It’s Halloween. That’s an observation, and in a very confuzzled and obtuse way related to what will be talked about here today.
You already know I love to write. I also have hope that this will help Jason know some of half his history. My stories are either way better when spoken aloud or way worse.
My first girlfriend was raised in Brooksville. I met her at a DeMolay dance in Floral City, Florida. It was close to a tie on which one of us was more shy. Blonde ringlets, stormy green eyes, freckles, braces, and a cute way of scuffing her left foot on the ground, eyes downcast, when she was nervous. her name was Erin, and she lived in a barn.
It was literally a barn and attached silo that had been renovated. The hay loft became the second floor. The silo was a perfect fit for the wrought iron spiral staircase. Hunks of outer wall had been knocked out and replaced with bay and plate glass windows. It is by far one of the top ten coolest houses I’ve ever seen. Her dad liked his toys to be as close to accurate and stereotypical as possible, right down to the red paint with white trim.
Girlfriend may be too strong a word. We dated for three or four months before we decided relying on one set of parents or the other to drive us 45 minutes for a date might not at 14 be an ideal situation. We parted amicably, but not before a first kiss, and all I will admit, coach did not hold the runner up at first base. Put me in coach, put me in. We were so awkward and bad at matters of romance.
My dad knew I had a thing for blondes. Plus mom always suspected due to my shyness around girls that I might be gay. One of my uncles was, why not her son? I wasn’t, as the stash of magazines objectifying the female form in all its glory that she never successfully discovered but if she had might have gone to great lengths to assauge her fears.
Dad would have embraced me regardless of who I found to ring my bell. He encouraged my first relationship. He also loved to get to know anyone who held a place in my heart. He wanted to get to know them. If they potentially could be part of the family, he’d want to know them as much as he could. Plus he harbored a secret love of blondes himself. He’d told me one day when we were alone in the car headed to watch one of my brother’s football games.
“She won’t be who you marry. She’s nice but you don’t quite fit. Invite her to come with us Saturday.”
Saturday was a trip to Busch Gardens in Tampa. Whether it was his own or other kids, dad loved the joy of kids having a blast. Heck, when he used to chaperone the occasional camping trip while I was in the Boy Scouts, he’d find ways of helping pass the time while we were out of our skull having a blast.
Smitty owned a thousand or so acres near the county line. Illegally dredged ponds for the horses and cattle to drink had been dug before the inception of the EPA. Small creeks that eventually wended their way to the mighty Withlacoochie dotted the property. Ancient live oaks, hickory, palms, lots of native trees bushes and palmettos kept visitors on their proverbial toes. Wild hogs or worse could be hidden quite easily in their depths.
One of the Smitty trips we’d built a rope bridge across one of the wider watering holes. It had rained, a steady drizzle, for two days. Initially taut, the main rope of the bridge had stretched and sagged as it got soaked. It had stretched to the point that anyone crossing the bridge no longer got a bird’s eye view of the pond below, but more of a fish-eyed one. As anyone approached the unsupported center, the rope would approach, then descend beneath the surface. The pond wasn’t very deep. Soon the fearless adventurer would find himself touching bottom, chest high in the tepid, brown water.
Having crossed the bridge umpteen times, we’d “fall” off the bridge and swim. One of my friends freaked out. He screamed. Later he told everyone he had calmly informed us there was something under the sand. The something turned out to be a fresh water mussel.
A new game commenced. Mussels were edible. Find some. Find lots. We did.
Due to the drizzle, the campfire sputtered and hissed. We all smelled like smoke from the prodigious amount a dampened fire outputs throughout the day and night.
Taking our recently claimed cash of marine life and placing them in a foil covered grill, we let the muscles smoke and open from the fire’s heat. They tasted alright, but something more was needed. But what?
We had brought chicken and barbecue sauce to grill, but the mussels changed our plans, or rather, my dad did.
“Bring me some salt and the sauce.”
We did.
