Besides the incident at the pool I saw Becky on at least two other occasions before I met her. There may have been others but these two are as fresh in my mind as the day they happened.
Terry was dating Jane Porter during one of the times I saw Becky. Jane’s dad, George, was the regional supervisor for Walnut Grove Feed sales. Becky’s dad was a very successful salesman and was well liked by George. Once when Terry brought me along to Jane’s house Russell and his family showed up. Again, I don’t think Becky really noticed me.
The chronology may be slightly off here but I think I saw Becky again in the fall of 1965. It was at Jerry’s Pizza when it was located in downtown Mt. Pleasant. Becky was sitting in a booth in the back with a big guy in a Winfield letter jacket. I was with a bunch of guys and we were all showing off a little bit. The guy Becky was with had his back to me and she was facing me. Our eyes met and I winked at her. To my delight and amazement she winked back. That moment and her face are frozen in my memory as if it happened last night.
I don’t know why I thought Becky was a year older than I was but I did. That was one reason why I didn’t think I had a chance. The other was that she was clearly out of my league. She was the kind of girl I knew I could only dream about.
With the above and the pool incident as a backdrop I was amazed at what happened next. I was dating a girl but we really weren’t very interested in each other. It was more so we both had someone to go out with. One Monday, early in February, Susie Potter, an old friend told me she had someone who wanted to meet me. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize and said she would introduce us on Friday night. I had a date to the game and dance following so I wasn’t sure how this would work.
All week long I wondered who this girl was. Though I considered it I wouldn’t allow myself to think that this could be my “dream girl.” Susie promised that when they came to town she would come into the game and introduce us. She promised to be quick and no one would be the wiser. She told me this girl had a date with a senior I knew. The guy was kind of a dud so I began to think this couldn’t possibly be the one I had hoped.
When Friday night finally came I was double dating with a friend of mine. We picked up our dates and went to the game. Near the end of the first quarter Susie stuck her head in the door of the gym and motioned me to come over there. I told the others I would be right back and went out into the lobby where I met Susie and Becky. I was numb! It was a dream come true! Susie insisted we go for a ride. She promised it wouldn’t take long. I don’t remember exactly what happened in that car but during the ride we talked and planned to meet again. We exchanged numbers and I went back to the game.
After the game I went to the dance with my date and the other couple. Feeling I had met the girl I wanted to marry I broke up with the girl I was dating that night. After I dropped her off I at her house I decided to scoop the loop around the square one more time. That is when I saw Becky again. She was running out into the street to get my attention. Her date had dumped her because he saw her get in the car with me. I took her home that night and thus began the relationship that has lasted over forty years.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Becky - A Love Story
I worked every summer for several years at the swimming pool in Mt. Pleasant. I started out as a lowly basket boy ended my time there as Assistant Manager. By then I had done about every job you could possibly have at the pool.
Being the basket boy meant you had to do all of the dirty jobs. It meant you had to scrub the floors in the dressing rooms daily and clean the toilets. Yuck! The work had to be done and I was the lowest on the totem pole so it fell to me. There was a basket girl, too, who usually took care of the girls’ side but I do remember that I often had to do both.
A lot of the time I was trapped handing out baskets but at other times there was plenty to do. During slow times I had to go around and pull the weeds out of the cracks in the cement around the pool. I had to clean the footbath regularly and keep the basket room in good order. By August, algae would be growing in cracks on the edge the steps up to the deck where the high dive was. I had to scrub them regularly to keep them from becoming slippery and unsafe.
There weren’t many perks with this job but there were some. I could go swimming a lot and didn’t have to pay. I got a good tan and there were lots of pretty girls around. Sometimes scrubbing the steps and then hosing them off was a convenient excuse to get out of the basket room and flirt with those pretty girls.
One Friday night this girl, her sister and her little brother came to the pool. I think I had seen her before but I don’t know where. What I do know is I was instantly smitten. I could hardly take my eyes off of her. She didn’t even see me in the basket room and she went on out to the pool.
Desperate to make some kind of connection I went to my old standby. It was time to scrub the steps. I went to work on the steps but she still didn’t seem to notice me. She even went by me on the steps a couple of times but seemed oblivious to my presence. I don’t think I did much of a job on the steps because I was watching this girl all of the time.
Finally, in a last ditch effort, I began hosing down the deck near the low diving board in the northwest corner of the pool area. That was the diving board she was using. Still no reaction! That is when I squirted her with the hose. I waited until she was in the air and then I squirted her. She smiled a smile that warmed me to my toes. I may have squirted her again. I don’t remember. I was in la la land. I do know I didn’t see her again for a couple years. I will tell the story about the next time we crossed paths later.
Being the basket boy meant you had to do all of the dirty jobs. It meant you had to scrub the floors in the dressing rooms daily and clean the toilets. Yuck! The work had to be done and I was the lowest on the totem pole so it fell to me. There was a basket girl, too, who usually took care of the girls’ side but I do remember that I often had to do both.
