Excerpts from Thumbs Up, V For Victory, I Love You
(Page 205-208)
THE INTRODUCTION OF WOMEN IN OUR LIVES
Girls were beginning to inhabit larger segments of our thinking process as we made the sloppy progression from adolescents to adults. As testimony to one of the many ways the differing qualities that exist between the sexes plays tricks on us and turns young males into miserable slobs, this is the approximate time in many a boy’s life when he finally begins to realize that the girls his age have established a significant lead on him in the puberty race – making him wonder if indeed he will ever catch up. The girls we grew up with were fast becoming young women, while most of us pitiful males were still boys – creating not only a gulf but also a level of physical and mental anguish beyond description.
Each of the four friends articulated their angst in distinctive ways: Brian fell for a sexy redhead named Kelly – who he may have known previously while attending public school. As a student at Jefferson Junior High, on weekends she earned spending money selling tickets at the Uptown Theatre. Full price to gain entrance in those days was around 50 cents – at a time when 50 cents carried some power. Brian, smitten to the core, had yet to learn the swagger and confrontation techniques he came to master a few years later – and was too timid to do more than say a few words to this scarlet-haired beauty languishing just behind the glass. But he couldn’t bear to be apart from her – so would take the ‘legal’ opportunity to purchase a ticket, stand relatively close to this creature, if only for a few moments — and then enter the theatre to see the film. Not only did Brian’s obsession mean sitting through a movie 3-4 times, (and sometimes not necessarily a film to match his 14-year old sensitivities), the cost of his ardor began to add up. After making the wise decision that stalking the young lady was out of the question, and being in essence a young gentleman, even though a besotted one, Brian eventually was forced to restrict himself to one movie a week at the Uptown, sometimes with us joining him, once he learned of the lovely Kelly’s schedule in the ticket booth and could synchronize his actions accordingly..
While attempting to deal with Brian’s love-struck and cash-draining condition, Tom and I fell for the same young woman. She had joined us in the 7th grade, moving here from Oklahoma, when her father, a physician, transferred the family to Columbia and opened a practice. Her name was Nan, and even as far back as the first year of junior high, there was a sense of something older about her – but not in the way she looked; Nan was a pleasant looking young woman with soft, warm and expressive eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones, nice figure, and a full, rather pouty mouth. It was more of an attitude, a calming, adult-like presence that drew the boys in our class to her. Admired by the other girls as well, the pheromones emanating from her body presented an almost serene, dignified, gentle and sexy bearing that made us all sit up and take notice.
Nan lived on the far southern end of West Boulevard, then one of Columbia’s southern boundaries. Tom lived only a few blocks east of her, but I had to compete from the other side of town. Dating had more or less begun in earnest, which usually meant going to a movie, a private party or a school event that featured music and dancing. Never thinking I had a real chance – since Tom was bigger, and already putting his dark Irish hair and blue eyes to good use – I had only my personality and new-found ability to converse with girls with almost the same level of ease I employed with my male friends. I did what I could to narrow the gap and, with some effort, became a competitor.
Around this time one of the first-run movies that came to town was called Ruby Gentry, and one evening I took Nan on a date to see it. The film’s stars were Jennifer Jones, a young Charlton Heston and veteran character actor Karl Malden. The theme from that motion picture, called simply “Ruby”, became a hit – an all-instrumental (harmonica with orchestral background) performed by Richard Hayman. Since music has always held a pivotal place in my life, I not only took her to that movie, but I also hummed the song (the version with lyrics had yet to be released) to her as we walked along the street after we left the theatre. I have always connected that song to Nan; and to this day, every time I hear it, I think of her.
To overcome the distance between her home and mine, I had to enlist my mother’s help. Before we left to pick Nan up, after which mother drove us downtown to the movies, or to a party, I put my bicycle in the trunk of the car. When we were six blocks or so away (about half the distance between Nan’s place and mine), Mom pulled over when I found a good spot, and I hid my bike in a place where I knew it would be safe. Then we’d pick up my special date, she and I would have our night on the town, and I would walk her home – or her parents would pick us up and return to their house. After saying goodnight, I’d trot east to the point where my trusty two-wheeler was stashed, and speed home effortlessly, without the lovely Nan ever knowing of my subterfuge.
