First dates, cigarettes, and the Bayou.....A little Love Story reincarnated from the Archives for Valentines!

We talked for hours every night. Him, hot and sweaty, just home from football practice, Me, not yet 14, not yet a wild child. I sat Indian style, wringing, twirling the curly que Princess phone cord in my left hand, receiver tucked between my ear and left shoulder, until hours later it left hickies on my ear. With my right hand, I scribbled “I love yous” on sheet after sheet of blue lined notebook paper. He told stupid stories, and stupid jokes, and had the body of a man. Even at 13, I could see that. He was the Captain of the Catholic High School Football team. I was a not-even-Catholic cheerleader at the St. Michaels of the…..(I really can’t remember of what!)

We met at the School Fair. The first time. I was working the GO FISH booth and he was spending dimes and tossing lines. The second time was at our football game. I saw him in the stands. Three rows above the Nuns. Laughing. We looked good. In our Christmas green uniforms, hemmed to 4 inches above the knee (Catholic regulation) with the little green bloomers just beneath. But this time we had a punch line. A surprise. We had choreographed it ourselves. Come up with a little twist. (With a little help from MY Mom!)

“Choo-choo. Bang-bang. Got’s to get that boomerang. Ungowa. Great power. Hit em to the west. Hit em in the chest......
GO
W A R R I O R S !
And we spun and fanny faced the bleachers, flipping corduory skirts to the sky, spelling our our team’s name in bold yellow letters on 8 teenage rumps! W A R R I O R S !

The crowd went wild. Mother Moriarity went crimson. Eight cheerleaders got suspended. My Mom was retired from being our Coach. He called me that night.

I went to his games. He went to ours. And in early December he asked me to THE DANCE. The High School Christmas Dance. A car date. My Mom had to talk to his Mom, I was mortified, he laughed. And we were on! My first date. A double date! To the Garden Center for a semi-formal. Pictures at my house beforehand. Home by midnight. My entire 8th grade class was in awe, envy, on the edge of their couch....waiting for "the scoop".

I forgot to mention that going to Catholic school when you are not Catholic is expensive. We were broke. "Not poor, just broke". I don't know how we got in the doors, a friend of a friend of the family's, but we were there. And so it comes as no surprise, that at 13 almost 14 I had no idea what SEMI-formal meant or no means to dress the part. My Mom was sure it meant formal, but short. I thought it meant really short. (I later found out it meant, the girls wear formals,long flowing beautiful formals and BIG HAIR, the boys shirt and ties!)

Having no money, but not much need...I was already a hippie spirit and didn't want or need a hairdoo, thank you, I was going in my Peggy Lipton straights! But hello, world, I did need a dress! We bummed a prom dress from my Mom's friend's daughter, already married and busting with her first, surely she wouldn't need it again, and proceeded to lay it out on the dining room table and FIX it! First, we chopped, literally, about 3 feet of fabric off the bottom, and another foot off the top, and then we put it back together. The puffy sleeves were swiped and it was now skimpy to show off my December (we didn't yet know it was dangerous to live at the beach) tan. The little pink cinderalla dress was now an Empire waisted lace Micro mini. I threw on some pantyhose , slipped my size 7 feet into a pair of borrowed size 8 bridesmaid slippers spraypainted to match, stuffed the toes with TP, and took a twirl. I can do this!

I had never felt so beautiful!

My parents drank cocktails, dark ones, while I dressed. My Father paced and Mom babbled on, often peeping through the venetian blinds for his arrival. The doorbell rang and there he was! My first date!

We posed for pictures, smiling up and down. Giddy to go. (We never told him there was no film in the camera...God, I wish we had those pictures, but there was no money for things like that! ) Still, my Mom thought we should go through the motions...posing and smiling and later, anticipating the film coming back! At least he had that anticipation, I was already practiced in the parade! Kodak moments are best kept in the heart!

And then, we were off! In a car! Flying down Davis Highway with the windows open and the music on. Less than 1/2 a mile from my house, they( My first date, his best friend, and the gorgeous brunette in the totally formal gown, rhinestone earrings m make-up and BIG HAIR) opened the wine , lit the cigarettes, cranked the music and started the party! I was mortified.

Being 13, not yet 14, and all.

The dance is a blur. I loved the band, they could care less. I wanted to dance. He wanted to make out. I wanted to dance. He wanted to step outside and smoke. I wanted to dance. He wanted to drink. I wanted to stay. They wanted to leave.

And we did leave. Spinning tires. Music blasting. We exited in style. Leaving behind the last dance, the one I had been dreaming of, to the girls with dreams that came true. And made a bee line for my house. Or so I thought.

I saw the familiar glow of the dock lights at the Bayou and finally, rested my head on his shoulder. We're almost home. He'll kiss me goodnight. My first kiss. And I'll spend all day tomorrow on the phone! But the car slowed, and the headlights dimmed and I could hear the tires on the cold coquina of the shore. We were "parking".

I heard the key in the ignition clicking off. The music stopped. No one said a word.

But me.

"I wanna go home"

"Let's take her home" he said. "She's only thirteen"
And they did.

No first kiss.

And we never spoke again.

