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Learning about girls
Topics: Growing Up
Posted by samheath Fri Aug 17, 2007 15:30:03 PDT
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It amazes young people when those of my elder status recall things youngsters believe we have forgotten, or worse never knew about and don’t even understand. This difference is exaggerated by the fact young people have never been old, and are simply not qualified to pronounce judgment on the elderly. For example, though I recall it with nostalgic melancholy for the better part I haven’t forgotten what it was to be a young boy learning about girls.

When I was a boy living in Little Oklahoma (Southeast Bakersfield), there was no TV with so-called “children’s programming” where so much of sex and violence is drummed into the minds of children on a daily basis. Children didn’t live under the threat of a nuclear holocaust, we trusted our leaders and children had heroes back then to depend upon to save the day, those like the Lone Ranger, the Phantom, Superman, and we had our churches where faith in God and America were a part of childhood instruction and growing up. In those days gone by many were the simple pleasures of childhood, things like shooting marbles, building balsa and tissue model airplanes, exchanging comic books with friends, boys played shoot ‘em up games with cap guns and girls played with dolls. It was a simple order of things, the way things were supposed to be.

But in the process of childhood, the distinguishing physical characteristics defining the roles of girls and boys is also the way things are supposed to be just as Sam Clemens and Harper Lee so well described them. And no matter the era or the passing of time girls and boys eventually have to confront the things that make them what they are in respect to the opposite sex.

This most fascinating of subjects reminds me of a neighbor girl, Becky Williams. I remember meeting her when I was only about seven and she must have been about the same age. What happened with Becky came about because of comic books. While I enjoyed comic books, I loved reading the National Geographic. My maternal grandparents had a wonderful collection of them, many quite old. They had beautifully engraved covers, always with a striking picture on the front. They were in neat rows in display bookcases, their bright and colorful yellow spines showing proudly. The cases were those beautiful ones that had glass doors you lifted up and slid back into the case to get to the books.

I would lie on the floor of the parlor and pour over the articles, the pictures, and even some of the advertisements. The Parker Fountain Pen and Packard ads with gold highlights were especially attractive, reflecting in the soft glow of coal oil lamps or dim electric lights. And grandma was always there in her rocking chair with a book to keep me company.

There were wonderful worlds of adventure in the Geographic’s and I never tired of traveling to them in imagination. And there were fascinating things in science and astronomy to further fire my imagination and curiosity about so many things. Strange animals, reptiles, fish, and insects of all manners were pictured and described, and fascinating black men and women in Africa that wore hardly any clothes and lived where the adventures of Tarzan, and Sheena, Queen of the Jungle took place. I would become absorbed in the stories of safaris going into unexplored jungles; discovering wonders of that Dark Continent and I wished I could go with these intrepid and brave adventurers.

And there was the magnificent set of the World Encyclopedia to which I had constant resource. I never tired of reading in this set of large, handsomely bound books; so much to answer questions and excite my curiosity and imagination. My readings in science were greatly enhanced by having a microscope, magnifying glass, and chemistry set. These were birthday and Christmas presents and I made full use of them. I spent hours collecting various specimens, insects and vegetation, preparing slides and peering through magnifying glass or microscope at the wonders of God’s intricate creation.

There was an abundance of insects around our place. The iridescent bottle flies with their beautiful colors of green, yellow, and red, the black and white striped beetles and horseflies; spiders of all kinds were fascinating. The small, armored, gray rolypolies (some people called them sow bugs. But I liked that name rolypoly) were abundant as well. My brother Ronnie and I enjoyed the way the little creatures would roll themselves into a tight, protected ball like miniature armadillos when touched. Then a slight flick of the finger would send them scooting like a tiny, gray marble.

And there was a natural fascination as well with black widows identified by their shining black and bulbous bodies and their iridescent red hourglass designed to strike terror in both children and adults. We were warned repeatedly of these and the violin, or brown recluse, spider. Before grandad installed indoor plumbing, Ronnie and I learned early on to lift the hinged seat of the privy and take a stick to discomfit and clear any resident arachnids and cobwebs, and then slam it down as an extra measure of precaution. And there was the bag of powdered lye inside as well. When you did your business, you had to throw in a scoop of this to discourage flies, keep down the maggot population and disinfect.

If anything could explode, had a venomous bite or was dangerous in any way, it had an automatic attraction and fascination to young minds. I inadvertently discovered that if you had a sheet of single shot caps in the back pocket of your overalls and slid on the floor, the caps would ignite from friction. Lost a good pair of overalls that way.

A small, fresh leaf would disclose movement of liquid through its veins under my microscope. Plants were, indeed, living things. Since we had an abundance of birds and fowl, feathers of all kinds went under the microscope as well. I imagined myself exploring jungles and collecting wonderful and exotic creatures, insects and plants, just like those men and women in the Geographic articles.

During WWII, I would dream of discovering miraculous properties of materials with my chemistry set, things that I just knew would help win the war. Explosives held a particular fascination for me. I had very quickly progressed beyond juvenile things like fingerprint powder, invisible ink, and material that would slowly burn when applied to toilet paper and ignited. Or in a flash like gunpowder; like cologne, or cigarette lighter fluid.

Of course, some of this knowledge and experimentation had to be gained and done rather surreptitiously. I was usually aware of what would have been approved or not if I asked questions or for help about certain things. So I tried to avoid incriminating questions or asking for help that was bound to provoke a negative response by the surrounding adults. And such questions I already knew the answer to I didn’t have to ask.

But about Becky. One evening while I was lying on the floor in the parlor reading there was a knock at the door, and when I went to see who it was it was Becky. I had loaned her a couple of my comic books earlier that day. She handed me the comics and said, “Thank you, Donnie.” Then she had kissed me quickly on the cheek and ran off into the night.

I stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of such bizarre behavior! But I tried to avoid Becky from then on. Girls. Huh. Strange creatures. It didn’t occur to me to resort to my microscope and chemistry set to find an answer to such incomprehensible workings of the female mind.

It took some time before that world of intrigue distinguishing between girls and boys began to make its demands on my attention. There were still things before me like playing Post Office and Spin the bottle, and like Tom Sawyer to begin the time honored ritual of trying to impress girls. But you know folks, way back then there was the mystery and intrigue of romance to the process, something in far too many cases being denied to girls and boys today.

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Comment From: Katatak

I notice your blog has a different portal for commenting than anyone else's.

Other than that, this blog reminded me of a girl I loved in 6th grade. Her name was June, and she was a Hawaiian beauty. I would sit her atop my bicycle and carry her books while gently pushing her home.

Our first and only kiss was engineered by her older sister who felt a certain empathy for my hopeless affliction of love.

That first chaste kiss was orchestrated next to a mud puddle in the desert surrounded by discards and old, junk tires. Her sister, Cheryl, told us to imagine a beautiful, mountainous lake scene and imagine we did.

That gentle touching of our lips, no longer than two or three seconds, travels like a beam of light to adorn the crown of my gathering years with a precious memory filled with child like innocence.

Like Helen Keller wrote about the many, "have a wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose."

Such "kisses" are rare and precious, but few there are among young people today who can recall a first brush with true beauty because it never happened for them.

Selfish moderns, the vulgarians, have determined that for them.

Comment From: Katatak

Also curious, I can't click to your profile and if I post and the "I" or "l" comes up then my comment is lost. What is going on with your blog?