I remember the night when I first kissed her – or maybe it would be more accurate to say when we first kissed, because I was not the one who made the first move. We had been to a party given by one of the girls in our class who lived on Nan’s side of town. It was a perfect late spring evening, and we held hands as we walked down one side of the sidewalk-less West Boulevard. When we arrived at her front door, we talked awhile (her parents often seemed strangely absent), discussing the party, and who was seemingly pairing off with whom – and then without warning, she leaned forward, put one hand on my forearm (no doubt to steady me) and placed her lips directly on mine. It was a soft and lingering kiss that seemed to go on forever. At my tender age and exquisitely virginal condition, the emotions — the sensations that coursed through me at that moment — were not only new to my limited experience, they were at once exhilarating and soothing. The sensitive touch of her lips, the warmth of her slightly parted mouth, the never-before-felt contact, the smell of her perfume (was it White Shoulders? Midnight?) the taste of her lipstick, which lubricated both our lips as her mouth moved over mine, all arrived at once, and I just stood there, allowing every impression to seep into my body — as my heart beat ever faster, in an effort to keep me upright..
Usually never at a loss for words, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I raised my left hand and touched the side of her face when she parted her lips from mine and drew slowly away – for it was now my turn. And I reciprocated, mimicking her unhurried, soft approach and tilting my head slightly to the right as I made contact -- and it felt just as good the second time. Then she hugged me, smiled, turned and went inside. Feeling light-headed, I don’t remember walking back to my waiting bicycle – or even taking the trip back home. But I remembered what happened on those steps in front of Nan’s door, savoring those moments for weeks, reliving them over and over in an attempt to keep alive all the new and delicious feelings I had been introduced to. And though we kissed several times before I lost her briefly to Tom, who then lost her to George, none of my subsequent kisses with the sweet, almost adult Nan produced a feeling as special as those first sweet touches between us on that special night.
THE INTRODUCTION OF WOMEN IN OUR LIVES
Girls were beginning to inhabit larger segments of our thinking process as we made the sloppy progression from adolescents to adults. As testimony to one of the many ways the differing qualities that exist between the sexes plays tricks on us and turns young males into miserable slobs, this is the approximate time in many a boy’s life when he finally begins to realize that the girls his age have established a significant lead on him in the puberty race – making him wonder if indeed he will ever catch up. The girls we grew up with were fast becoming young women, while most of us pitiful males were still boys – creating not only a gulf but also a level of physical and mental anguish beyond description.
Each of the four friends articulated their angst in distinctive ways: Brian fell for a sexy redhead named Kelly – who he may have known previously while attending public school. As a student at Jefferson Junior High, on weekends she earned spending money selling tickets at the Uptown Theatre. Full price to gain entrance in those days was around 50 cents – at a time when 50 cents carried some power. Brian, smitten to the core, had yet to learn the swagger and confrontation techniques he came to master a few years later – and was too timid to do more than say a few words to this scarlet-haired beauty languishing just behind the glass. But he couldn’t bear to be apart from her – so would take the ‘legal’ opportunity to purchase a ticket, stand relatively close to this creature, if only for a few moments — and then enter the theatre to see the film. Not only did Brian’s obsession mean sitting through a movie 3-4 times, (and sometimes not necessarily a film to match his 14-year old sensitivities), the cost of his ardor began to add up. After making the wise decision that stalking the young lady was out of the question, and being in essence a young gentleman, even though a besotted one, Brian eventually was forced to restrict himself to one movie a week at the Uptown, sometimes with us joining him, once he learned of the lovely Kelly’s schedule in the ticket booth and could synchronize his actions accordingly..
While attempting to deal with Brian’s love-struck and cash-draining condition, Tom and I fell for the same young woman. She had joined us in the 7th grade, moving here from Oklahoma, when her father, a physician, transferred the family to Columbia and opened a practice. Her name was Nan, and even as far back as the first year of junior high, there was a sense of something older about her – but not in the way she looked; Nan was a pleasant looking young woman with soft, warm and expressive eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones, nice figure, and a full, rather pouty mouth. It was more of an attitude, a calming, adult-like presence that drew the boys in our class to her. Admired by the other girls as well, the pheromones emanating from her body presented an almost serene, dignified, gentle and sexy bearing that made us all sit up and take notice.
