My first
great love was LeRoy Nutting, son of the high school principal. We met in what today would be called Junior
High, in eighth grade. He had a
flat-top, a short haircut that was combed with wax to stand straight up on top.
It was popular in 1955. He was awesome at playing the piano, all kinds of
music, from Broadway tunes to Boogie-Woogie.
Since it was puppy love, there was no "hanky-panky." I think the most we did for several months
was to hold hands in the movies. Then at
Christmas time, Karen, a classmate, invited the class to her house for a party
with food and dancing. We didn’t know
much about dancing, but we could hold on to each other and move our feet a
bit.
After the
party got going, someone turned the lights out so only the Christmas tree
lights with their red, blue, yellow and green glowed, while slow music was put
on the record player. LeRoy held me in his arms, my cheek against his. The room was quite warm, and the thrill of
being close added to that heat.
Everything went into slow motion as we swayed to the sounds of Secret
Love by Doris Day. I wanted to kiss him
and he wanted to kiss me, but we were afraid. Then, in a brief moment, as quick as a
butterfly landing on a flower, he brushed his lips over mine. Chills ran down
my spine.
As the
school year went on, LeRoy developed all kinds of friends, and some of them
were other girls. One day I was feeling
particularly jealous, angry and desolate as he spent a lot of time with one of
them. After school I went up to my room under
the eves, and wondered if there might be some solace in Proverbs. I had a
little white Bible with my name in gold on the cover. I opened and began reading, and for the first
time I felt like God spoke to me. It was
about love, and when love is not returned, how it hurts. I learned later that the time LeRoy spent with the
other girl was for a project they had been given by our teacher, and all was
well again.
I don’t remember being surprised that the
scripture spoke to my heart at that time, but I’m impressed that I turned to
scripture when my first romantic stirrings were disturbed, impressed that such a young person would think to find life and comfort in words written so long ago. Many years later I learned to read scriptures
as God’s love letter to me, and would find further deep comfort and wisdom at
just the right moment.
While I was practicing being in love, my parents
who couldn’t get away from the family business for vacations, suddenly
announced they had bought a cabin at Lake Tahoe
for back taxes. We went up to investigate.
There was a small kitchen cabin just big enough for a wood stove, small
table with chairs and some shelving. In
front of the cabin was a hand pump to get our water, and way out back, the necessary shed which
we avoided as long as possible. Next to
the kitchen, was a large, square cabin with a round, black iron fireplace in the
middle. Beds were arranged around the
knotty pine walls, and if it hadn't been cold most of the time, it would have felt like home. When it was time to wash dishes, one of us
would pump the water into a large dishpan and put in on the wood stove to
heat. It was a kind of deluxe camping
out. I wasn’t much interested, though,
unless my friends could come along.
Sometime
that year, LeRoy and I were at a football game.
I was a cheerleader, and we were shouting and stirring up the crowd for
our team, the Cubs. From somewhere, the
news fanned out over those gathered.
Paul Aldax, a classmate and good friend, had been shot in a hunting
accident by another student. This was
death’s first close touch, and I was nauseated with alarm, tears running down
my face. The whole crowd got quiet. We
left the game that night shaken by the terrible news.
School was
let out for the funeral which was held at St. Gall’s. I’d never been in a Catholic church, and even
though I was welcome that day with the rest of my class, I felt like I’d come
into another world and didn’t quite belong. The ceiling was painted a wondrous
blue and there were symbols I didn’t understand. It was both inspiring and intimidating.
For days I
was heavy hearted, quiet inside and tearful.
I couldn’t get my mind around the fact that one day Paul was alive and
full of life and the next, totally gone. My faith did not include the possibility of an ongoing mystical kind of life.
It was too much to take in. Then
there was the other part of the tragedy.
The school cook’s son was the one who had shot him
accidentally. The cook was Our Sunday
School Superintendent, and I loved and respected her. There was no room in my soul to be with this
kind of tragedy, and there was no help from the adults in my life. There in my cocoon, in a quiet kind of way, I
tried to contain feeling alone, lost, sad, confused and horrified. Withdrawn and hunkered down, I didn't even think of my little white bible.
This was an
initiation of sorts, and I needed what anthropologists call a “ritual elder,”
someone who has the wisdom to share with someone younger, to help them
understand life, so they can stand up to life’s hardships without being
permanently wounded. I also needed help finding that sacred space within where
Creative Love could work transformation. Although I didn’t have this support
then, I would learn to seek it out. What would life be like if parents understood and could perform this role?
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