I
saw her for the first time coming down the pathway that led from the girls
dormitory to the main dining hall at our band camp in the summer of 1986. My life was never quite the same after this.
When
I say, ‘I saw her for the first time,’ I mean that this was the first time I
was able to see her for who she was. I
had ‘seen’ her many times before and we had conversations on our bus trip in
1985 to Florida and back. But what I saw of her was only with my eyes. I don’t
know what it was about this day, whether it was the waning later afternoon
light when shadows start to lengthen, maybe it was the first time I ever saw
her with her hair down or maybe I had reached a point when my heart was open to
more than just what is superficial. I don’t know. But I know that when I ‘saw’ her on this day,
it was like the first time for me.
The
burnished afternoon sunlight came through her flowing light brown hair that spilled
down over her slender shoulders like a soft and warm chestnut waterfall – it
was as if gravity was suspended for a few moments in time; there was a delicate
humid breeze. I looked up and was
instantly entranced. It is a moment in time that I will never forget. I stopped
breathing and my mouth became dry and cottony. I probably didn’t blink
either. I just watched her walk by and
was seized from within.
Over
the course of the next few weeks, she allowed me into her life. I allowed her
into parts of my own life – at least the parts that were safe. She didn’t seem
to care about my poverty and screwed up family. She didn’t care about how
self-conscious I was about my smile, my clothes, my wobbly musical
abilities. She was quite willing to
accept me for the person I was – and if you have ever had someone like this
come into your life, you can understand what a positive influence this can
be.
Within
this tartan whirlwind of Marlington music I had found a best friend and she was
able to reach me.
We
became nearly inseparable. I adored her company, her attention, and her sense
of humor. I understood that having
someone like this in my life would mean making a few changes on my end. She
accepted me for who I was, but I started to believe that I could be more than
that. I’d have to take school seriously,
like she did. I’d have to take my music
and practicing seriously, as she did. It was from her that I developed a taste
for reading, a love of the arts, and a peculiar curiosity in spiritual
things. I didn’t mind losing my
cigarettes and beer stash because I honestly would be ashamed if she knew I
ever did such things. The more I got to
know her, the more I wanted to be like her.
She dreamed of being a translator for the United Nations; I was thinking
of either the Army or American Steel Foundries after high school. Her dreams
were so much bigger than mine and I loved that about her. I was partial to Rush
and AC/DC and she was into Hooked On Classics and Falco. But we both believed in and loved the music of the Marching Dukes of
Marlington.
Within
a few weeks we were out at the Carnation Mall for our first date. It was a movie, and in every moment, I was
terrified that I would do something stupid or say something wrong that would
pop the bubble of warmth that had seemed to form around us.
My
sister picked us up from the mall after the movie in her little black Chevelle
and we drove back to Gretchen’s house on Nellabrook with the FM radio music on,
chatting as we rode – the streetlights in the night passed by as we drove
along.
We
pulled into her driveway, and I walked her to her door and the porch lights
were off – it was a warm summer night and the dense leaves of a front yard
maple tree cast a dark shade in the night around us. I leaned forward slightly, and our lips
touched gently; it took everything I had to keep my knees from buckling because
the flood of emotions that swelled within me was incomprehensible. It was so
sudden. I couldn’t speak. Time became suspended.
And
then quickly she went into her house, and I drove away with my sister behind
the wheel. We were more than three miles down the road on South Sawburg before
I was able to mutter something. The only
thing I could say was... “God... she is so pretty.” I remember my sister smiled and didn’t say
anything. We drove home along the rest
of the way in the night in silence. It was dark at night, but if felt like
morning to me.
The Spirit Box
“What
is this?”
“It’s
a spirit box,” she said.
We
were sitting in the very crowded hallway in the high school surround by
suitcases, bags, instruments, sleeping bag rolls, a hundred other teenagers,
and the flotsam and jetsam that is inextricably linked to the teenage
mind. I looked down at what she had
handed me, and I did a good job at hiding the tears that swelled into my eyes.
What I was holding was an old shoe box that she had decorated in wrapping paper
and foil. Inside the box was a treasure
of things to make any long bus ride more enjoyable. Candy of a wide variety, some cookies that
her mom had made, a pack of mechanical pencils for school, a bottle of new
valve oil for my mellophone and a book.
I knew it the moment I had opened the box and saw the orange cover. The orange cover had black lettering on it
that read: The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone. I must have picked that book up a dozen times
or more at Walden’s Books at the Carnation Mall – she had noticed.
“I
don’t know what to say Gretchen... thank you.”
I
didn’t have anything to give back to her, but she didn’t care.
I
noticed dozens of my fellow bandmembers opening similar packages all around
me. The spirit box was another tradition
in band before the larger competitions.
