She led me by the hand wordlessly across the field adjacent to our elementary school during recess. We were both twelve. As we walked off school grounds there was already a sense that we were breaking all the rules. I wasn’t sure where she was taking me or why. But I knew I would follow her anywhere she wanted me to go without question.
We had been sweethearts since the first day of first grade. She was perfect in every way and by light years the smartest kid in class. There were many other attributes that set her apart from all the other girls in that small-town school. Her blond wispy hair seemed to form an angelic aura around a face so translucent you could see faint shades of pink and blue under her porcelain skin. Although she was just as unschooled as I in the subtleties of conversation, there was a tacit agreement since that first day… we were girlfriend and boyfriend.
This love affair had primarily been taking place inside my fantasy world. If we ever spoke, I can’t remember any context or content of the exchange. Occasionally we sat together at sporting events. We both played clarinet in school band. Even though she didn’t live that far away, we didn’t see much of each other in the intervening summers. But when school days rolled around I was once again smitten by her mystique.
While no one in our small rural town was wealthy, her parents were slightly above the norm. They lived in a stone house rather than one of the many white clapboard houses that dotted the provincial neighborhoods. And to make her even a little more out of reach and, in a certain way exotic, her family was Catholic. My Southern Baptist upbringing did not allow for much intermingling.
By age twelve things were shifting for me in the hormone department. I was starting to take notice of the opposite sex; developing breasts and widening hips. On occasion during those interminable hours sitting at my desk in school I would find myself purposely dropping my pencil to gain perhaps a fleeting glimpse up the skirt of who ever happened to be seated back and to my left.
Unlike my Catholic girlfriend who was baptized with holy water, poured over her head, soon after birth and thus quickly saved from eternal damnation, my religion called its adherents to present ourselves at the altar of the Lord when closing in on what was considered the age of accountability. For Baptists, faith is a matter between God and the individual without the intermediary, i.e. priest. We were expected to profess our faith publicly.
In contrast, my counterpart Catholic girlfriend, came into second grade one day dressed all in white taffeta with a curious black lanyard or some such garland around her neck. (I’ve since been told is called a scapular). She had been confirmed to her parent’s brand of Christianity with more fanfare but perhaps less emotional outpouring than my revival salvation which would take place years later.
My baptism took place within a few months prior to being led by someone who I considered to be an angel on earth. Young girls ripen faster than boys. My fantasy life was far ahead of any practical experience I could summon. On that day, so many years ago, when all I wished for was to impress my temptress with my good looks and growing manly skill, my primal instincts and self-confidence were sorely lacking.
As we stepped behind an abandoned barn, still within earshot of the playground, the girl of my dreams simply leaned up against the side of those weatherworn boards, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. And then I got it—she wanted to be kissed—by me.
This caught me unawares. I hadn’t planned for this. I had never kissed a girl. I didn’t know how to go about it. What would I say afterward? What if she didn’t like my kiss? If only she had prompted me a little. If only she had suggested that she wanted to be kissed or at least pointed to her mouth. But it was not meant to be. My brain froze as if I had eaten ice cream too fast. If I had listened with my heart I would have taken that leap, but I wasn’t sure and there was too much at risk. At least that’s what I thought. What should have been my first kiss, beyond the schoolyard and behind the old barn, didn’t happen.
How often I’ve been told we shouldn’t have regrets about anything in the past, but I still regret not stepping up to the plate and planting that kiss. Whether it was due to my ineffectual response or something of a more exalted nature, that relationship started to decline soon after that lost first kiss. Although we continued through high school, we never acknowledged each other. I watched at graduation as she crossed the stage to accept the honor of Valedictorian. Still the smartest kid in class.
I have often wondered how the two proximal worlds of spiritual and physical encounters during that innocent time of life have shaped my psyche. Had my young sweetheart and I been of similar religious upbringing would it have been different? Reflecting now, I simply file it under “missed opportunities”, a file drawer that is mostly kept hidden from view.
by Alan Hundley
© 2018, All Rights Reserved
