14 thoughts on “716

  1. I’m tempted – so tempted am I – to quiz if Ms. Byington (sp?) is the Spring in Question: I know your Miss Brooks never would toss petals (or pedals) at yer winders to get you out to play. Set out a big bushel basket, Bruce, to catch the petal-overfill so passing good wishes may toss more towards those panes.

  2. And for that you put up with not just Eddie Haskell but also that Wally guy whose permanently embedded fishhook really makes me feel for The Beeve. I mean, I only saw her twice – Annette Funicello(sp?) – because I have a strong aversion to mice and boys named Frankie.

  3. Then there was an urban folklore that Jerry Mathers (the Beeve) was KIA in Nam. My favorite is that Mr. Rogers (of children shows) was a WW2 Marine sniper who kept notches …that unfortunately may not be true…

  4. Mr. Rogers, a graduate of Winter Park’s
    Rollins College – just a mousetrap North of Orlando and three jiggers South of Snaffurd – was where Phred found hisownself. Another “local” was Buddy Ebsen who did indeed serve in WWII (graves registration first gig as a Navy ossiver of very junior proportions, collecting Marine corpses floating away from Betio Island in Tarawa Atoll.

  5. The ‘net fixation, sadly, fell apart by seventh grade…I had seen but a few mickey club shows – in part never in whole – and I found myself grasping at actual beings over which to froth sometime thereafter.

  6. howsovery not au courrant of you. My first filling of – gasp! Thankfull unrequitedness – was the estimable Sheila Fester. I stopped off at “Shakey” Marty whatshisname’s – new (former Special Services) palace off in the bamboo and banyan wilderness between mainside and 1/27’s stomping grounds at K-Bay whilst on I&I from my studies at THE university of SE Asia I-Corps Campus: the troops were painting the walls and – not oddly at all I am sure – the floors. I thought I might find a disintegrating Phat Phrog or perhaps a sent of Rapping Stone still about. Alas. all that was left was Ms. Fester whom and cordoned off in a bare room and began somewhat inhaled of me a discussion as to technique. Some, I said held forth that brush and roller was the way to paint, whereas I held forth that recovering the paint bucket and rapidly shaking said container and then removing the lid and tossing the resultant liquid from one wall to the next would achieve a higher purpose, and, by the way, now that we have managed to allow me to paint you into a corner, whaddayasay we exchange some spittle and other bodily fluids? That’s when Marty came in after pounding on the door and shouting “let me in! Let me in!” Oh, hell, lieutenant, that’s my goal too, wanted to return serve, but held instead, self-called a foot-fault and went back to the door, traipsing through still wet ridgelines of coagulating paint, and blessed him into our presence. As he entered I exited and nevermore had cause to darken Delightful Sheila’s presence. Later, whilst serving penance at Philadelphia HQ Recruiting and Reserve District, I reestablished contact with – oh, damn…OK, came to me: Sandy Reilly(sp) who was doing much the same in New Orleans. From those two extremes I deigned to travel a route of fulfillment instead of frequent forehead-and-oak tree denting. You? Of course I must pay ;homage to Haley Mills, for whom still I yearn.

  7. I had not yet fully developed the necessary side-step routine but just before going off to study at USEA, I met a girl whose family ran the local mega-dairy – or did she meet me? – who whilst fingers fumbled with the mystery of brastraps, etcetera, took me to her family supper and said, now, J, when do I get to meet your mom and dad…why, tomorrow I said. I got mom involved. She was thrilled and suggested a nice quiet tea out under the spreading camphor trees by the big garden, thereby ensuring brothers two and papa one would not intrude. Fine, I said: I set up the wrought iron sitting and table torture devices and squired young Julie (damn, another last name missing roll call – Hutchinson…by and by I linked to another girl I so lusted for Jeanne Klinefelter who married one of Julie’s brothers and thus I realize young- and olds-himers will have yet to wait – and when I got mom and Julie together and placed under the wind-whispered leaves, I snapped a finger, exclaimed, Oh, Darn! I forgot something and raced to my car and took off without a backward glance.
    Two days later when I returned mom was laughing still: she sent Julie home with younger brother Storm after hour two of my departure. And when I approached expecting the worst, Mrs. Richards said: no, don’t say a word. Let me guess: Julie wanted to be my friend. And by rule a girl can be your friend of my friend. And either negates the other.
    Later I learned that Julie had two other Vietnam-bound engagements, and both times got married and both times cashed large government insurance checks. Am I good? No. But lucky!

Comments are closed.