First Date, A Casual Affair

I can see the breezy dome of groves,

      The shadows of Deering's Woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves

Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves

      In quiet neighborhoods.

            And the verse of that sweet old song,

            It flutters and murmurs still:

      "A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

                                              Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

                                                                My Lost Youth

Camp Hill schools utilized a unique scoring system to reflect the performance of its students, eschewing conventional letter grades for corresponding numbers, where 5 equaled an A grade, 4 a B, right on down to a failing F being a 1.  My grades were mediocre and I was known throughout my scholastic tenure by parents, teachers, and guidance counselors alike, as “an underachiever.”  I was an inquisitive child, but my interests pointed toward subjects that got short shrift in school, such as natural history, sports, and television.  The last-named was particularly beguiling.  My rapt and enduring attention to the medium funded me with a deep and persistent grasp of theme song lyrics, advertiser jingles, and trivial knowledge-nuggets that have served me well when need arises to be insufferable in social situations.  I can, for instance, name the entire cast, in order, of “Leave It To Beaver.” Ok, many can… but I can also recite, with no hesitation or flaw, as well as the original announcer on TV, the efficacy statement pertaining to Crest toothpaste. I’ll spare you, dear reader, but please know that you would be impressed. 

 I matriculated from the motherly, loving Dusty D., my first grade teacher, to the young, quite comely, and far more severe, Miss Henry.  It could be said of Miss Henry that she did not suffer fools gladly.  My behavior was often quite foolish and, occasionally, by her judgment, a bit odd. To whit:  It was customary for each child to bring a snack to consume during the mid-morning break, a twenty minute respite, called “recess”.  This label applied to both the break and the snack.  Two statements were both reasonable in second-grade parlance, “I can’t wait for recess,” referring to the break, and, “He stole my recess!” referring to the snack.  While most children brought something along the lines of a cookie and a carton of milk, my culinary preferences lay elsewhere.  I had little taste for sweets.  

On one rainy day that kept us confined indoors, we quietly consumed our recess at our desks.  Miss Henry didn’t partake herself, but roamed between rows of desks making quiet comments to various children.  When she reached my desk she froze and peered down in stupefied amazement, “What are you eating!?”  Upon my desk, on a sheet of crinkled wax paper, lay a chunk of Swiss cheese, the heel of a baguette, and a four-inch length of pepperoni.  Miss Henry knelt down, placed her elbows on my desk, and gazed at me, eyes full of wonder.  Her focus alternated, first directed at my curious meal, then up to my masticating face.  She fixed me with the most beautiful, open-mouthed smile I had ever beheld.  She remained for some time, mesmerized, uttering small whimpers of incredulity, slowly shaking her head.   I sat impassively, noshing my repast, dazzled by her smile, and bewildered by her amazement - this is what we ate at my house.  

Others of my idiosyncrasies  were not met with the same bemused enchantment.  I had discovered by now that I could glean some admiration and considerable cache in the regard of my classmates by ejaculation of snarky quips and demonstrations of pantomime during otherwise dull moments, while Miss Henry was demanding our focus elsewhere.  I became proficient at throwing figurative orange cones into the well-ordered traffic of her daily agenda.  The result:  at the conclusion of the second marking period my report card featured a “2” under the category of “Citizenship”.  Elsewhere on the card, in a section for comments specific to each pupil, Miss Henry made the assertion that Michael was wanting in his capacity to “Exercise self control.”  

Report cards were handed out periodically, taken home, signed by a parent, and returned.  This was the first of several report cards, spanning over a decade, that required a tactical approach as I endeavored to obtain the required signature while minimizing unpleasant repercussions.  I assiduously reported disappointing news to my mother when my father was absent, usually on the morning of the day report cards were due back, just before I headed out the door.  Experience would teach me in years to come to prepare excuses well ahead, but this was my first rodeo, so extemporaneous inventiveness was required. The result was clumsy, lacking in creativity and panache.  Mom immediately homed in on that Citizenship grade and wasted no time in registering vehement disappointment.  With no defense prepared, I simply blurted out that I hated Miss Henry and characterized her to my mother as, “a witch!” She, of course, was having none of it.  I was also betrayed by my own heart, which failed to rise to the passion necessary for a really convincing performance, because, at the very same time, I harbored a deep and abiding crush on Miss Henry.  She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

