Summer'd Out

I thought older guys were amazing.

I found out they weren’t.

It changed nothing.

Maybe I should start at the beginning…

The summer of 1970—the year I turned 15—was likely the most…erm…memorable in my life.

I just wish it could have been for the right reasons.

Sigh.

At least I learned a lot…

My first lesson came in a delivery van. The one with “Red and White grocery” emblazoned on the side. Oh, it wasn’t because I had a thing for vans. Or food, for that matter, although both are rather necessary, I admit.

Nope. It was the driver of this particular van that had me salivating.

The Boy was gorgeous. Tall and slender. Dark-haired. Soft, brown eyes.

And four years older than me.

I was, quite literally, ga-ga.

I wandered up and down the town streets with my best friend, Dani, hoping he’d drive by.

And he did.

With amazing regularity.

He would stop.

We would visit.

He would suddenly remember he had a job and disappear in a cloud of gas fumes.

Taking my heart with him.

Yep. I had it bad.

Our dating was just…natural.

I can see you’re worried, so I’ll jump ahead by saying that nothing happened. Oh, we kissed a bit, but that’s all.

He was my first boyfriend and, though the relationship was sweet, it was chaste.

And short-lived.

He moved on. I moved on.

Okay, yes a few tears were shed. But, in point of fact, the whole experience was fairly painless.

But a lesson just the same.

Afterward, Dani and I discussed it endlessly.

But, let’s face it. Neither of us knew what we were talking about.

It was soon relegated to the ‘things-of-my-past-that-affected-me-but-not-for-long’ file.

Lesson #1.

Then came our town’s summer parade/pancake breakfast/midway/rodeo/Geoff’s party/town dance.

Something I looked forward to every. Single. Year.

But this time, I had a better reason for my anticipation. There was a boy I was interested in—who seemed to be interested in me.

Okay, he wasn’t from my usual crowd. In point of fact, he was with the ‘smoking up’ group. One I really wasn’t familiar with—being, as I was, a ranch kid. (Horses and cows, I understood. People? Not so much.)

But he was really cute.

And my older brother’s age—two years ahead of me, sooo…that just added to my interest!

The day went well, for the most part. Me and my tall, black gelding, Slim, got to be in the mounted color guard that led the parade.

All eyes were on me!

Or so I assumed…

My friends and I ‘did’ the displays and the midway. Laughed and talked and ate.

But in the back of my mind was…the party. And the dance.

Actually, everything fell together. The Boy and I visited together at the party and—wonder of wonders—he asked to take me to the dance afterward.

Laaaaaaaa!

He probably wouldn’t have had to drive. All he would have needed to do was tie a string around my ankle and float me there.

But, okay, yes, things had to be a bit more…prosaic.

Sooo…car…driving.

Because…reasons.

Actually, that was also interesting. Apparently, kids that ‘smoked up’ in the days before it was legal, hid their stash under the floor mats in their cars.

Where police would never, ever look.

Huh.

Of course, I had to find out about all this the hard way…

When we had gotten into his—I’m going to say: classic—car, he pulled me over against him.

I’m quite sure my heart stopped.

Then, “Careful not to step…over there,” he said in his sexy older guy voice. Indicating, with the vague wave of one hand the floor space on the passenger’s side of the car.

“Oh.” And here I had thought…never mind.

I carefully set my feet on the hump in the middle and kept them there.

“You don’t mind?”

Putting my feet on the hump in the middle of the car? Or…oh, you mean the drugs-super-cleverly-hidden-under-the-floor-mat-where-they-couldn’t-possibly-be-found?

“No. I don’t mind.”

“You are absolutely amazing!”

I blinked. I was?

Cool!

The drive to the dance was all too short, being, as it was, about 10 blocks.

In a small town.

With no traffic.

We walked in. Well, he walked and I floated. (see above)

Long tables had been set all around the outside of the enormous room, allowing for seat-age and food-age and drink-ing.

And they (the tables) were nearly full.

We squeezed in with my brother and his other friends not far from the doors.

This last will be important.

We sat there, getting settled and chatting happily with the people around us.

I was feeling justifiably important, considering whom I had walked in with.

Then the music started.

Now, I’m a dancer. Oh, not anything to put on a stage, but I love it. I was instantly eager for a little skip and hop around the dance floor.

I looked at my ‘date’ expectantly.

But he’d already gotten up.

I almost rose, too.

Until I realized he was moving around the table.

I watched as he walked over to a girl seated on the far side.

Ronna.

Who was a year younger than me!

He bent over and said something to her.

She looked at me. Then shrugged and got up and the two of them went out onto the dance floor.

What they did out there, I’ll never know, because by that point, I had taken my crimson-faced self out the door and was eight of the 10 blocks home.

Again, Dani and I discussed at length. Me, with a little more oomph behind the tears.

Lesson #2.

Then, the competition for Hereford Princess.

And yes, this really is a thing.

It started out well…

Me and five other teenage girls all competing for the coveted sash.

And crown.

And, guess what?

The judges gave it to me!

Me!

Hereford Princess!

Everything that had gone before in my suddenly bland life became…bland-er.

And—wonder of wonders, Sam suddenly became more than a blip on my horizon. Sam. He of the ‘same-age-as-my-eldest-brother-so-five-years-my-senior’ status. He appeared suddenly at my side. Like Bruce the Shark and sweet, tasty Chrissie in Jaws. (Google it.)

With much the same effect.

He insisted on driving me home.

Insisted I sit right next to him.

Insisted we stop for a little slap-and-tickle.

Fortunately, that’s as far as things went and he dropped me off at home.

But by that point, my interest in males of a certain age was dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Dani and I discussed. And came to the final conclusion that older boys were dumb.

Lesson #3.

My summer ended there.

What did I learn?

Restraint and discernment were my friends.

Also: Older guys were stupid.

With these thoughts in mind, I headed happily out for my first day of Grade 10.

The bus ride was much the same—same kids, mostly.

But as we joined the queue heading into the high school, I noticed a group of guys, standing to one side…talking.

Grade twelves, by the look of them.

Mmmmm…

See? I learned nothing.