Until he followed me to the airport years later.

When I landed safely back home, 450 miles later, he was still at the airport, calling from the payphone...
and I was still dancing.


Timing isn't everything. And then again, sometimes it is.

Tent City

It's quiet now. Finally. Five o'clock in the morning and I'm on my third cup of coffee. Tiptoeing, as quietly as one can dragging a concrete block on the other foot, through the house. I'm letting "them" sleep. The manchild and his friend.

In my little corner of the world, piled up under heavy quilts and wrapped in cat tails, puppy breaths, and interupted dreams, I listened as they lived. Cell phones humming, purring, rapping. Channels flicking. A cough every now and then. Heavy feet down the hall. Engines louder then softer again somewhere outside.

My son is home again.

And this house, these walls, this gate that swings open and never shuts behind you, is The Motel Six for wayward boys once again.

In the wee, wee hours, he wakes me up. Quietly, whispering love letters into my ear. "Ma, Ma.....is it o.k. if A.J. camps out here? He got thrown out of his house again....."

"mmmmmmmmm" "yes, son" I whisper to nothing.

He's already turned and taken 6 foot tall steps back down the hall.

He knows.

And we all fall down......

We really did go to the beach, I swear. We just spent a lot of time at the Tiki Bar. I mean, they put it right there. We had to trip over it to get to the ocean! So as soon as we emptied the cars, hurling stuff through the motel room doors, we trapsed our little fannies down to the bar and parked it there. "Woo, hoo! We're at the beach"!

The deck teeters over the edge of a steep dune, haphazardly reconstructed by the hurricanes, and the wind howls through the railings at night, making the tarps billow, the ceiling fans sway, and the bartender's tips, if not scooped up right away, blow to the next lucky recipient. Dollar bills scurry across the splintered planks like tiny runaway rodents and float like lost kites in the sky. Little kids, whose parents, hours ago trusted them to the sandbox, chase them in the neon night.

And so we danced. In the sprinkler mist piped in like Musac from the Tiki Bar roof. Barefooted with beers in our hands. Over and over again. We danced with each other, with strangers, with lovers, and hubbies. We danced with other peoples hubbie's, bikers, and the boys from The Brotherhood of Death (you know who you are.....precious skin headed just-turned-21 friends) We danced til one of us had splinters in her toes and one landed on her rump, feet to the sky. We danced until I fell off of a perfectly good chair, cracking a rib, and got up to do it again. (Kind of like when the music stops, the safety bar rises and you have to exit the Tilt-a-Twirl and walk on perfectly flat earth again....Just another day at The Fair!)

We danced until we were silly......

Enough to do other silly things... To roll down the dunes, into high tide, biting the sand straight from the ocean's lips. To give out our email addresses to people we wouldn't give our names to.

Sometimes you have to runaway.
To do what you really want to do.
To heal.
To find the reason.

June 18th, 2007.....
Report from the "he's so handsome" Doctor......

What have you been doing, Kim?
You went to the beach?"

yeah, I did.
And oh, yeah, I drank beer.....

Come here and give me a hug.

and then go do it again....

You're in remission!


Feel the Love......

Wild horses and other love songs

The very first ever kiss. A 5th grade feather on the cheek. Double-eye winking, looking away. Feathers falling everywhere. Down our arms, down our legs, in a heap on the dusty playground. I laugh and run. Gangly arms doing the breast-stroke in the lunchtime wind, running faster….toward the girls….away from Ronnie-freckled-McCartney.

Eskimo kisses. My father’s broad Indian nose touching mine. His black eyes, small and shining, locking mine. He lifts me up into the air, nose to nose and I flail...kick my skinny legs in every direction, giant Ked sneakers banging his shins, and shriek in laughter. Eskimo kisses on a hot summer night.

At the Bayou….I’m in the eighth grade and I’m not allowed. My Father said so. I’m all dressed up in borrowed shoes and a chopped up make-shift dream-come-true dress and he scooches in closer and kisses me hard. I love it. “Take me home” I obediently mutter ….. It’s midnight, now…..

“Have you ever been French kissed before?”
“Yesssssss” I whisper, eyes closed …….
“Oh my God, this is it” my heart screams…….

Chubby little cheese curl toes. I touch them. Marvel at their perfect imperfections. Smooch! I pucker up and kiss the little pink soles hard. “You’ll never ever be too old for Mama to love you”…….

Grimy glass covered in hand swipes, nose prints. Snot. Standing like a barbed wire fence between us. They lift the steps up and the engines roar. I search frantically for his face in the little oval windows. I kiss my own fingers and lift them up… blow. Praying he sees me. Praying it reaches him. Praying for an end to war…..

I’m next to her now. Trying hard to breath in rhythm. Counting in between her sudden gasps for air, for life.
1, a million, 2, a million, 3, a million……15, a million, 16.…….
I don’t want to stop her going. I don’t want to save her now. I want nothing more than peace so I’m trying to be very, very quiet. We’re breathing in labored sync. I can’t stand it. Roll over and kiss her fragile little forehead, “it’s okay. You can go now”…..
And we start again…..
1, a million….2, a million, 3.…..
“I’ve loved you for a million years”……. My sweet, sweet, Nadine…….

