1963

We had family friends, the Taylors, who had three boys close in age to us three girls. Once in a while the families would get together for barbecues and socializing. The mother, Jane, was a long time friend of Mother's who had known her before she married Daddy. Jane was, in fact, in their wedding. I remember eating watermelons in our backyard and playing on the swing set with the Taylor boys. They had a "weenie" dog that we loved to chase around when we went to their home. The son my age was Jerry. By the time we all were pre-teens, we did not get together much anymore. Life was busy with school and church, and Mother was not always well. We also lived on the other side of town from the Taylor clan - we in the more pedestrian neighborhood.

In the late fall of 1962 we moved to Wedgwood, a brand new home development in Fort Worth, Texas. Or house was a huge five bedroom mansion built on a hill, and Daddy paid $16,000 for it - thirty year fixed! We three girls had to leave the schools we had always attended and the friends we had made to go to this upper middle class neighborhood. Ninth grade was still junior high back then, and it was a hard year to start over making friends. The junior high school was newly opened, and the boy I liked from church went there; but, I literally knew no one else. By the middle of the school year every crew-socked fourteen-year-old girl had already chosen a "BFF." Drama class saved me; I garnered a major part in the ninth grade play and even got to wear red high heels! I did not, however, make a really good friend that year; so, I felt more displaced when I began my freshman year at Pascal High School.

I still have dreams in which I search the vast maze of the school's polished hallways attempting to find the elusive locker assigned to me. In 1963, we had homeroom before first period. The corralling of students first thing in the morning to take roll, pledge allegiance to the flag, hear the morning devotional, and listen to the day's announcements was the primary function of this early morning class. Jerry Taylor was in my homeroom, though it was clear I was not "cool" enough to be acknowledged as someone with whom he had spit watermelon seeds across the backyard. He would not even look me in the eye. It seemed to me there was something innately wrong with me. Day after day I entered homeroom feeling like anathema to the rest of the class. I knew no one there, except Jerry, and so always rather reticently took an open seat wherever I could find one. Of course, as fate would have it, most of the boys in class were on the football team and were gloriously, effortlessly blown up with themselves! Ninth grade letter jackets were flung over their shoulders in September Texas one hundred degree heat, and schools had no air conditioning then. These guys would rather shed their skin than their emblem of fame and prowess. It was a junior high jacket, for Pete's sake! Get over it!

Late in October I came early to homeroom. Two girls had arrived before me, their hair in perfect "flips" and their makeup just right. I chose not to sit near them. My hair was curly; couldn't get it to "flip" to save my life. Jerry Taylor was already there, too; so, fatefully, I sat near him and actually thought to say something scintillating like, "Hi." He turned his head, however, and I did not want my greeting bouncing off his skull and back to me, slapping me with the indignity of no response. Right before the bell rang, Donnie Hoover swaggered through the classroom door and eyed the room as if he were Caesar trying to locate his missing throne. Apparently, I had discovered it and was perched upon it in a grave breaching of royal decorum. With his eyes on the prize, Donnie, lathered from the sweat of bearing his letterman's jacket about in the dewy morning heat, approached my chair and stood there looking down on me.

"Make like a sewer and get the shit out of here." Matter of fact. Like women just did what he said.

Wow! What do you say to that? What does your good ole buddy, childhood friend of good ole watermelon days say to someone who says that to you? He laughs. It's funny, really! I mean, I was on Donnie's throne. (I think Donnie's first wife left him.) But, I moved. I can still feel my face burning and the squeezing of my heart into a really small lump. Jerry looked in my eyes for a moment as I was clutching my books to my chest in order to "make like a sewer" as fast as I could "get my shit" together. For a minute he felt sorry, embarrassed, I could tell. I never acknowledged his existence again. That day I ate my sack lunch in the restroom in a stall sitting on the commode with the seat down - actually, I ate my lunch in the restroom for many, many days after that. I was, after all, shit.

Something about me had changed at home. Usually I was talkative and at least trying to be funny; but, I just could not shake that awful cloak of disgrace that Donnie had thrown over me. I also hated myself for moving from that seat! Ultimately, my father took me aside one night when the dishes were done and everyone was settling in to do homework or watch television. "What is the matter with you, Kay?"

"What do you mean?"

"You are not yourself. Now, what's the matter?" Daddy, relentless.

How could I tell my father what Donnie had said? How could I take the chance that he might agree that I was worthless? Besides, I did not even know if I could say what Donnie had said. How could anyone say that to another human being? I would not have talked to an errant pet that way. I felt the humiliation of the moment filter once again through my veins and into my heart and up to my face. I could not tell Daddy what I had let someone say to me.

"Nothing, Daddy."

"I don't believe you, Kay." He pulled me to him in an embrace. "Now, what is wrong?"

It was the hug that was the killer. I would still be carrying Donnie's words around with me, but my father's warm strong arms made me suddenly vulnerable enough to spit out the toxic imperative. I just blubbered and blurted until Daddy heard the whole sordid story and his shirt was wet with tears and smeared with too much blue eye shadow.

Boy, was my Daddy mad! It almost made me laugh with relief, he was so mad! "What is this kids' name?" he thundered.

Oh, boy! Maybe should have let it ride. Quietly, almost inaudibly. "Donnie Hoover."

"Donnie Hoover, huh?" Daddy heard well back then. "Do you know where he lives?"

"No, Daddy."

"He will apologize to you or I will know the reason why!" Daddy was grabbing the phone book like a man possessed.

"What are you doing, Daddy?" Adrenaline surged, pumping my heart and making my armpits moist.

"Gonna call his dad!"

"What?" Oh, no!.....well, okay. Why not? Yeah! Call his dad!

My father called every Hoover in the yellow pages until he found the one with the kid named Donnie. "Donnie go to Pascal High School - tenth grade?" Pause. "Well, your Donnie owes my Kay an apology and she better get one tomorrow morning or I'll be coming over to talk to you personally!"

Way to go, Daddy!

"I'll tell you what he did!" Daddy regaled Donnie's dad with the story of my carnage even punctuating "certain" words for effect. "She will be expecting an apology in the morning, then. Thank you, sir." Click.

My dad was triumphant! My dad was Braveheart! My dad was my hero. My dad had "balls"!

I barely slept that night and got up early to make sure I looked as good as I possibly could. I guess I was trying to wipe the "shit" off before Donnie did, or I just wanted to feel good about myself so that when he was apologizing he would look at me and think, honestly, how wrong he had been to say something so "crappy" to someone so lovely. It would have been nice to think he had reconsidered because I deserved to be apologized to instead of saying he was sorry because if he didn't "someone's father" would just beat the crap out of him!

I was standing at my locker before homeroom, as I had become much more proficient at discerning its whereabouts, when Hal came up to me, red-faced and perspiring. He just stood there looking at me like he could not think where to begin. I looked around - I think I wanted to run. Finally, in true Neanderthal fashion, he said, "Your dad called my dad last night..and..I'm sorry for what I said to you." Donnie looked bewildered. Probably very unpracticed in the whole "please forgive me scenario."

"No big deal," I replied. Oh, my gosh! What am I saying? I am eating lunch on the pot! Of course words are a big deal!

I closed my locker and walked away and sat wherever I darn well pleased in homeroom!