Going to church religiously ... sort of
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- June 3, 2023
- 470
“Was she reality or just a dream to me?”
From “The Rain, the Park and Other Things”
The Cowsills (1967)
I’m pretty good at fooling myself; after all, I’ve had lots of practice.
But there’s a part of my psyche that still insists she saw me.
Now whether or not she grasped the depths of my affection or the lengths to which I went to demonstrate it, I have serious doubts.
I mean I’m not that stupid.
When it comes to women, I freely admit to a certain — what to call it? — charming ignorance, a kind of sincere obliviousness that has, more than once, led me chasing beauty and love down life’s blind alleys, a sort of silly Wile E. Coyote willingness to believe one of these days I won’t be fooled by a Roadrunner’s tactical guile.
And I’m thinking the genesis of that particular character trait has its roots in a fourth-grade classroom, a place where I — the new kid in school getting just used to life in an alien landscape — fell madly in love with the pretty girl who helped me arrange my desk.
Of such innocence are dreams often made, as you doubtless know.
When you’re 9 years old, you don’t worry about casting your memory back nearly a half-century in order to write something others will find entertaining; no, all you want is to not play the fool.
So I’m going to play a little fast and loose with what some might call the truth, a set of circumstances I prefer to look at the way an artist might study a palette of paints as he considers his subject.
Let’s call this one “Still Life with a Girl Who Danced with Me.”
She didn’t have to be so nice — to lift a line from John Sebastian and the Lovin’ Spoonful — and I would have liked her anyway, but the simple fact is that because she was so kind, I was just amazed.
Bedazzled then, I set about charting a course that would inevitably, perhaps irrevocably, bring us together, if only for a brief moment.
The problem was — and I realized this at the time — it was going to be a long, difficult slog through the herky-jerky minefield of preteen adolescence to make my intentions known, all the while steering clear of the dangerous shoals of parochial school offenses.
I mean one time the nun got on my case for wearing penny loafers to class, insisting that without proper laces, shoes were, well, sinful.
Guess she was trying to save my sole.
So the years passed and I maybe exchanged a hundred words with her, always careful to keep my distance for fear of inciting the wrath of Big Sister, but I was always planning, preparing, plotting.
Over that time she only got prettier and nicer and smarter …
So to reverse-telescope this narrative and peer through the other end of the lens, it was about this time of year, the spring I was 14, that a party was held for those of us who had graduated eighth grade.
This was definitely a not-sanctioned-by-nuns event, which made it a nonoptional social gathering, something not to be missed, as if the fervor and anticipation of that summer’s moon landing infused us all with all the optimism and appreciation for what was possible.
What I remember most vividly is the feeling that for all the time we guys spent tossing around the football, joking with each other and looking forward to the burgers we could almost taste as they sizzled on the grill, there was another reality altogether taking place inside, where the girls — always smarter — were waiting for the precise moment when we would join them for a cookout supper.
Music, that great collective connection, was in the air as the dishes were cleared and the sunset passed, and it wasn’t long before someone with access to the record player put on “Love Is Blue.”
This marked a rather dramatic sea change in the playlist that had been adhered to for the previous hour or so, a time when “fast” songs like “Tighten Up” and “Classical Gas” had been cued up.
Clearly, “Love Is Blue” was a “couples” song, so I dared do what I hadn’t thought I could and asked the girl who had captured my heart all those years ago if she would like to dance. To my astonishment, she said yes, and I have to tell you that all these years later, I can still feel her in my arms, see her in her blue blouse and white shorts, and recall how she said afterwards, “That was nice.”
Later, I walked her to the station wagon where her father waited.
All I really knew about her family was they lived way out in the country, so there was very little chance of seeing her at the swimming pool or the library. I also knew they came to Mass faithfully, always the 7 a.m. service, so for most of that summer, I got up early, dressed in my Sunday best and strolled downtown.
This was a bit of a miracle because I’d been known to resist coming downstairs on Christmas, wanting just five more minutes of sleep.
I sat in the second row of the main part of the church, a vantage point from which I could see her in the side chapel. As I said before, I believe she saw me too, and even though I never had the nerve to speak to her, she had made me happy, happy, happy.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to join the fun on his Facebook page, where going to church is purely optional and Paul Mauriat and his Orchestra remain in heavy rotation.