Nan lived on the far southern end of West Boulevard, then one of Columbia’s southern boundaries. Tom lived only a few blocks east of her, but I had to compete from the other side of town. Dating had more or less begun in earnest, which usually meant going to a movie, a private party or a school event that featured music and dancing. Never thinking I had a real chance – since Tom was bigger, and already putting his dark Irish hair and blue eyes to good use – I had only my personality and new-found ability to converse with girls with almost the same level of ease I employed with my male friends. I did what I could to narrow the gap and, with some effort, became a competitor.
Around this time one of the first-run movies that came to town was called Ruby Gentry, and one evening I took Nan on a date to see it. The film’s stars were Jennifer Jones, a young Charlton Heston and veteran character actor Karl Malden. The theme from that motion picture, called simply “Ruby”, became a hit – an all-instrumental (harmonica with orchestral background) performed by Richard Hayman. Since music has always held a pivotal place in my life, I not only took her to that movie, but I also hummed the song (the version with lyrics had yet to be released) to her as we walked along the street after we left the theatre. I have always connected that song to Nan; and to this day, every time I hear it, I think of her.
To overcome the distance between her home and mine, I had to enlist my mother’s help. Before we left to pick Nan up, after which mother drove us downtown to the movies, or to a party, I put my bicycle in the trunk of the car. When we were six blocks or so away (about half the distance between Nan’s place and mine), Mom pulled over when I found a good spot, and I hid my bike in a place where I knew it would be safe. Then we’d pick up my special date, she and I would have our night on the town, and I would walk her home – or her parents would pick us up and return to their house. After saying goodnight, I’d trot east to the point where my trusty two-wheeler was stashed, and speed home effortlessly, without the lovely Nan ever knowing of my subterfuge.
I remember the night when I first kissed her – or maybe it would be more accurate to say when we first kissed, because I was not the one who made the first move. We had been to a party given by one of the girls in our class who lived on Nan’s side of town. It was a perfect late spring evening, and we held hands as we walked down one side of the sidewalk-less West Boulevard. When we arrived at her front door, we talked awhile (her parents often seemed strangely absent), discussing the party, and who was seemingly pairing off with whom – and then without warning, she leaned forward, put one hand on my forearm (no doubt to steady me) and placed her lips directly on mine. It was a soft and lingering kiss that seemed to go on forever. At my tender age and exquisitely virginal condition, the emotions — the sensations that coursed through me at that moment — were not only new to my limited experience, they were at once exhilarating and soothing. The sensitive touch of her lips, the warmth of her slightly parted mouth, the never-before-felt contact, the smell of her perfume (was it White Shoulders? Midnight?) the taste of her lipstick, which lubricated both our lips as her mouth moved over mine, all arrived at once, and I just stood there, allowing every impression to seep into my body — as my heart beat ever faster, in an effort to keep me upright..
Usually never at a loss for words, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I raised my left hand and touched the side of her face when she parted her lips from mine and drew slowly away – for it was now my turn. And I reciprocated, mimicking her unhurried, soft approach and tilting my head slightly to the right as I made contact -- and it felt just as good the second time. Then she hugged me, smiled, turned and went inside. Feeling light-headed, I don’t remember walking back to my waiting bicycle – or even taking the trip back home. But I remembered what happened on those steps in front of Nan’s door, savoring those moments for weeks, reliving them over and over in an attempt to keep alive all the new and delicious feelings I had been introduced to. And though we kissed several times before I lost her briefly to Tom, who then lost her to George, none of my subsequent kisses with the sweet, almost adult Nan produced a feeling as special as those first sweet touches between us on that special night.
MARCH 5, 1946
Being active elements of the College of Education, we always had student teachers, but in those early years, they did not teach – they were there to observe and to fulfill certain duties that might be of help to the primary teacher.