A lot of the time I was trapped handing out baskets but at other times there was plenty to do. During slow times I had to go around and pull the weeds out of the cracks in the cement around the pool. I had to clean the footbath regularly and keep the basket room in good order. By August, algae would be growing in cracks on the edge the steps up to the deck where the high dive was. I had to scrub them regularly to keep them from becoming slippery and unsafe.
There weren’t many perks with this job but there were some. I could go swimming a lot and didn’t have to pay. I got a good tan and there were lots of pretty girls around. Sometimes scrubbing the steps and then hosing them off was a convenient excuse to get out of the basket room and flirt with those pretty girls.
One Friday night this girl, her sister and her little brother came to the pool. I think I had seen her before but I don’t know where. What I do know is I was instantly smitten. I could hardly take my eyes off of her. She didn’t even see me in the basket room and she went on out to the pool.
Desperate to make some kind of connection I went to my old standby. It was time to scrub the steps. I went to work on the steps but she still didn’t seem to notice me. She even went by me on the steps a couple of times but seemed oblivious to my presence. I don’t think I did much of a job on the steps because I was watching this girl all of the time.
Finally, in a last ditch effort, I began hosing down the deck near the low diving board in the northwest corner of the pool area. That was the diving board she was using. Still no reaction! That is when I squirted her with the hose. I waited until she was in the air and then I squirted her. She smiled a smile that warmed me to my toes. I may have squirted her again. I don’t remember. I was in la la land. I do know I didn’t see her again for a couple years. I will tell the story about the next time we crossed paths later.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Locker #3
During the summer before I got to high school, Terry a year ahead of me in school, asked me to locker with him. I, of course, agreed not realizing the implications. Lockers on Football Players row in the new addition were to be coveted. Usually only juniors and seniors got in that section. Terry had somehow smoozed the girl who was working in the office and in charge of assigning the lockers. He assured me we would be there and in locker #3 of all places, just inside the west door of the wing.
When I registered, sure enough, I was assigned to locker #3. The combination was 3 to the left, 18 to the right, and then 24 to the left. (I don’t know why I can remember that?) Terry warned me that the upper classman weren’t going to like it but I should just play it cool and not say anything no matter what they said to me.
It was inevitable that I was soon recognized in the hall and told no freshman was allowed in that hall. Many knew me because my sister Loretta was a senior that year. I said my locker was there and stood there meekly. Terry came around the corner and to my rescue. They didn’t like him being there either because he was only a sophomore but they didn’t want to mess with him.
One person, Pat Coghlan in locker #1, let me know daily that I shouldn’t be there but he never actually did anything to me. He just grumbled a lot about me being there. I took Terry’s advice and kept my mouth shut and tried to avoid Pat Coghlan when I could.
On an unusually warm day in November just after lunch I was standing at my locker. The halls were empty and I was going to be late for class if I didn’t hurry. The doors to the west were propped wide open. I saw Pat park his car along the alley that ran west of the building and come across the lawn and into the building. I thought, “Oh boy, here it comes again!”
Pat went straight to his locker and then looked over at me and said, “Somebody shot President Kennedy.” He said he heard it on the news when he was home for lunch. He grabbed some books out of his locker, slammed it shut, and went to class.
By the end of that period rumors that Kennedy was dead were flying around the school. Soon after the next period started the principal got on the intercom and said the rumors were not true and that we should focus on our schoolwork. Near the end of the period the principal got back on the intercom and said we were having an assembly in the auditorium.
We all gathered in the auditorium and the assistant principal announced from the stage that President Kennedy had been killed and the details surrounding it were still not clear. He then told us we could go home. At home, on the evening news, we watched as the story unfolded. In the days to come we watched the film of the President being hit over and over. It was a frightening thing for a 14 year-old kid. We didn’t know what to expect. Would we be going to war? Who would do this? Later, we saw the alleged assassin gunned down as he was walking through a police station.
I think many kids my age were changed by the whole experience. People still ask where I was when Kennedy was killed and I say, “I was at locker #3.” Now it is “where were you when you first heard about 9/11?” My granddaughters may be telling that story someday.
When I registered, sure enough, I was assigned to locker #3. The combination was 3 to the left, 18 to the right, and then 24 to the left. (I don’t know why I can remember that?) Terry warned me that the upper classman weren’t going to like it but I should just play it cool and not say anything no matter what they said to me.
It was inevitable that I was soon recognized in the hall and told no freshman was allowed in that hall. Many knew me because my sister Loretta was a senior that year. I said my locker was there and stood there meekly. Terry came around the corner and to my rescue. They didn’t like him being there either because he was only a sophomore but they didn’t want to mess with him.
One person, Pat Coghlan in locker #1, let me know daily that I shouldn’t be there but he never actually did anything to me. He just grumbled a lot about me being there. I took Terry’s advice and kept my mouth shut and tried to avoid Pat Coghlan when I could.
On an unusually warm day in November just after lunch I was standing at my locker. The halls were empty and I was going to be late for class if I didn’t hurry. The doors to the west were propped wide open. I saw Pat park his car along the alley that ran west of the building and come across the lawn and into the building. I thought, “Oh boy, here it comes again!”