Friends exchanged them to show their support, their love, their respect
and friendship. It was probably one of
the most important gifts that I had ever received up to this point in my life –
it was a selfless act. The book was a
constant companion through my sophomore year at Marlington. My interest in it was only magnified when an
exhibition was held at the Canton Civic center displaying the progress of
renovations of the Sistine Chapel. Mr.
Young had taken Gretchen and I there for some after-school extra credit. It was
probably the genesis of my lifelong interest in history.
This
was long before the days of social media, texting, and e-mail. If you wanted to say something to your friend
and not speak the words, you would write it down on a piece of paper and give
it to them. It didn’t feel right in a
day if I didn’t write a note to her or receive one in return. We must have killed a forest of trees in
writing notes back and forth to each other in those years. We would write about anything and nothing,
but in time, all our notes would conclude with those three words... I love
you.
And
this is where I learned about poetry – not in my English classes. Gretchen was the one who taught me how poetry
works as a sublime vehicle for your thoughts and feelings – a broad brush that
is powerful enough to depict anything large – a precise needle point sharp
enough to pierce any veil or represent anything in the minutest detail – a
literary voice simple enough for anyone to hear and comprehend. It was in these
handwritten notes that I tried to write my first poems. I think poetry only works if you have
something intensely emotional to communicate.
It’s something you deeply feel, both in the writing and reading, more
than you merely ‘write or read.’
On
every band trip, every football game, every practice, every competition, she
was there, and her hand would be in mine.
Long bus rides in the night after band shows and competitions, her head
would rest on my shoulder, and I would stay awake to absorb in every moment that
I had with her. And no matter what I was
facing at home, I always had her hand to look forward to – it would soon be in
mine, and everything would be ok then. And when we embraced, it was if my soul
would melt into her. She was the best friend that I ever had growing up, and I
had band to thank for that. I would have
never met Gretchen otherwise.
It
was because of her that I went to every homecoming dance, every prom, and every
band dance. She was beautiful and she
had reached me.
Homecoming Dance
Our
first homecoming dance together has left a beautiful and lasting impression
upon me. She wore her hair down and had
on a silk blue and black dress that she had gotten just for that occasion. To
be able to walk beside her and feel her hand in mine was like feeling a love
that permeated every cell of my body. And to feel her close to me as we danced,
it was like everything perfect in the world was happening to me in that moment,
in that small space that surrounded us – and everything else drifted away into
nothingness. We didn’t have to speak any words because there were none to fully
express what was happening between us. I
can remember one of the songs that night that played and the lyrics that I can
still hear today..
In a lifetime
There is only love
Reaching for
The lonely one
We are stronger when we are given love…[1]
For
that hour or two at the dance it is hard to explain how much can change in a
human life. To be able to hold someone
in your arms that you love so completely that there is nothing left to give –
to be completely vulnerable to that person and know that in her hazel eyes you
see nothing, but love returned, it is nothing like any other human experience
that a person can have in this universe.
And I had it, all of it, and for that I have no regrets. It expanded my heart, changed my perspective
and priorities in the most positive sense and the feeling of it will never
leave me.
In
the dim lights of that dance hall with Gretchen in my arms, some of us dancing
slowly, there was a quiet din of conversation around us, the music playing on; we
stayed until the last dance. She was the
most beautiful girl in the room to me. Later, her prom dress was a delicate
ivory lace, and it was always the same feeling of ecstasy for me to have her in
my arms in those days. I may never know what she ever saw in me – whatever it
was, for it, I am grateful. In some ways Gretchen was like Mr. Frenz in my
life. I think they both were able to see
something in me that I wasn’t – in their own ways, they helped to bring me out
of myself.
Geauga Lake
On
the few weekends in the summer when we were not splashing water and soap around
at our band car washes, or at a band competition, invitational, or parade, it
was Gretchen taking me to Geauga Lake with her family. I don’t remember us
swimming – I think we were both self-conscious about how might look in bathing
suits, we spent many summer hours walking through the park, and talking, and
dreaming, and laughing. Always, her hand
in mine, we would go from ride to ride, and it was wonderful to me to
experience. I was partial to the
Matterhorn because the centrifugal force of the ride would press her against me
and the warmth of her was like feeling safe on every level, at peace with every
thought, and so full and content that nothing else could possibly surpass those
moments when we were together.
It
was walking through that park one warm evening, the air thick with the smells
of funnel cakes, popcorn, and water splashes, after a long day in the sunlight together,
our young faces sunburned, that I heard the words to a new Phil Collins song…
I can feel your eyes go through me
It seems I've spent too long
Only thinking about myself, oh
Now I want to spend my life
Just caring 'bout somebody else[2]
It’s
funny how when you are in love that every rock ballad seems like they were
written just for you. In the summer of
1986, every one of them belonged to us.
