At a recent family gathering back in
Tennessee where most of my siblings still live, conversation
naturally turned to our teenage years. I brought up one of my
younger-brother experiences as a freshman at our Catholic high
school, the same year one of my brothers was a senior and football
star. It didn’t hurt that he also looked like a young Tom Selleck
without the mustache and Higgins. Of course his adulation from girls
rivaled that of a modern boy band. This led to my being popular as
well, but for all the wrong reasons. That year, a few weeks before
the annual Sadie Hawkins dance, girls began following me like a pack
of wolves, begging me to ask my brother if he had a date for the
dance, or quizzing me to see if I thought he might be interested in
going with them.
My freshman friends were impressed. How
had I become so magnetic overnight, and with older women to boot?
But I eventually got annoyed with the attention, as I had now
essentially become my brother's valet. One sophomore girl even
tracked me down daily after school to hand me lengthy love notes to
deliver to my brother. It wasn’t until years later that I realized
how dumb I was (being a dumb freshman) not to take advantage of the
situation. What a golden opportunity to invent the “test drive
date”—whereby I could invite my brother’s admirer out for a
preliminary spin before formally introducing them. Or I could have
been more dastardly telling prospective admirers that they should
present my brother (big Beatles fan) a gift of the Bee Gee's Sgt.
Pepper Soundtrack. Then she could explain to him how it is far
superior to the Beatles' version. And John Lennon is no Peter
Frampton.
Not to be outdone, my dad then told the
story of when he courted my mother while she was enrolled in a
Catholic college, back in the ‘50s. He sent a telegram to the
local radio station dedicating her favorite song to her. (As my dad
talked, there was a long pause as we all struggled with the concept
of sending telegrams to radio stations.) Anyway, the day after the
song dedication, the Monsignor at the college pulled my mother out of
class to lecture her about staying away from my dad. Anyone who would
publicly display affection like that was “bad news,” the
Monsignor warned her. Apparently, the Monsignor listened to that
bawdy radio station every night just to catch these wayward
dedications.
My parents are still married 55 years
later, in spite of the Monsignor.
As the stories, laughter, and maybe a
few drinks passed, the greyness of the drizzly November evening faded
for a few moments, and I came to realize a few things.
These are some of the stories we choose
to remember from a time when we thought life was normal (if there is
such a thing), back when we never thought it might double-cross us.
These are some of the stories we cling
to when we take a kick to the gut so hard we can’t catch our breath
and think we may never get back up.
These are some of the stories that
remind us that there was once a time when days seemed to last for
years, instead of years flashing by like a day.
These are some of the stories we
cherish as we move forward and try to remember and believe that every
short day lived is indeed a celebration.
