I ran into a member of my church the other day. She was in the Kroger. Party time was only a few hours away. She had to be prepared. But it wasn’t her party for which she shopped. Nope, it was an After-The-Prom Party she was to have ready when the young ones got home.
As I watched her load up that cart my mind wandered back to another century, back to my prom.
It all started when my grandfather and I were having a
man-to-man discussion over the consternation I was experiencing with the
approaching event. I really wanted to go to the prom. Fact was, I was a fairly
good dancer, and I liked to dance. But I didn’t have a girl friend. So he asked
me who I wanted to take to the dance. I told him I really, really wanted to
take Pasty Estes. The problem was Sandy Miller, and Sandy Miller was, well,
Sandy Miller was Sandy Miller. She lived way up there on a pedestal. But my
grandfather said the worst thing she could do was to say “no” and if she did
I’d be no worse off than I was then.
I asked Sandy Miller to go to the dance with me. That’s when my real anxiety began. Sandy Miller actually said, “Yes, I’d love to.”
Sandy Miller was going to the prom with me. She was not going with that Neanderthal football player Alex Rogers; she wasn’t going with that ego-inflated egg-head Eddie Turner. Sandy Miller was going to the dance with me.
Can you imagine the tension that inhabited my being? Can you imagine the myriad details that had to be attended to? Can you imagine? Can you imagine? I was going to the dance with Sandy Miller. Could life get any better? And he told me I didn’t have to drive Daddy’s old clunker. He told me I could drive his car. Life was good. Sandy Miller was going to the prom with me in a fancy car.
You should have seen that white dinner jacket. You should have seen that pleated tux shirt with the smoky gray studs. You should have seen the wrist corsage I purchased for her. You should have seen Sandy Miller. Oh, my goodness, you should have seen Sandy Miller. She had encased her glorious self in a strapless gown that took my breath away.
You should have seen the guys staring at me when I walked into that dance with Sandy Miller. You should have seen me dancing like the central character in a Fred Astair musical with Sandy Miller the Ginger Rogers of our generation. Give me a minute. I’m recalling the moment myself.
Okay, I’m back. After the prom Sandy Miller and I headed for downtown Atlanta. We had a midnight dinner with some friends, all of whom kept staring at me because I was with Sandy Miller. We laughed and we joked and reveled in the fact we were out so late. I reveled in the fact I was out so late with Sandy Miller.
Evening over, I headed home. “What’s that spot on your jacket?” my mother asked. I informed her it was Sandy Miller’s makeup, where her head had rested on my shoulder.
That’s the story of my prom. I later found out she went with me only because I could dance better than that Neanderthal Alex Rogers. Today they, together, have five grandchildren.
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