A Photo From Another World

Thanks to my son Donald’s repairing the access software, I can now get into my website.

Therefore, even though I know that looking at somebody else’s vacation pictures bores folks, nevertheless, here is a link (http://www.cowart.info/SeminoleLakeVacation2007.htm ) to photos Ginny and I took on our Anniversary trip to Seminole State Park, Ga.

Speaking of photographs:

Girls mature faster than boys.

That’s what I’ve been told.

Having never actually matured myself, I have to rely on hearsay evidence.

Ginny returned to her office yesterday; I resumed nosing around my 1,200 pages of notes on that book on Jacksonville’s firefighting history that I’m writing.

My research led me up an odd alley.

While trying to confirm a fact about a Jacksonville fire that burned over 60 years ago, I followed a research trail that caused me to stumbled across — my own High School Yearbook!

HER photo was in it.

No, not Ginny; I did not meet her for another 20 years. I found a photo of HER, the girl I anguished over in high school with a desperate, heart-rending, teen-aged crush..

Seeing her yearbook photo sparked a host of bitter-sweet memories.

This was the girl I adored from afar.

The object of my yearning..

The girl of my waking fantasies and sleeping dreams.

But, alas, a romance between us was never to be.

An insurmountable obstacle kept her far distant, out of reach above me.

You see, she was a whole year older than I.

She was 17 and I was only 16. I was a lowly junior while she was actually a Senior. In the 1950s, I was convinced that an older, mature woman would be offended to be approached by some inferior punk kid.

Daily, I ate my heart out.

A scheduling fluke landed this lovely creature and me in the same art class for two years. — Our art teacher was Memphis Wood, who later became famous in national art circles as “Jacksonville’s First Lady Of Art”.

For two years, I languished knowing that the girl sat and created lovely art at the table behind me. I found every excuse to turn around and look at her.

That’s all I could do.

Look.

I was much too shy to even speak to her, much less approach her.

Then, one day she boldly approached me.

Sort of.

Since I made fair grades in science, she invited me to her house to talk with her little brother about his science project.

I was going to her house!

Oh, how I fretted over what to wear and what to say and how to act. It was terrible. I so wanted to make a good impression on her.

I went.

Rode the bus over.

She met me at the door (Oh she looked so beautiful!) and introduced me to her parents and brother.

We went into the bedroom — the kid brother and I — and talked about astronomy for an hour. I knew next to nothing about astronomy and wondered why she had asked me to talk with her brother about stars???

That really puzzled me.

She had disappeared into the kitchen and I did not see her again till she walked me to the door to see me out. She seemed a bit funny. Disappointed. I could not understand. I had done exactly what she had asked. I talked with the brother about astronomy. I’d even brought library books about stars with me to talk with him. But she did not seem satisfied with my behavior. It was like she expected something more of me and I did not know what.

I longed with all my heart to think of something to say to her. Anything at all. I froze. My mind went blank. I mumbled something or another to say good bye.

I rode a cold, lonely bus home kicking myself all the way.

You may find this hard to believe, but I was dense as a kid.

I continued to see and adore her in art class every day.

But I don’t recall that we ever actually spoke again.

I felt too shy.

The barrier of age seemed too high.

She graduated.

I remained a high school kid for another year.

I never saw her again.

I imagine she went to college, married, had kids, probably has grandchildren by now. I hope she has enjoyed a happy life. I wonder if she would even remember my name if she ran across it somewhere?

I had hardly thought of her for years until my fire research led me to her yearbook photo…. One other thing I recalled on seeing her photo:

Back in the 1950s, our schools had a dress code. I don’t think it was written down anywhere but everyone just knew how to dress for school. No one wore jeans. Boys wore dress pants and an ironed shirt with a collar; girls wore dresses, blouses or sweaters and full skirts.

Once in art class — we perched on these high stools at work tables — Once in art class maybe — I’m not sure about this. I may be wrong — I may possibly have seen — probably not, but maybe — as she got on her stool with a flip of her skirt, I may possibly have caught a brief glimpse of her thigh.

It was probably just a tan slip or pink crinoline or whatever girls wore underneath in those days. I may not really have seen what I thought I saw, but I think I may have actually glimpsed a flash of her thigh — Above the knee!

That haunting glimpse of her fed my fantasy life for months and months …

Come to think of it, now that I’m 50 years older, it still does.