A Lesson In Love

It was a hot July day back then. It was a hot July day following the sixth grade. I was cutting the grass. My weekly chore was to cut the grass. Every Saturday I cut the grass, even if it was a hot July day.

Now, dear Reader, understand that on that hot July day following the sixth grade year when I cut the grass, it was much different than cutting the grass in the Twenty-first Century. Back in the last century, when I was cutting the grass on that hot July day following my sixth grade year, the grass was cut with a push mower. It was truly a push mower. I was the motor. I did the pushing. The harder I pushed the faster the blades turned. But, one can only push so fast for so long before one loses one’s breath. Yet, I pushed. I pushed because it was my chore. And when I completed my chore I got thirty-five cents. That was enough money to go to the movies at the Decatur Theater, where for that thirty-five cents I could see a feature movie, a serial movie, where there was a chapter every week, a cartoon, and future attractions promos, plus some candy or popcorn and a soft drink.

On this particular hot July afternoon, my mind was not on the thirty-five cents. My mind was not on how Rocket Man was going to extricate himself from the precarious situation he’d found himself in last week’s chapter of the serial movie. My mind was on more important things. More pressing things. My mind was on love.

Katie Simmons, in my sixth grade class, sat on the row to my left and two seats forward from me. Katie Simmons had blonde curls that cascaded about her head and bounced about with every movement of her body. Katie Simmons was smart. Katie Simmons always made the best grades. Katie Simmons was the most beautiful creature that ever attended Medlock Elementary School. One day, sometime during my sixth grade year, I realized that Katie Simmons was exceptional. And more importantly, though I couldn't articulate it at the time, I was in love with Katie Simmons.

So, on that particular hot day in the middle of July as I cut the grass with that push mower and sweated, I was distracted by visions of bouncing blonde curls, of delicate skin, of flashy smiles that exhibited pearly white teeth, and a laugh that compared only to the laughter of an angel. As my chore ended, I made a big decision.

“Ready to go to the movie?” my Dad asked, as he handed me my thirty-five cents. 

“Not today,” I replied. “I think I’m going to go for a bike ride.”

Inside I cleaned up. I brushed my teeth. It was unnecessary as I’d brushed them that morning. But, I’d made up my mind. I took a bath. I pulled out some really sharp clothes, neatly pressed pants with an obvious crease. A shirt, cut in such a way as to accentuate my maleness. Then I left the house.

The first half of the trip to Katie Simmons’ house was easy. It was mostly downhill. I coasted along on my Western Flyer bicycle as I envisioned the many ways I could express my affection, my love, for Katie Simmons.

The second half of the trip to Katie Simmons house was uphill, really uphill. I zig-zagged my bike from one side of the street to the other as I struggled up the hill that led to Katie’s house. I couldn’t fail. I couldn’t afford to get off the bike and push lest Katie see me and find me less than manly. Zig-zagging I struggled along until, finally, I arrived at Katie’s driveway.

I paused, waiting for my panting to subside and the sweat to diminish. One had to appear worthy before Katie Simmons. Finally, ready, I mustered up my courage and approached the front door of the house. 

“Knock. Knock.”

I waited. I tried again.

“Knock. Knock”

This time a man came to the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m here to see Katie.” I proclaimed with all the confidence a boy in the summer following his sixth grade year could muster.

“Katie?” he asked.

“Katie,” I said, wondering why this man would not know the name of his daughter, the beautiful Katie Simmons.

“Oh, Katie,” he said, “Katie. Yes, she doesn’t live here anymore. We bought their house when they moved to Oklahoma.”

The ride back home seemed much longer than the ride to Katie’s house. And the ride seemed uphill all the way.

When I got home my Dad asked, “Did you have a good ride?”

I didn’t answer. I went to my room. It was a hot day in July following my sixth grade year when Katie Simmons became just a distant memory. 

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THERE’S A LESSON HERE: It’s never too early to tell someone you love them.

Comments

[Robin]

My first love was a fellow sixth-grader as well. I conducted his memorial service last winter.

[QP]

How wonderful.