Cantankerously Yours
Women: A Lifetime of Befuddlement
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fellow Fogeys,
I consider it unreal, surreal, unbelievable, absurd, ridiculous and mind-boggling that I graduated from high school 60 years ago. It’s just not fair. My health is great, and I don’t feel a day older than 70.
However, a cruel e-mail I received a few weeks ago reminded that I have now entered my dotage; it announced a 60th year class reunion next year, of Hyde Park High School’s graduating class of 1951.
High school. The thought conjures up countless memories.
Mostly of girls.
* * *
Until the age of twelve, I had been whatever the precursor was to “geek,” “nerd” and “dweeb.” Oh, I played a lot of touch football and softball, but I also read voraciously. If not a book a night, at least five books a week.
Then, shortly after my twelfth birthday, I discovered girls. Didn’t read another book for five years. Girls fascinated me. Mystified me. Most of all,
they terrified me.
It was, therefore, that I faced my first “date” with great trepidation.
My mature cousin of fourteen insisted that now that I was thirteen years old and a man (according to Jewish tradition), I must go out on a real date. With her friend from camp, Connie, visiting from Minneapolis, and arriving in two days.
“She starts high school in the fall,” my cousin said. “She’s really cute. You’ll like her.”
Saturday afternoon. I arrived at my cousin’s on time.
“This is Connie,” my cousin said, introducing me to a mini-version of Debbie Reynolds.
“Hi!” Connie said, dazzling me with a smile.
I tried not to gawk. I wanted to tell her she looked just like my favorite movie star. I wanted to say something funny. Or smart. Something mature, to impress her.
I said, “Hi. Do you think the White Sox’ll win the pennant this year?”
My cousin covered her face with her hands. “He’s not always like this,” she said. As Connie and I left, my cousin kicked me.
I took her to an afternoon movie. Shortly after the movie started, she leaned over and put her head on my shoulder. After twenty minutes or so, she whispered, “Aren’t you going to put your arm around me?”
I was in love. To this day, I have no idea what movie we saw.
After the movie, I suggested a walk along Chicago’s lakefront and she said she would love that.
Summertime in Chicago. A cloudless, balmy late afternoon. Dusk nestling quietly over the lakefront. We strolled to The Point, where everyone gathered to swim and socialize. I wanted to show her off, but there were only a few other couples, unaware of anything but each other.
We were holding hands.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
She said, “Sure,” and launched herself. She “flang” her arms around me, pulled my head against hers and rammed her lips against mine. My hair stood up, my eyes popped open, and I had no idea where I was.
Then Connie pulled away and said, “Don’t ever do that again.”
“What? What?”
“You never ask a girl if you can kiss her.”
“What? What?”
“You just kiss her. You’ll know when the girl wants you to. Like in that movie we saw today.”
“What? Wha – ? Wait. How? How will I know?” I refused to confess that the only girls I’d kissed had been during Spin the Bottle and Post Office.
“You’ll know,” Connie said. “Just pay attention. I dropped so many hints today you never should have asked me.”
How come she knew all this and I didn’t? She was twelve! Or was she really 33? How come I was thirteen, but more like nine?
I saw Connie again twice before she returned home. Her last night in Chicago, we attended a party together. After taking her back to my cousin’s house and kissing her good-night, I said, “Will you marry me?”
“What? What?”
“I want to marry you.”
“I’m twelve years old! I haven’t even started high school yet!”
“But – but – “
“Listen, write me from Chicago, okay?”
Given my thirteen-year-five-day old maturity, I decided it best not to tell her I wanted to father her children.
* * *
Wondering if Connie were even still alive, I replayed this painful scenario to myself when Fran called.
Fran, my first girlfriend after Connie, now lives in Florida too. I had been invited to a party at Dick Sabul’s house. I had met Dick only once. Good-looking guy; the heartthrob of every girl in the freshman class. I hoped for an evening of Connie Revisited.
When I arrived, Dick ushered me into a tiny apartment, and I was surprised to see only two girls. I didn’t know either of them. Dick introduced them to me as Trixie and Fran. With my crack sense of observation, I immediately determined that Fran must be my date for the night since Dick and Trixie were climbing all over each other.
“Who else is coming?” I asked.
“This is it,” Dick said. “Just us.”
What? What? He said a party. Four people makes a party?
Before I had chance to reveal my ignorance by asking anything, Dick said, “I’m putting on some records.”
Sinatra. Naturally. I took Fran’s hand, and we danced for perhaps thirty seconds when the lights went out.
“Oh oh,” I said. “You must have a short or something, Dick. But wait, the record player’s still going.”
Trixie and Fran giggled.
“He turned out the lights,” Fran whispered to me.
“Oh.”
How come everyone knew everything, and I didn’t?
Employing lessons from Connie, I kissed Fran, and she responded.
I was learning. Fran and I remained boyfriend-girlfriend for all of three weeks, when I found myself smitten with Joan, who sat behind me in English, and Fran had fallen for Al. We remained friends, even though I insisted Al wasn’t good enough for Fran because he looked like an anchovy.
I went out with many different girls during the rest of high school, but I never overcame my bewilderment. In fact, to this day, women befuddle me.
Recently, I received an e-mail from Jackie (femme fatale from fifth grade to this day), asking me if I intended to come to the reunion. After corresponding with her by e-mail, I started wondering if a column about high school memories might be of interest.
* * *
I consider it unreal, surreal, unbelievable, absurd, ridiculous and mind-boggling …
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@comcast.net.