Pat went straight to his locker and then looked over at me and said, “Somebody shot President Kennedy.” He said he heard it on the news when he was home for lunch. He grabbed some books out of his locker, slammed it shut, and went to class.
By the end of that period rumors that Kennedy was dead were flying around the school. Soon after the next period started the principal got on the intercom and said the rumors were not true and that we should focus on our schoolwork. Near the end of the period the principal got back on the intercom and said we were having an assembly in the auditorium.
We all gathered in the auditorium and the assistant principal announced from the stage that President Kennedy had been killed and the details surrounding it were still not clear. He then told us we could go home. At home, on the evening news, we watched as the story unfolded. In the days to come we watched the film of the President being hit over and over. It was a frightening thing for a 14 year-old kid. We didn’t know what to expect. Would we be going to war? Who would do this? Later, we saw the alleged assassin gunned down as he was walking through a police station.
I think many kids my age were changed by the whole experience. People still ask where I was when Kennedy was killed and I say, “I was at locker #3.” Now it is “where were you when you first heard about 9/11?” My granddaughters may be telling that story someday.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Poetry
I am from a family of poets. That may seem to be unusual to some but I think it was perfectly natural to us. When I heard other kids complain about not liking poetry I was amazed. I just didn’t see what there was to hate about it, besides hating it would seem somehow disloyal to my roots.
My mother is so skilled with words that she can make a poem out of almost anything. She has a poet’s mind. Poets just look at things differently. They think in a different way. I am not sure if I can give it justice, so you will have to believe me when I say poets are just different. My mother had a huge influence on us and even my father (who didn’t get it genetically) was a poet in his own way.
Growing up I was surrounded with words. My mother was always sharing a new poem with us or reading aloud one someone else had written. Poems were all around the house. In those days, before computers, poems were usually composed with paper and pencil and then typed. It was even before correction fluid so typing a poem was tedious simply because you did not want to make a mistake and have to start over. Erasures were unsightly and so getting it exactly right was critical.
Mother’s poems have been published in books, in magazines, and in the newspaper. She is well known across the state as a frequent contributor to the juried publication, Lyrical Iowa. The most exciting time was when they would read one of mother’s poems on the radio. WLS in Chicago did that sometimes. WHO read Mom’s poems once in awhile and a station in Omaha also did. Just before it happened the station would send us a telegram telling us exactly when it would be read.
It seemed like many of them were read on Sunday evenings. I can remember the whole family gathering around the radio and anxiously waiting to hear the poem. The radio was in the corner of the dining room by the kitchen door. When it did happen we would be so excited that we hardly paid attention to the poem and then it would be over. There were no replays in those days and I think Mom was sometimes disappointed that we missed part of it. My mother is a woman of great patience but I am sure that tested it.
Sometimes one of mother’s poems would be in the church bulletin or the newsletter. On a few occasions the pastor read one from the pulpit as part of the sermon. One of mother’s poems was put to music and sung in church several years in a row.
Mother belonged to a writing club called Scribblers for at least 70 years. The group meets once a month at someone’s house to share writing. At 93 years young mother still attends the meetings and shares her poems with the same enthusiasm she did when she first joined the group.
My mother is so skilled with words that she can make a poem out of almost anything. She has a poet’s mind. Poets just look at things differently. They think in a different way. I am not sure if I can give it justice, so you will have to believe me when I say poets are just different. My mother had a huge influence on us and even my father (who didn’t get it genetically) was a poet in his own way.
Growing up I was surrounded with words. My mother was always sharing a new poem with us or reading aloud one someone else had written. Poems were all around the house. In those days, before computers, poems were usually composed with paper and pencil and then typed. It was even before correction fluid so typing a poem was tedious simply because you did not want to make a mistake and have to start over. Erasures were unsightly and so getting it exactly right was critical.
Mother’s poems have been published in books, in magazines, and in the newspaper. She is well known across the state as a frequent contributor to the juried publication, Lyrical Iowa. The most exciting time was when they would read one of mother’s poems on the radio. WLS in Chicago did that sometimes. WHO read Mom’s poems once in awhile and a station in Omaha also did. Just before it happened the station would send us a telegram telling us exactly when it would be read.
It seemed like many of them were read on Sunday evenings. I can remember the whole family gathering around the radio and anxiously waiting to hear the poem. The radio was in the corner of the dining room by the kitchen door. When it did happen we would be so excited that we hardly paid attention to the poem and then it would be over. There were no replays in those days and I think Mom was sometimes disappointed that we missed part of it. My mother is a woman of great patience but I am sure that tested it.
Sometimes one of mother’s poems would be in the church bulletin or the newsletter. On a few occasions the pastor read one from the pulpit as part of the sermon. One of mother’s poems was put to music and sung in church several years in a row.
Mother belonged to a writing club called Scribblers for at least 70 years. The group meets once a month at someone’s house to share writing. At 93 years young mother still attends the meetings and shares her poems with the same enthusiasm she did when she first joined the group.
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