pikerider

[pikerider]

The Meadow

A Story of the San Juans

A late spring day,

A mountain hike,

Some forty years ago,

As gentle breezes melted ‘way,

The last of winter’s cold.

A field of lovely flowers there,

Pushing through the snow;

Primrose, Lily, Pussytoes,

Penstemon, Wild Rose... 

In this tree rimmed meadow,

There perchance I spied,

A sight that made me catch my breath,

And breath a gentle sigh;

A sight to fill me with delight,

Mixed with sweet surprise;

An angel clad in flowing dress, 

Stood there before my eyes!

With shining hair,

and blue green eyes,

The flowers met their match,

A smile whose warmth,

A dozen Suns,

It’s power would dispatch.

A sheaf of fresh picked blossoms,

Were grasped within her hand,

As she rose,

And said “Hello!”

To this stranger of a man.

My heart was lost in moments brief,

I tripped upon my tongue.

But gentle words from her I got,

That settled me anon.

I felt no turn of clock that day,

As we walked amongst the firs,

Strolling through the sylvan way,

With my hand in hers.

Her love was with the flowers,

The animals and trees,

The owl, the squirrel, the woodfire

The mountain lions, and bees.

And in my soul I felt quite sure; 

On that warm spring day,

However long our lives may last,

Her love with me would stay!

The weeks passed by,

In happiness,

As summer slowly spent,

It’s velvet warmth upon us both,

As to our task we bent:

A cabin built!

When time we had,

That summer long ago;

And into it our love we’d poured,

With saw and sweaty brow.

By summers end we had a place,

Of Joy we could behold,

With snowy face,

Of Courthouse Peak,

And flaxen fields below.

We stocked it very simply,

With not much, to be told,

But now we had a special place,

Where both we would grow old.

A meadow spot a few miles up,

On summer eves we went,

Where passing time in warm embrace, 

Our love seemed heaven sent!

Time stood still as sunsets flamed,

We giggled, talked and schemed,

Long and true about our dreams,

Warm in our content.

At twilight cool by woodfire’s flame, 

There beside the tent,

On rock together close we sat,

Hot tea! Our dreams to vent.

The vista of the old San Juan’s;

Bathed in Alpenglow,

Painted on the peaceful scene,

Of campsite there below:

Two lovers sit

In blanket cloaked,

Happy and serene,

A song to sing by firelight,

As laughter fills the scene,

With feelings warm,

And love sincere, 

As love had ever been.

But Demons trolled her tender heart,

From a past I did not know,

They preyed upon her time to time,

And would not let her go.

There was, at times,

A sadness,

That dwelled within her eyes. 

A place where no sweet solace,

Unto her heart could find.

The sunshine I would give her,

If only I were let,

Would be to ease her sadness,

And end her bouts of fret.

She asked if I could leave her;

She thought it would be best:

A time apart to free her; 

To set her heart to rest.

A locket then I gave to her, 

To keep our flame alive,

A picture of my youthful face,

Inside for her to spy.

My tears then flowed quite freely,

As we said goodbye,

A promise to return to her,

Before two weeks went by.

But time passed by, 

When finally,

I needed to surmise,

The reason for her silence,

And for her non-reply,

To a letter of entreaty,

On questions of her health,

Of feelings held so deeply, and,

Affection gone awry.

So on the path I found myself,

And so did find my way,

Back to the little cabin,

Where to my great dismay,

I saw no sign of life at all,

My love had gone away!

The weeks turned into months,

The winter snows did fall,

And never reason could I find for,

Her leaving me at all! 

Then one day in early Spring,

I walked through wood and stream,

To the meadow which had warmed our hearts; 

And where our love had bloomed.

And there, at last, I found her,

Cold eyes turned toward the sky;

Her faded form upon the grass,

With flowers growing by.

Hemlock bottle in her left hand,

The one I’d held in love;

And in the right the locket,

That held encased in gold:

The smiles,

And tears,

And memories, 

And Love inside it’s fold.

I buried her upon the spot,

Where passion once had played;

With either of us caring not,

What was the time of day.

My tears fell freely ‘pon the ground,

To wet some bulbs I sowed,

In years to come

Her loveliness, 

To add to, once they’d grown.

The heavy granite stone I found,

Where once we both had sat.

I placed it softly ’pon the ground,

To mark our favorite spot.

No words upon the stone I wrote, 

Not wishing to intrude,

On the beauty of this special,

Place of solitude.

Besides, which words there could I write,

Would be as ever true?

As those inscribed upon my heart,

For the purest love I knew!

