Tall (6’4″) and thin with light red hair, he was a country boy who once raised a squirrel. We were mutually attracted, but it never really went anywhere, even though he gave me a breathtakingly handcrafted valentine with a poem written in his calligraphic hand.
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He was very effeminate, which I’m sure wasn’t easy for a high school teacher of German in the late 1970s. Not only did he use flamboyant hand gestures, he spoke with a lisp and topped off his image with a tiny mustache and jaunty beret.
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One of my college housemates visited us in our new home a few years after graduation, and threw up on our kitchen floor in the middle of the night. We’ve lost touch since then. I hope she’s having a happy Hanukkah wherever she is.
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We met through the school musical my senior year. He was only a sophomore, and I thought he was small and cute. I was surprised when he described me as popular, because I didn’t have the looks or social status — just a lot of friends.
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I found her by chance, as with all my stylists. She understood exactly what I wanted and made it happen. But what I really appreciate is her way with Peter’s hair. Somehow she reads his shrugs and muttered instructions, and does magic with her shears.
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She thought she was doing admirable work, creating first grade authors. But the pressure made my son dislike school so much — it had a lasting effect. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I wish I hadn’t. Nonetheless, she was gone at year’s end.
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He ran marathons and had the tall, lanky body to show for it. The kids and I looked forward to his friendly face whenever we’d stop by the bakery for cinnamon swirl bread. He always told me I looked gorgeous, even on my worst days.
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I saw him immediately after his birth, all red and naked. I didn’t realize at the time how incredible that was. My nephew grew into a sweet boy, a teenager singing barbershop, a young man at home on stage. Has it really been 25 years?
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He lived in our apartment building during Pete’s senior year of college, and worked in youth ministry. When his girlfriend left him, he wrote her a song and Pete helped him with the music and instrumentation. It was a valiant effort, but it didn’t work.
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Her photography and her Puppy 52 fashions caught my eye on the ThisIsBlythe boards. She definitely has a way with needle and thread, and her workmanship is impeccable. So is her illustration work. My blog logo is her design — I loved that she included my Blythe.
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When all the other nurses at the Red Cross failed to find my veins, she came to the rescue. I loved her calm approach and her ‘yah-hey’ northern Wisconsin accent. We compared our tattoos and talked about deferrals. She made blood donation almost pleasant.
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In 1978, I went with a friend to see him in concert. I decided we should try to go backstage afterwards. He was seated, and took my hand when I approached him. I told him I was a musician, too. He thought I was sweet.
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He was grey-haired and handsome, with a reassuring bedside manner. He numbed my face, respecting my choice to stay awake during nasal surgery. When I opened my eyes, he was holding a chisel and hammer to my nostril. I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.
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We became pen pals in 7th grade. She lived just a few hundred miles away, but her life on a dairy farm seemed very exotic to me. We visited each other every year, riding a Greyhound bus. I was at her house when Elvis died.
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We met as readers of Jodi’s blog. Actually, we’ve never been face to face; the closest we’ve come is snail mail. He sent mix CDs for my daughter, and introduced my kids to Homestar Runner. He and his wife have a cute little boy.
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Nearly every time I ordered my green tea latte last winter, she was the one handing it out the pick-up window. She never failed to compliment my knitted handwarmers, even offering to buy them. I just made a new pair — next time, they’ll be her tip.
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P.S. I hope she still works there.
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There’s something about her. Perhaps her long, wavy hair with its dramatic streak of grey. Or her full lips and womanly curves…her glasses framing mischievous eyes. Her lovely voice or sassy attitude. Whatever it is, she catches the eye of guys half her age.
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I remembered her parents from Lamaze class. She was born two days before Moon – they both had red hair. A year and a half later, we moved two houses away from her family. She and Moon are best friends. I think must be karmically connected.
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She was smart, pretty, good at sports, and seemed way more comfortable with herself than most middle schoolers. I envied her long blonde hair and the ease with which she bantered with all the boys. Of course they loved her. I wanted to be her.
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Moon put his image on a t-shirt but never imagined she’d meet him after the performance. We stood outside for ages and were rewarded with photos, smiles and conversation. Handsome and talented, but also kind and gracious, he seemed genuinely surprised to be someone’s favorite.
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