There was, however, one exception: Miss Clara Marksbury, who was a few years older than the underclass women we were used to seeing sitting in the back of the room. Miss Marksbury was working on her master’s degree, and was Miss Knowles’ fourth grade teaching assistant.
In March of that year, something globally memorable occurred not 30 miles from our classroom. On the fifth day of that month in that year, Winston Churchill, who had served as prime minister of England and was a close ally of the United States during World War II and to our mostly beloved and recently departed president, Franklin Roosevelt, had been invited by President Truman to speak at Westminster College in the town of Fulton, just one county east. Dignitaries representing our state, the federal government and many nations, including of course Great Britain and the United States, gathered for his speech.
Churchill was already a well-known and respected author, and because he had a way with words that could absolutely electrify and embolden an audience, he was a much-sought after orator. However, Churchill had a tendency to speak off the cuff, and until his words were publicly uttered, no one was sure what he was going to say, even if an advance copy of his speech was made available to the press. With tape recorders just coming on the market, wire recorders were still commonly in use, and several were rolling that day in an attempt to record the Prime Minister’s words. Some machines broke down, and while others may have picked up the historic words that were to come, a Columbia attorney and later judge, a friend of my Mother’s, was present and took down the entire speech, including the famous phrase, in shorthand, or so I’ve been told.
As we all now know, this was the day Churchill made what was to become known as the “Iron Curtain” speech; “From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an Iron Curtain has descended across the continent …” words Churchill uttered in description of his claim that the Russians were taking steps to control post-war Europe — most of which had only recently been liberated at the cost of millions of lives and funds to once again make the world free from tyranny. Many already feared that what had been won might be lost to the Communists, hence the now famous phrase.
Later on that same day, a Tuesday, my younger brother was born. I was very excited, in awe of the birth process, and proud that I now had a sibling I could brag about.
The next morning in class, Miss Marksbury was in charge. We were just completing a spelling test, adding new words to spiral booklets we’d been keeping the entire school year. I was very proud of my book, for I had not missed a word since the fourth grade got underway. As the test ended, and as I had once again scored 100, the excitement of the night before caught up with me.
Without warning, I threw up at my desk, and on my spelling book, literally spilling my enthusiasm out before me – for all my classmates, and worse, Miss Marksbury, to see. Quickly, she led me to the rest room, and helped clean my digested breakfast off whatever I was wearing and from my face. Then she left me alone in the bathroom.
Later, after having composed myself, and grimacing all the way, I returned to where my classmates and my cleaned, if still damp, school desk awaited me. Once back in my place I noticed my spelling book was gone! Miss Marksbury, not wanting to put up with the smell, had thrown it in the trash.
To me, that book was a trophy, a diary-like proof that I had amassed a perfect spelling record dating back to the previous September. The year was now three-quarters complete, and I was not about to be denied my treasure. So later that day, digging through the trash, I found the soiled document, cleaned off the offending page as best I could, and returned it triumphantly, if still somewhat odorous, to my book bag. There may have been some telltale adult sniffing of the air in the months to come, but if there was, I looked the other way, and managed to hold on to my prize.
(From pages 119-121)
NORMAN (DAVID) AND RONNIE (GOLIATH)
The first real bully to cause problems in my life was Ronnie. And to make matters worse, he and his family lived next door to us on Fifth, in my father’s rental property. The oldest of four, he was twice as big and about six months older than me, but in the same grade, even though we attended different schools. His harassment was more of a territorial thing than actual combat; he would draw a line in what stood for sand, and dared me to cross, knowing that much of what I desired at the time was always on his side of the line. On one occasion, as he was dosing out his special brand of annoyance, which on that day was more aggressive than usual, after throwing an evil eye my way, explaining how I would be put at serious physical risk should I cross his new (for this day) line, he turned and began trotting back to his own house. Always a pretty good baseball player, and fairly accurate with my throws, and with revenge seething through me – at that very moment, I looked down and found lying at my feet a rock, smooth on the edges and about half the size of a regulation baseball. David-like, I picked up the rock, and looked up, squinting in the midday sun, as Ronnie, my Goliath, with his back to me, was amblin’ home.
