My first girlfriend had dark, curly hair, barely reaching her shoulders. Five years old, she sported black Shirley Temple-esque wavy ringlets. In my memories, she wears a white button-up shirt with rounded collar, and a plaid dress. A few freckles grace her cherubic face, almost sparkling when she smiles. I remember her as fun-loving. We met in Kindergarten, Christine Harris and I, and there our interactions remained. I had an older sister, seven, and knew there was something different about having a girlfriend, compared to simply knowing another similar-aged human who happened to be a girl. Mysterious sensations flowed through me when I saw Christine, talked with her, or thought about her. Now, seventy years later, I still can’t name them, but know they were the first stirrings of an undeniable urge to couple. I do know I must have told my family and other friends about her special status, receiving beams of approval all round. I’m pretty sure she acknowledged our special connection, yet still played hard-to-get. Setting a template for future growth, no doubt.
In first grade, my new girlfriend had straight brown hair, parted on the left, surrounding an unblemished face which rarely smiled. Her clothes are darker, more severe in my memories. Lynn Johnson may have been a brainy kid, or possibly just quiet. But alluring nonetheless. As with Christine, I remember no conversations, no hint that our relationship was anything other than a naming of a connection we knew we should be having. I remember neither one coming to my house, nor I to hers.
Parallel to these memories are others of grade school. Having taught myself to read at age four, I had a leg up when reading circle came up during the school day. I could breeze through the “Dick and Jane” books we read out loud, never stumbling as the other kids did when confronted with odd spellings or unfamiliar words. Until, mid-way through first grade, we read a book about Indians in the southwest, and I saw, for the first time, a word I didn’t know. I tried a phonetic reading, and was crushed when the teacher corrected my “tur-kwa-zee” for “turquoise”. The humiliation was complete, but short-lived, as the other kids constantly came to me for help with all manner of classwork. I began to realize I carried a curse, of knowing things others didn’t, of learning them faster than most others could.
But it didn’t stop me from moving on in the second grade, to my next girlfriend, Denise Bright. Denise was a boisterous lass, a bit assertive, possessive, and forward in her actions. She picked me out as hers, and we shared a few play dates at each other’s homes. Another girl in the class, Leona, inspired a fit of jealousy in me. Leona left our class mid-way through the year, being advanced into the third grade. Why not me? I thought. Until then, I had felt myself to be the smartest one in the room, and it was a shock to my self-confidence to see someone equally adept at the game of learning. I felt no attraction to her, finding her eyes and cheeks out of proportion to her jawline, or something equally absurd. She was tallish and gangly, certainly not coordinated, unlike the more outgoing and physically competitive Denise.
Moving into the third grade I carried Denise along with me in my heart. By that time, I had decided I was supposed to have a new girlfriend every year. But I pined for her, despite her being in another classroom half the day. My curious, searching mind began to get me in trouble. Another boy, Ivan, equally loquacious and clever as Leona and me, convinced me to engage in some prank I’ve now forgotten. We had to spend the afternoon in the school office, getting a disciplinary lecture from the assistant principal. Later that week, at the evening dance class my parents hauled me to, I found myself trying to waltz with a girl, inches taller than I. I was barely able to reach my right arm half-way around her waist. Not only did she insist on leading our steps she also began to regale me with her opinion about my recent visit to the office. She wanted to know whether we were paddled, and expressed her opinion, not on the severity of the punishment, but rather, the relative qualities of myself and Ivan. Seems she liked me much better than him. I suspect this was a nascent draw towards the “bad boy”, and she wanted the better-looking, more popular (in her mind) one. Sarah Jane Marsh had blond, wavy hair which bounced when we cha-cha’d. She wore a light pastel dress with a frilly hem, yellow or blue (or was it green?) in my memory. We danced the night away, and I had my new, third-grade girlfriend. I doubted it would last long, though, as she seemed most interested in gossip, not the “deep-dish thinking” my aunt accused me of.
Soon, Sarah Jane and I were torn apart when the school moved me, like Leona, into the next grade. Fourth through sixth grade classes featured actual desks, old wooden affairs with metal scroll work on the side and a shelf underneath for books. The top lifted up so one could place their pencils, erasers, paper, whatever inside, private, out of sight. The desks themselves were probably thirty years old (meaning from the ‘20s) and had not been painted or varnished in all that time. They were scratched and worn, their dark brown wood polished smooth by decades of young greasy hands. Near the top, on the side, a round receptacle reminded us that long ago, students had inkwells into which they dipped the nibs of their pens.
I don’t know when I first met Kathy, but do know that a quirk of the alphabet placed me behind her in the fifth and sixth grades, and despite the yawning difference in our ages (she of course was a year older), I adopted her as my next girlfriend. By this time, I had learned the nuances of speaking to and entertaining others, and she did not reject this. My approach began with her hair.
Kathleen McNeil had luxurious, long, wavy black hair, usually free or in a ponytail. I found it irresistible. I would slowly, reverently stroke it, which she found soothing. At least, she let me continue.