My hands cupped around his sweaty block-head. Holding on. Grasping at the real live HIM! I squeeze. Lean in and kiss him, Italian style, on both cheeks. Muah! Muah! My fingers, shaking, trace his nose,His I-just-recently-could-grow-this-stuff chin. My son. Free. I hold on to him for dear life.

Floating in the lazy round river. It’s hot and his eyes are blue. Then teal and green and yellow… an endless ocean… frothy beer suds on laughing waves.
Without ever touching…..without ever letting go…….

The kiss goes on and on….

Riding with Roaches

Mine was teal green. And I can tell you right now that is not cool to drive, at 16, a car that rolled off the assembly line the same year you were born. Ask any 16 year old. But she was mine. For $750.00 ( 250 for the running engine and about 500 for the fact that sometime in the future, if she lived long enough, she would be collectible) And God, I loved her! And she must have loved me because she sure got me home from a lot of places I should have never gone....

We've all ridden with roaches. And I had a few in this little baby, too. The floorboards eventually rusted out from 3 summers at the beach, sandy little barefeet grinding through the carpet the first year, the liner the second year, and finally just toes dangling through the highway hatch the third. This was a WELCOME sign to all things big and small. Ants paraded in for drive-way feasts on leftover fries embedded in the seats. Roaches visited (not so much for the McDonalds, I don't think) as to lay in hiding, riding....waiting for the perfect moment to scurry up a skinney little leg.

And then there were the real roaches, the creeps, parked next to you on the seat.

I was seventeen when I met Todd Ringling. He wore John Lennon glasses and long dirty hair,

one of five brothers. Stairstep siblings with a lot in common: Ponytales, bell bottomed jeans, and a penchant for skinny blondes.

I met him on the first day of school, in the commons. He was lounging, back against the wall, blowing smoke rings to the sky. Slowly watching them rise and disappear.

I saw him again on the way to Peace Creek, bounding down the long dirt drive, in his beat up Cadillac with the eight track blasting Eric Clapton. I was walking. The mile or more from the highway where I had been dropped off. Walking with the masses who didn't own trucks big enough to plow through this swamp land or brave enough to drive into what would surely be the place of no return. (You see, we borrowed Peace Creek, from a farmer who no longer farmed. And odds were at any given time, blue lights would come bounding down that same dirt drive. ) Anyone who drove to the bonfire would be checking into the Hotel California if the blues showed up. The rest of us, well, we'd go flying in a thousand directions, with the wind, barefoot and wild through the swamp, laughing and stumbling, reaching the blacktop eventually. But in any case, there he was bumping down the dusty road, the first to reach the party.

It was that night, dancing in circles around the bonfire that he asked me out. It was that night that Million, my best guy friend, told me flat out "Don't go". "I'm tellin' ya right now, don't go".

The next Friday night I went.

Riding with roaches.

We were flying down the two lane road, kissing the dotted line at speeds that tested fate when he jerked the wheel to the right and sent us flying airborn into ....I'm dying now, I know it.....a cow field. YUP. An endless cowfield. The headlights bobbed into an enternity of wheat colored grass, the moonlight miles ahead. And he kept driving. And laughing. I'm pretty sure parts of the Cadillac were bouncing off. I could hear Million's voice, like a fly, buzzing at the back of my neck. "Don't go". And then the engine died.

"We're out of gas" he muttered. More to his feet than to me. Are you kidding me? I turn around peering towards the past, there is a highway back there somewhere, please, tell me it is still there. And I can see nothing. An eternity of wheat colored grass, in reverse.

That's when he grabbed me. The big first kiss. "Oh no, you little creep, I'm not falling for this" "Crank this puppy up and get me out of here or I'm....I'm....I'm walking"

I slammed the Caddy door. More parts donated to cowpaddy heaven. Take a deep breath girl. Start walking. 20 feet, 30 feet, 40 feet into the blackness. He'll crank it any second, turn around and pick me up, take me home.

Vrrrrroooooom. The purr of the engine cranking. Clunk. He shifted into gear. I sigh with relief. But I don't turn around. Won't give him the satisfaction.

And he didn't turn around either. I listened as the night gobbled up the humming of his motor. As he disappeared.

I can't see the highway from here. Things are biting my legs, touching my legs, crawling all over me. Where is the moon? That's the wrong way. Don't take your eyes off straight ahead. Walk. I hear things. Noises. I see things. Creepy things. orbs. No, it's lights. Flicking on and off like an SOS signal. Help! No, hide. I don't know what to do and then it's headlights, aimed right at me, gunning me down. I fall. My face touches the cold wet earth. I'm eating dirt now.And God knows what else. And there is heat. An engine. Idling beside me. Headlights glaring past me now, staring into the path of trodden grass Todd had paved.

"Get in". I fell into the seat.

Million slowly turned the van around, pushed play, and didn't say another word.

Volume two, track one, The Eagles Greatest Hits purred as we U turned.

Sometimes we have to walk. Away. Bang a U-turn in life. And sometimes, when we least expect it, going back, into the welcome arms of what was waiting for us along, (We just couldn't see it) is where we belong.