This infatuation had no outlet until, one afternoon, luck came my way.  Once again, the laissez faire norms of the day that bestowed inordinate freedoms, was my benefactor.  It was not uncommon for my mother, who was a busy gadabout, on the morning of a fraught day, to stuff a dollar or two into my hand with the declaration that I could eat lunch out that day.  My dining choices were two:  Rea & Derrick Drug Store at the center of town on Market Street or the Dutch Pantry also on Market, but at the peripheral intersection with 32nd Street (the so-called “bypass”).  Either was readily accessible via backyard shortcuts and strategic use of byways when morning session let out at 11:30am.  I had just enough time to eat lunch and return before the 12:30pm bell.  At Rea & Derrick’s I climbed up on a stool at the counter and barked out my order, typically a cheeseburger or a hot dog, french fries, and a chocolate or cherry coke.  While awaiting the arrival of my food I’d swivel from side to side on the stool holding one hand, palm up, against the undersurface of the counter.  The sensation on my palm, moving across myriad lumps of petrified chewing gum thoughtfully affixed by previous patrons, fascinated my tactile cortex and passed the time agreeably. 

My second option was the higher class Dutch Pantry where counterbottoms were devoid of gum bumps.  It was on one such foray when I was seated at the counter of the Dutch Pantry, that Miss Henry and a couple other teachers entered and seated themselves at a nearby booth.  Removing her coat she glanced around, caught sight of me, and her jaw dropped in amazement.  Immediately she jumped from her seat and approached, “Are you here by yourself!?”

“Quite so… won’t you join me?  Please, sit down, may I buy you a drink?”  

Reluctantly, with a slight frown, she glanced at her table of friends, turned back to me, and replied, “I’m sorry, I would love to...”, regret evident in her tone.  “I must rejoin my party… perhaps another time?” she offered, her voice entering a higher register.   

I fixed her with an understanding gaze and sympathetic smile, “That would be lovely,”  She returned the smile, our eyes locked for a moment, and then Miss Henry returned to her retinue.  

Of course, almost none of the foregoing exchange is accurate beyond one or two cogent points.  Miss Henry and cohorts did, indeed, enter the DP and seat themselves in my vicinity.  She did spot me, reflect amazement, and approach my seat.  Whatever clumsy, embarrassed remarks I rendered are lost to memory, but one assertion was valid:  Miss Henry declared that she and I must have lunch here some day!  

I wasted no time in fixing a date and procuring the necessary funding from my mother, who acquiesced without reservation and declared that I must not only pay for my own lunch, but Miss Henry’s as well.  Then, without ceremony, she handed over a fucking ten dollar bill!  I was astonished.  My mother read my face and admonished me, “Don’t lose it!”

Which, of course, I did.  On the morning of the scheduled date I rollicked with other children on the playground until the bell rang, then made my way to the classroom.  Heading to my desk I reached into my pocket to assure myself of the safety of my booty … and found only fragments of lint.

Horrified, I choked.  Rushing to the front of the room, I could hardly get out the words to Miss Henry, “I lost my money!”  Arms folded, she looked down at me with an expression of utter disappointment.  Was she devastated at the prospect of a broken date with the boy of her dreams?  Was I, like so many before me, just one more male disappointment?  Was the ethereal vision of a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke, anticipated and savored for days, suddenly flitting away like so many other lost dreams in Miss Henry’s tragic life prior to my appearance?  Or... was I just, once again, a pain in the ass?   

As if on cue, a girl from one of the upper grades appeared in the doorway of our room and asked out loud, “Has anyone lost a ten dollar bill?” holding my salvation aloft for all to see.  I looked up at Miss Henry who declared slowly, flatly, and unsmiling, “You are the luckiest boy I have ever seen.” 

It was only the one date, Miss Henry and I, a relaxed affair.  No need to run my usual, frantic route to get to the eatery - she chauffeured us, which allowed time to tarry over drinks, my cherry Coke, her iced tea.  I ordered the hot dog on a buttered, toasted bun, which the Dutch Pantry always did exceptionally well.  Miss H. got a fancy sandwich cut in quarters, each skewered by a frilly toothpick.  She ate a bit and took the rest with her.  I don’t recall the conversation or how we left things. We both knew it couldn’t work.  Some might question our age difference, but that wasn’t the real issue.  I needed someone spontaneous, impulsive, and given to jest.  Miss Henry wanted a guy who exercised self control.