Orange Crush...or, Girls have Fleas, Don't They?

Stepping back from the hard core ancestral material this week (although looking forward to a lead we received during the week on a book, "Our Lambson Family" referenced by another 3rd cousin, Albert Lee Lambson, another of Frank Lambson's great grandchildren)...I thought I would talk about crushes I had throughout my years in elementary, junior high, and high school.

This discussion has to begin with the acknowledgement that for much of this time I was compelled to follow the masculine mantra that all the feminine unfortunates were afflicted by some social disease...we called it fleas, but others have called it cooties,  or other labels.  I think I speak for the majority my gender that we actually thought, in our heart of hearts, that the opposite sex was awfully nice and kind of cute, but it would have been unmanly to admit that attitude.

I should also mention that from age 4, I always had a "girl next door".  My friend Peevis's sister Terry (the target of our ants melted into crayons prank...see my May 5th entry) was a lovely girl, never really went through any of those awkward or homely phases that most of us go through...and really smart.  But she was my neighbor, which disqualified her from being crush material. 

I do not remember having a crush on any specific female in kindergarten, but I did have sort of a hero in a young lady named Velva Potts.  Yeah, I know.  But I was afflicted with common warts on my  hands (if interested, search google with "common warts on hands").  They were not large, but they were numerous...25 at their peak, about evenly distributed between right and left hands.  They were invariably on the backs of my hands, and seemed to show up a lot at the joints.  Why do I mention these?

Because in kindergarten, you do everything holding hands!  When we walked to an assembly, we held hands!  When we went on a walking field trip, we held hands!  When we sang happy birthday to anyone, we encircled the birthday kid and sang, for crying out loud, holding stinkin' hands! And of course it was always with members of the opposite sex, and they were always freaked out by my warts.  I remember one little girl (not to mention names, but her initials were Linda Blake, my future den mother's daughter), after another rousing chorus of happy birthday, took me by the wrist to the teacher, Mrs. Hymas, and informed her "Teacher, Steven has bugs on his hands!" Well.  Other girls I remember usually just held my hand loosely, or held my wrist, or dropped it altogether.

Velva Potts may have been an ordinary girl with an unusually plain name, but unlike others, she never complained about holding my hand, nor seemed uncomfortable with it.  I don't remember how many times she was called upon to make this sacrifice, but I remember she was assigned to me on one unusually long field trip walk in the early spring. It was to visit a classmate, Blaine Kemp, who had been laid up with rheumatic fever for several weeks.  She held my hand going and coming without flinching.

She must have moved during the summer, because I never saw her after that, but she has always been an early hero of mine  

First grade likewise is a little hazy.  We only met half a day for kindergarten and first grade, so not much chance to get deeply acquainted.  I had lost my warts by then...somehow, magically, over the summer, they disappeared.  I do remember my teacher Mrs. Dowdle, reminded me of the wise old owl in Bambi.  She was great.

So my first memorable crush(es) were in second grade, and they were three:  Valonne Harris, Theresa Arnold, and Judy Bailey.  Foreshadowing a life-long bias, the first two of these had dimples.  All three were smart.  I am not sure if any of them could make chocolate chip cookies.

These were crushes from afar.  Like Charlie Brown and the red-haired girl, I would watch them, and wish that any one of them would give me some sign of affection or even friendship, but too timid to even approach them...and,  of course, I had to maintain theological purity...girls have fleas!

Only Judy Bailey would continue to live in my school area.  However, she was not in my third grade class. 

Third grade. I finally determined I would not live the year in silent yearning...I would get noticed!

The object in this case was one JaNae Anderson.  She had glasses, but they did not disguise a lovely smiling face and beautiful, long, brunette hair.  She was really smart (are we seeing a pattern here?) and, foreshadowing another bias, she played the piano...well...with both hands!  If that were not enough, her father was a land baron...a fruit farmer, growing mostly sweet cherries, but other orchard fruits as well.

I thought I might catch a break when we were both cast by our third-grade teacher, Mrs. Marshall, in our November theatrical gala, "The Little Red Hen"...she was the pianist, and I was the narrator.  Unfortunately there was little interaction...none, actually...and it failed to get me the leverage for which I longed.

Christmas came and went...the year was slipping by and I was getting desperate. On a February morning, with a new layer of snow on the ground, I saw her approaching, all lovely in her winter coat and muffler and boots.  It was now or never.  I acted on my first impulse.  I gathered the proper amount of snow for a good snowball, and, Cupid-like, I launched my projectile at her.  Unlike the Cherub, I did not hit her heart.  I think I may have hit her in some part of the head.  I am pretty sure I did not hit her glasses directly, but the effect was the same...off they came, into the snow.  If I had thought this through a little better, I might have rushed forward apologetically, and gallantly retrieved them.  Instead I stood in shocked horror, wishing I could disappear.  I finally got recognition...as her assailant. 

To her everlasting credit, she did not rat me out to Mrs. Marshall, but I knew our relationship was over before it began.  Oh well, back to girls have fleas.

NEXT WEEK: I hone my attempts at positive recognition.