Twenty some odd boys ranging from 11 to 17 and our chaperones traipsed around the woods for the remainder of the weekend slowly dripping rainwater, bellies distended from devouring slightly sweet, slightly smoky, and utterly delicious smoked mussels. Repeated trips into the ponds to scour for more helped keep us somewhat washed, but we were a happy mess.
Another place we camped was a local park, Whispering Pines. You’ve seen one pine tree or patch of poison ivy, you’ve seen them all.
Again, an idea emerged from dad. The timing may not have been perfect as it was dark with us the only current human occupants of the park, but it was a GOOD idea. The road to hell and all that.
“Let’s go swimming in the pool.”
I’m not sure how long before the gates of the park had been closed for the night the pool closed, but it WAS closed and latched, surrounded by a ten foot tall chain link fence. Pshaw.
We hoisted one of the more nimble members of the troop as high as we could. He quickly scampered over the top and lowered himself down the other side. There was no lock on the latch back then (There is now, likely due to nocturnal swimming forays.) and we quickly were inside and swimming.
The underwater lights in the pool remain alight throughout the night. Again, twenty or thirty of us in the pool dunking one another, having chicken fights, carrying on, etc. must have been quite the sight for the two police cruisers and four officers who responded to the alarm triggered by the motion detectors around the pool.
After identities were verified, the officers allowed us another half hour of swimming while they jawed with dad. He’d been president of the city Little League back when two of the officers were young enough to have played. That was dad.
When a boy and girl, JB, and JB were orphaned after their mom, an incredible lady, passed away, he offered to let her kids live with us if they didn’t have a place to stay.
So of course he invited my ‘girlfriend’ along to Busch Gardens. He was always finding things to do or places to go where he knew we’d have nearly as much fun as he would. Usually the trips were not preplanned. He’d corral us into the car and off we’d go.
The week of our trip had begun in disaster. Danny as usual drove us to the bus stop on Monday at breakneck speed. Surprise, we were late.
He was exhausted still from the previous evening’s tomcatting and was in a rush to return to the welcome embrace of sleep. As soon as we tumbled out of the car, he began turning around.
Cars don’t mind, nor do they care, where you are standing while they move. Or whose ankle their tires drive over. In this case, my sister’s ankle.
We did what we always did when one of us did something that in our heads would likely cause parental blood pressure to climb to dangerous levels. We hid it. Kept our mouths shut. Snitches get stitches.
Years later the story became firmly entrenched into the family mythos. At the time, we figured out how to keep any adult from discovering the hit and run. We had total success until midway through the Saturday trip.
It was the log flume that did us in. The day was excruciating, temperature high 90s with no breeze and nary a cloud in sight. Plus, we’d been to Busch Gardens when relatives had visited from up north we knew shortcuts, almost as many as we knew I. Disney. Plus, like Disney, we knew where we could get away with cutting in line. Two hour wait my foot. Pun intended.
We rode five or six times in the space of an hour. All of us were thoroughly soaked and cooled. Only two things helped destroy both our secret and my relationship. My sister’s ankle had started bleeding, and soaked gauze roll and bandages have little to no additional ability to drink in additional liquid.
My mom freaked. She threatened to sue the park for unsafe rides. The gig was up.
No way any of us were telling mom. We’d likely get a few lashes with a belt by dad while he yelled at us for hiding it. Maybe we’d get the much lesser sentence of grounding. Part of the fear was never knowing in advance.
It was neither, which you’d figure we should have already known. Whenever we deliberately did something wrong, the wrath of dad was a certainty. If it was an accident, the same first question always spewed from dad’s mouth, even if objects were permanently destroyed. He looked at my sister. Oh God here comes the wrath. He asked but one question, directed to my sister.
“Are you ok?”
Mom went off. He hushed her with ‘the look’. Other than figuring out how to get it healed or preventing it from becoming infected, not another word was spoken. Dad was like that.
Erin told me on the tram ride back to the car that the relationship was over due to it being long distance. I hate it when someone lies to me.
I never figured out if what killed the relationship was the fact we’d kept it secret or if she was hurt I hadn’t trusted her enough to share the secret with her. I strongly suspect the latter. The end result would have been the same, but the second bothered me more.
Peace.