Carnation Mall Rats
Being
80s kids, we found our way on many nights to the Carnation Mall. We would get a ride there from one of our
parents and given an hour or two to be consummate mall rats. We would walk the long hallways together
holding hands, occasionally my arm would find its way around her waist, and we
would peruse every store in the mall, more than once. We would often see a
Marlington Band Jacket with a multiplicity of patches on the sleeves, strolling
along with us in the crowd, that always prompted a nod or a wave to fellow
bandmember. Always a stop by RadioShack for me to droll over the technology of
the day: solar powered calculators, cordless telephones, electronic chess
sets. J.C. Penney, Montgomery Ward. We
never missed an opportunity to walk through Camelot Music. It was here that we got cassette soundtracks
to the new movie Amadeus and the Broadway musical of our band era, The Phantom
of the Opera. A snack at the food court, a glance through the video arcade, a
look into the movie theater to see what was playing. Always a prolonged visit
to Walden Books. Gretchen would look at
the German, French, and Spanish dictionaries, and foreign language courses –
for me I would look at what was in history or in popular fiction. Always time with the magazines. She was the
one who introduced me to the writings of Carl Sagan – the book Cosmos became my
constant companion. A walk-through Sears, the Brass Store, and everything else
between. The evening would conclude with
a stop at the payphone where we would drop in a quarter and one of us would
call a parent for a ride home. Until our
ride arrived, we would sit together on one of the benches near the entrance –
always our hands intertwined.
She
brought out things in me that I didn’t know were there. She comforted me and encouraged me to be a
better person. Secret phone calls -- on telephones with thick wires connected
to walls -- long into the night about everything imaginable to talk about:
politics, MTV, Greenpeace, the United Nations, homework, James Galway,
Vangelis, Numerology, Astrology, Drum Corps, UFOs and everything else that you
couldn’t categorize. I was catholic, she
wasn’t, and I didn’t care. She was
gifted academically, I wasn’t, and she didn’t care. She had college in her future; my future
wasn’t clear, and we didn’t care.
Dinners At Nellabrook
Soon
after we met, I began riding home with Gretchen on the school bus, once a week
to her house on Nellabrook Avenue. On
this day each week, we would get to spend a few hours after school together –
hanging out, talking, going for walks, listening to music, watching MTV – until
dinner was ready soon after her mom got home from work as a public-school
teacher. Her younger brother Troy was always there with us along with their
ever-present cocker spaniel Bonnie.
Sitting with her family for dinner each week was for me a view of
another world – completely different from my own. Her stepdad was an engineer at Timken –
always at the head of the table, her mom Darla at the other end. I felt accepted there and safe. In my own home, the threat of violence at any
minute always lurked just beneath the surface of everything. With Gretchen’s family, it was
different. I loved being there.
I
can’t think of a topic we didn’t talk about together in those hours before
dinner. Her music collection, all on cassette in those years, was
eclectic. It was here that I first heard
music from Amy Grant, Falco, and James Galway. She also had her records of
Styx, and Barry Manilow.
“I
don’t know why people can’t just believe in God. Just God. Isn’t that enough?” She said this
often and to me, it pointed to her early disposition toward the monotheism of
the Old Testament. I wasn’t sure how to
answer her. To me, God was more nebulous
and trinitarian, as I was more disposed to the God from the New Testament.
It
was no wonder to me why one of her favorite songs, at that time, was from Amy
Grant: El Shaddai.
“El shaddai, el shaddai
El-elyon na adonia
Age to age You're still the same
By the power of the name..[3]”
It
was nice having a friend like her that challenged my own thinking about a broad
spectrum of subjects. Our differences were substantial, but in those early
years it really didn’t matter. What made
us different is probably what also drew us together.
After
dinner, I’d either get a ride home from my mom or Gretchen’s mom would drop me
off at my home. I didn’t stay much
longer after dinner because there was always homework to do – well, at least
for Gretchen there was. If she didn’t have an actual homework assignment, she
would spend time copying her notes from one notebook to another. One notebook was for in-class notetaking. Another notebook was for rewriting the notes
to make them more legible and organized.
I was lucky if I ever took notes once, for Gretchen, it was a multi-step
process. Of course, that’s probably why
she was an honors student, and I was not.
If her notes were sufficiently recopied, she might spend some time conjugating
German verbs for fun – on her own because German was not offered as a foreign
language at Marlington High School. That
was typical Gretchen. Done with German, she would practice her flute or
piccolo. Having her in my life gave me a
lot to think about. In her, a saw a lot of what I wanted from myself. I don’t think I ever told her that.
Later
that night, as was our habit, I’d either call her or she might call me. A quick call to say, ‘good night,’ and always
a quiet ‘I love you.’ The next morning,
during the school year would be to meet in the band room for a few minutes,
then off to classes for the day. Getting
a few minutes with her in the morning was enough to carry me through on
difficult days. I loved carrying her
books to class when it was ever possible – and sometimes even when it made me a
few minutes late. That’s just how it was
with us, and I don’t think we thought it was that unusual. In hindsight, I think what we had was very
unusual in the most positive sense. I
know it was for me.
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