Bobwhite Boyfriend Crushes

If the Bobwhites weren't mooning over old movie stars, we were drooling over our school year books. Slumber party the last day of school was mandatory. Location - rec room floor of only child, fish tank glowing in the background. Sleeping bags arranged like wagon spokes. Pillows to the center, yearbooks on top. No peeking. We would drag out our ritual every year. This was serious business! Brownies had to be baked and cooled, Coke's on ice. Pretzels in big bowls, napkins to please the Mom. Slip between the zippers, pillows tucked under elbows. Open, inside cover. Squeals of delight and endless discussions over each and every syllable, the slant of the letters, the flourish of the name. Hopefully a boy name! Our entire summer would be planned around any boys we were lucky enough to get to sign our books. We may not have had cars, but we had bikes!

Endless summer days of riding our bikes past boy's houses that we each had crushes on. We would make enough noise to bring anyone out of their houses, but not the boys! The only time we ever saw them was if they were outside mowing the lawn or playing basket ball. Heads down, pedal faster, not enough nerve to stop. All summer long we thrilled ourselves with the possibility that one would look up and smile, or gasp, wave! And then one day, one did! "Hey, do you girls live around here? I see you ride past my house every single day." "UHHHH, we just like the exercise. Well, gotta go." He probably could hear us squealing all the way out of his neighborhood. This one hello kept us on cloud nine for the entire summer. Nothing more was needed. So simple were our days.

A Couple's Dance

The most romantic couple I have ever known were my Uncle Howard and Aunt Mildred. Howard had been an airplane mechanic in War World II and continued in that field after the war. Aunt Mildred was a homemaker. I never wanted visits to their home to come to an end.

Their home was quintessentially 1940's Americana. Knotty pine walls yellowed with age, oval braided rugs, pipe stand and fringed lamps. High backed couch and step down end tables, walk around fireplace. Starched white Priscillas and Miss America glass pattern. Big open kitchen, bread and butter pickles, homemade biscuits, Uncle Howard at the sink. Every evening after supper he would wash the dishes for Mildred, happily whistling. He said he loved washing dishes because he could really get his nails clean after a day working on airplanes. Aunt Mildred at his side quietly drying and putting away, the light above the sink in the darkening kitchen, just for them. Dishes done, a breakfast spot set for Uncle Howard's early rise, his coffee cup turned upside down on it's saucer, their quiet dance done for the evening.

My last visit to Uncle Howard and Aunt Mildred's house was the same as my first visit as a child. The simple sharing of the routine of the day showed me the type of love I wanted for myself. Aunt Mildred was very ill on that last visit. Uncle Howard slept on the floor by her bedside so as not to disturb her painful sleep. He said to me, "I have never spent a day apart from her. She has given me so much, I am happy just to be near her." Uncle Howard would pass away very shortly after the death of Aunt Mildred. I have always loved to wash dishes. I know this is because of this most romantic couple.

"Digging To China"

Every kid at some point in childhood hears the expression, "If you dig deep enough, you can dig your way to China." My brother took this saying literally! He asked my Mom if could he and the neighborhood kids could dig a hole in the backyard. "Of course, just play nice." replied my Mom.

By the end of the week, my mother received a telephone call from the next door neighbor, "Peggy, I didn't know you all were getting a swimming pool." Of course my mother had no idea what she was talking about. "You had better look outside your window!"

There in the middle of our yard was a hole as wide as a small swimming pool, no brother in sight. Going close to edge of the hole, there was my brother and 12 neighborhood boys all digging furiously. "John! What are you doing!" yelled down my Mom. "Digging to China." yelled back up my brother.

My brother and I giggle to this day at the thought of the parade of neighbors that came to see the swimming pool sized hole!

A Bobwhite's First Crush

In my 13th summer I got to be the "bring along companion" of my Bobwhite Only Child friend for two months in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. Each day we bicycled to our very own cove, spent hours rowing about in the Magdalena Hagdalena, dove off  rock embankments into the briny ocean and let the sun bake our skin dry. We pedaled back to our cottage along an old tar road enveloped by the tallest pine trees with blueberry bushes growing along the edges in time to dress ourselves for dinner at Fisherman's Wharf. Each night we sat at the same window table and ordered our favorite meals, and each night the same cute busboy who cleared our plates visited my dreams with romantic kisses. My first crush on a boy! As the summer came to an end I still had only managed a shy smile. I didn't even know his name.

Home. I just could not stop thinking about the blond haired, blue eyed, lanky tan busboy; so I wrote a letter and put it in an envelope inside of an envelope, and sent it to the restaurant. On the inside envelope I wrote, "Please give this to the busboy who is kinda tall and has blond hair and really blue eyes and is really cute." In the letter itself I poured out my adoration as only a teenage girl can..." I like swimming, and tennis, and bike riding, and I love the Osmonds...." No return letter.

School begins, no letter. Leaves begin to fall, and finally a letter comes. "Hello, I got your letter. I thought you were a really cute girl. Very tan. I didn't write sooner because I've been getting settled in at my dorm. I drove my new motorcycle here. Hey you are a really special girl, but my girlfriend says I can't write to you. Well, I gotta go now and hit the books... Always, your busboy, Dan ......"

 A Bobwhite's first crush, a heart ache so sweetly remembered.


Story Update: 2017 As is the case with me, I am late to the world made oh so small through the wonder of Facebook. I couldn't imagine what I would ever use Facebook for until the thought occurred to me I might just be able to discover whatever had become of "my busboy".  Dan ..., Boothbay Harbor, Maine. Easily enough found, but how to know if it was truly him. Scrolling through each group of pictures shared I came to the very last picture, a motorcycle! The very one he had worked all summer to buy before heading off to college. A message sent,  "Were you ever a busboy at Fisherman's Wharf , do you remember a 13-year old pen pal?" I went on to thank him for my wonderful girlhood memories, and how happy I was to see it seems as though his life was a good one. Months passed by, a message for me to read. "Hello! Yes I am your busboy. So nice of you to remember me."