Part III
August 2, 1965
My next adventure with the capacious sidekick suitcase was, of course, my July bus ride to Holland Michigan. The Silhouette accompanied me, crammed with shorts, tops, sweatshirts, swimsuits, dresses, multiple pairs of shoes, my favorite green and white striped pj’s, make-up, hair dryer, rollers, Straw Hat cologne and a copy of Glamour magazine, autumn college issue. Uncle Ernie, father of two boys, was incredulous. Aunt Suze recognized a kindred creature at last. Even her dog back home was a male.
But now it was August 2. The Mooring was over. I had returned to St. Louis the day before, following an emotional parting with you the night before that. I was vibrating with psychic whiplash: still gliding on crazy-happy vacay vibes, the next moment shocked at so final an ending. Meanwhile, my suitcase stood imperially in our family room, the Mt. Shasta of luggage, waiting to be unpacked. After sleeping late that Tuesday morning, I stumbled out to face the task, joined by my mother and sister. No one, especially me, was prepared for what happened next.
You surely know the power of olfactory memory. Sitting on the floor, I turned the suitcase on its side, popped open the latches, raised the lid, and WHAM -- blown sideways. Here was the Mooring served up anew on piles of wrinkled laundry-- blasting forth the unmistakable old-wood odor and musty ambiance of ancient cottage furniture, overlaid with essence of Straw Hat, Sea n Ski, your aftershave and Uncle Ernie’s cigars. I was right back in the Wee Scott. Except I wasn’t. I flung myself face down into the suitcase, sobbing.
My mother thought I had lost my mind.
And continued to think so during all the pleasant, forward-looking distractions of August. My senior class portrait. Our college campus visits. Meetings with the yearbook staff. And what had become of that hometown boyfriend she and my dad liked so much? If she’d been tuned in to the Teen Top Ten, she would have been singing in my ear, along with Gary Lewis and the Playboys: Walk along the lake with someone new // Have yourself a summer fling or two // Just remember I’m in love with you, so // Save your heart for me... She was getting the idea that Mac Parker, this dodgy character she was hearing entirely too much about, had eclipsed that boyfriend for good. Her only hope of reinstating the status quo was that you hadn’t written.
We had exchanged addresses, of course. I knew you’d write. Wouldn’t you? I could hear your voice, if not your exact tone, in a new tune by some hitherto unknowns called Sonny and Cher. When Sonny sang, in his friendly snarl: “Then put your little hand in mine..." I knew it was you speaking directly to me. Yet now it was almost September. “Maybe I should write to him,” I told my mother. “Absolutely not! The boy should always make the first move. If he had really cared about you, he would write.” Hmmph. I disagreed. There had been some real substance to that romance. There was only one thing to be done: disobey. So, knowing only that you were a Virgo, I made a wild stab at guessing your birthday and sent a card. And finally, you answered. In that first letter, you wrote: “Carol, I had intended to write earlier and even attempted it but nothing came of it. My brother says it was because I was still sick over your leaving and I defended my honor by taking a swing at him (mostly because he was right).”
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| Christmas, 1965 (Photo by Bev Allgaier) |
Hah! I knew I hadn’t got it wrong. We began a lively correspondence, filled with bantering affection and sprinkled with talk of reuniting the following summer. Letters arrived regularly, and occasionally other surprises. I read selected passages to my mother, usually those dealing with your escapades at school (“not my natural habitat"), who couldn’t help laughing. She was beginning to understand the appeal.
So we wrote. Only 36 weeks till we go back to The Mooring. Only 18 weeks. Only twelve weeks. Only six weeks. Then, early in June, another kind of letter came. I never knew exactly when you found out, but you forestalled telling me to avoid spoiling my high school graduation. The Parkers would not be returning to The Mooring that summer. I later learned that your mother had had a falling out with Bob Horner. The best you could manage was a brief visit. You would drive as far as Chicago, continue to Holland the next morning, and we would have one precious day together before you had to go back. You would spend that night with the Horners -- an arrangement that was accomplished via delicate negotiations, unbeknownst to me -- and leave early the following day.
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Next: Now what?
1 comment:
Hmmm-makes me wonder.
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