Without aiming, in a state of high angst and not thinking of the damage I might cause, I threw that rock at Ronnie. In what seemed to be a silent slow motion film clip, I could then (as now) see the rock, streaming slowly in an arc through the air, spinning slightly, reaching Ronnie, in mid-trot about 50 feet away, and thumping him, with some authority, squarely in the middle of his back. All action ceased: Ronnie, with arm turned behind him, searching for, and then caressing with the flat of his hand the wound I had just inflicted, wheeled immediately to face me – his face flushed with anger, pain and alarm. Frozen in place, I remained standing in the spot where I had made my accurate throw. But in the next instant, sound and movement returned, the slow motion ended, and Ronnie charged. As he did, I moved left, cleared all three of our front porch stairs in one jump, slipping deftly through our front door, locking it after I was safely inside. Ronnie arrived an instant later and, after skidding across the painted concrete porch floor, and with labored breath, told me straight to my face through the screen, spittle oozing down his chin and tears in his eyes, that he would make me pay dearly for what I had done. Still somewhat traumatized, but inwardly thrilled, I remained motionless behind my barricade, with any reaction I might have wanted to make bottled up in my head. Finally, Ronnie turned and left – and when we met up the next day, he was actually nice. From that moment forward, we remained fairly close friends, as long as I could keep him out in the open, and he could steer me away from objects that could be used in a way that might inflict pain and suffering upon him.
The last I heard, Ron (no longer Ronnie) lives in Dallas, and is a grandfather many times over. Norm (no longer Norman) sends his greetings.
NORMAN (DAVID) AND RONNIE (GOLIATH)
The first real bully to cause problems in my life was Ronnie. And to make matters worse, he and his family lived next door to us on Fifth, in my father’s rental property. The oldest of four, he was twice as big and about six months older than me, but in the same grade, even though we attended different schools. His harassment was more of a territorial thing than actual combat; he would draw a line in what stood for sand, and dared me to cross, knowing that much of what I desired at the time was always on his side of the line. On one occasion, as he was dosing out his special brand of annoyance, which on that day was more aggressive than usual, after throwing an evil eye my way, explaining how I would be put at serious physical risk should I cross his new (for this day) line, he turned and began trotting back to his own house. Always a pretty good baseball player, and fairly accurate with my throws, and with revenge seething through me – at that very moment, I looked down and found lying at my feet a rock, smooth on the edges and about half the size of a regulation baseball. David-like, I picked up the rock, and looked up, squinting in the midday sun, as Ronnie, my Goliath, with his back to me, was amblin’ home.
Without aiming, in a state of high angst and not thinking of the damage I might cause, I threw that rock at Ronnie. In what seemed to be a silent slow motion film clip, I could then (as now) see the rock, streaming slowly in an arc through the air, spinning slightly, reaching Ronnie, in mid-trot about 50 feet away, and thumping him, with some authority, squarely in the middle of his back. All action ceased: Ronnie, with arm turned behind him, searching for, and then caressing with the flat of his hand the wound I had just inflicted, wheeled immediately to face me – his face flushed with anger, pain and alarm. Frozen in place, I remained standing in the spot where I had made my accurate throw. But in the next instant, sound and movement returned, the slow motion ended, and Ronnie charged. As he did, I moved left, cleared all three of our front porch stairs in one jump, slipping deftly through our front door, locking it after I was safely inside. Ronnie arrived an instant later and, after skidding across the painted concrete porch floor, and with labored breath, told me straight to my face through the screen, spittle oozing down his chin and tears in his eyes, that he would make me pay dearly for what I had done. Still somewhat traumatized, but inwardly thrilled, I remained motionless behind my barricade, with any reaction I might have wanted to make bottled up in my head. Finally, Ronnie turned and left – and when we met up the next day, he was actually nice. From that moment forward, we remained fairly close friends, as long as I could keep him out in the open, and he could steer me away from objects that could be used in a way that might inflict pain and suffering upon him.
The last I heard, Ron (no longer Ronnie) lives in Dallas, and is a grandfather many times over. Norm (no longer Norman) sends his greetings.
