosm of what would later be, she smiled
and said goodbye while I tried my hardest not to care.
Now, decades
later, this simple memory brings to me laughter and nostalgia. It was the beginning spark of a childhood crush;
which affections formed the base whereupon other appreciated memories were shaped. Like the reminiscence of a middle school ball
wherein my thrilled apprehension of her held me captive till when at last she unexpectedly
asked me to dance. Or the remembrance of
how the high of that night was sent crashing to the ground when the next day I foolishly
stated to gathered schoolmates that I had done nothing of note the previous
evening. She was in the group of
students and her saddened countenance and disappointed expression punctuated my
error.
Our shared story,
if it could ever be called such, came to an end even before the commencement
of our high school years, and yet the lingering memories persist. Not in a regretful way, but rather in the
simple record of what was. As time moves on and childhood evaporates into
maturity the shell of one’s past survives entirely in memory. So while we both found the loves of our lives
in persons not each other, the recollections of the first stirrings of romance
do not fade easily from the conscious.
