FRIDAY MUSINGS: WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

What does it mean when you remember so vividly something that happened more than sixty years ago? Especially when it was something that was almost an isolated incident? Here’s the story—judge for yourself.

It was Mrs. William’s fourth-grade class at Orchard Dale Elementary in East Whittier, CA. I was a smart kid, my intellectual potential just rearing its curious head. I had not yet demonstrated my mathematical and scientific prowess, so I amused myself with other interests.

One of those interests was playing snare drum in the district elementary orchestra, something regretfully limited to that one year. Every week, I got up in the middle of class and lugged my snare drum to the bus stop for the trip to another school for orchestra rehearsals, returning to class afterward. This is important for what happened on my way out of the classroom.

I was shy—no, I was PAINFULLY shy. I had no sisters and spent a lot of time by myself, so I never learned the talking-to-girls thing. I was intelligent but so terribly ignorant of romantic matters.  Stoic was how most people thought of me well past high school. It didn’t keep me from admiring cute young ladies—from afar, of course. At least most of the time.

That particular day, I remember how nervous I was. There was one adorable and popular girl I admired more than the rest. I can still see Betty in her red and blue plaid dress with a white Peter Pan collar and white cuffs, with her shiny brown hair in her perennial pageboy hairstyle. I thought she was the prettiest girl in the class, if not the whole school.

Going steady was a huge deal in our elementary school social world. Of course, there were rules to follow. The requisite symbol of such a relationship was a man’s stainless signet ring, available at any dime store. The girl wore it not on her finger but a silver chain around her neck. It was as symbolic as any engagement ring, if not nearly as enduring.

I barely knew the rules. I had never ventured into these deep social waters ever. So, I bought the required ring but failed to realize that the girl was supposed to supply the chain.

That fateful day, I gathered up my drum gear, along with my courage, and headed for the door and the bus stop. I stopped by Betty’s desk only long enough to dig the ring and chain out of my pocket and plop it down on her desk, without so much as a single word. Then, I hustled out of the room before she could recover and say “no.”

The only thing I remember after that is the next day when she found me during recess and handed my ring back to me, explaining, “I’m sorry. My parents won’t let me go steady.”

I’m sure all I could have possibly said was, “Okay.” I don’t remember any interactions with Betty after that, except for one day two years later in sixth grade.

We had square dancing every week in sixth grade. I loved it because I could touch a girl and interact with her without worrying about if it was okay or not. It was part of the deal. But of course, it wasn’t completely stress-free. The boys were still expected to pick a partner. The day in question, for some reason, I picked Christina. Let me explain. Chris was a girl I had known since kindergarten, and I used to walk home with her since we both went the same way. She was the only other kid I knew who lived in an orange grove like I did growing up. We were good friends.

The second I took Chris’s hand, I heard, “Hey, I wanted to dance with you!” It was Betty, hurt that I hadn’t picked her. Ah, the wonders of the female psyche.

To be honest, it was my fault. Not having a clue about the mysteries of love, I made two fatal mistakes during the disastrous “going steady” incident.

First, I saw it as an either/or deal. Either we were going steady, with all that implied, or there was nothing between us. I failed to acknowledge the spectrum of relationships possible between those two extremes.

Second, I hadn’t thought through what had happened. All I heard was rejection. She had said her parents refused to allow it, which had to mean she asked them. Duh—she wouldn’t have asked them if she hadn’t liked the idea and wanted it to happen. She liked me—she really liked me.

After sixth grade, I never saw Betty again since she went to another intermediate school and graduated from a new rival high school. Well, I did see her only once my senior year after a football game where she was on the other school’s drill team. It tempted me to say something to her, but my shyness only added to my conviction that it was too late. Betty is one of the few regrets in my life, a missed opportunity.

For the record, I did eventually date Chris, my junior year. I didn’t realize she already had a boyfriend, a football player at another high school. When I found out, that was the end of that friendship—no regrets there.

I find it interesting that both of these young ladies I remember so well are inspirations for parts of my latest novel, RULE NUMBER ONE, soon to be released on Amazon Kindle. The fourth-grade “going steady” incident is included pretty much as it happened, with the same disastrous results. Likewise, Grace and Greg’s relationship, growing up as neighbors and best friends, is clearly inspired by my experiences with Christina growing up—except for the happily-ever-after.

They say write about what you know. Well, sometimes you know more than you think you do.