Time alone could never heal,

Nor caring friends provide,

A happy path to freedom, 

From the grief I hold inside.

No solace for a broken heart,

Nor mind at ease to set,

From fate of lovers torn apart,

The sadness, the regret.

So precious locket of our youth,

With mem’ries of those days,

Her picture added there to mine,

With me ever stays.

On meadow stone an old man sits, 

His whiskers frosted gray,

As through the trees,

Wind softly flows,

Her lovely spirit plays!

And laughing, singing, 

‘Mongst the bows,

A lonely heart to lift,

The gentle wind to him conveys,

To cheek her gentle kiss.

And as the forest scented wind,

Blows fresh among the trees,

A happy sound he hears this day,

A voice among the leaves!

He shouts a heartfelt greeting!

And in response she says,

“I love you now,

As I did then,

And to the end of days!”

Often times I‘ve told my friends: 

“Whenever comes the day,

When my breath of life is stilled,

There please my body lay”.

And when beside my love I lie,

Forever on that hill,

My soul will then be one with hers,

My quest of life fulfilled.

Who knows what meaning comes from life,

Or what lies past the door,

Of death,

But truth be told,

Of this one fact I’m sure:

My soul and hers locked in embrace;

In love forevermore.

So if one day,

Dear Reader,

You stumble there upon,

A lovely grassy meadow,

In view of the San Juan.

Compose a silent message,

Upon the wind to sow,

Perhaps we then will feel it, 

But,

For sure I cannot know.

But in my soul,

I do believe,

If the fates allow,

With kindness then we will bestow,

Upon your Earthly brow:

A wish for peace and happiness,

And blissful feelings from,

Two lovers bound together, 

And ever more made one!

[pikerider]

Farewell Betty

There is a class photo in my oldest photo album showing me standing on the upper row of Mrs. Flynn's fourth grade class picture in elementary school, with somewhat of a vacant expression on my face. The year is 1965. Beside me stands a girl in a red dress, brown eyes, and a friendly smile...

As I entered my senior years, I had the time to ask myself questions like “I wonder whatever happened to boyhood friends, and classmates, like Jimmy, Charlie, and Greg; Jeannie, Kathy, Cindy and Debi?”. As such, using Facebook and Google, I've found some of the people I knew long ago in elementary school days. There's no harm in this type of endeavor; and can even get to be quite interesting to hear how folks have changed over the years! However, there is one significant downside to looking up old friends and acquaintances; and that's when you discover that someone, who meant a lot to you, has passed away ...

At age nine, I was new to the small town of Cheverly. Maryland ... well … not really! … I had been born here in 1955, and still recall quite a few of my first memories there from, say, ages five thru six. I was the youngest, my nearest older sister being five years older; so I always felt like my siblings were adults. By then I was six, and we moved to a farm in Davidsonville, Maryland; thus fulfilling a lifelong dream of my Dad's to own a farm. We spent three relatively happy years there ... until my mom and dad fell out of love after raising five kids, and divorced ... and this left me and my siblings devastated. Not knowing where else to go, and needing her old support group, mom moved us back to the idyllic town of Cheverly, Maryland. 

Ahhh ... Cheverly! … for a boy I the mid 60's, it was a paradise … safe, but ripe with all kinds of neighborhoods, undeveloped woods, and construction sites to keep a boy busy! This was a new chapter; and such a change from three years living on the farm. I recall mom taking me to register at my new school … Cheverly-Tuxedo Elementary. My first look at this imposing brick structure sticks in my mind to this day … sixty years later. By this time I was an introvert. I attribute this fact to damage done as a result of seeing my parents in the process of breaking up ... anyhow ... my first impression of this new elementary school was one of apprehension, resulting from the realization all of the new kids I'd have to meet there. I recall on the first day avoiding entering the front door for a while because their were some older kids standing nearby who looked menacing to me … seems humorous when I think of it now, but it was mildly frightening for me at that time, but, fortunately, not for long.

I have an encyclopedia of memories of those years in Cheverly … mostly involving climbing in the immense White Oak trees that were my favorites, often soaring 80 feet high … and I just had to get as close to the top as possible. I was nimble and light, so fears of falling were slight. I also spent waaay too much time playing in the construction site of the new Prince Georges Hospital, and inside new houses being built in the neighborhood. It seems I always had a packet of firecrackers, and some matches, in my pocket. I loved fireworks with a passion! Adventures were easy to find in and about Cheverly for a nine year old. School was just a necessary burden … I wasn't as interested in academic pursuits, as I was in the adventures that awaited in the woods surrounding our neighborhood. 

I could write chapters about the adventures I had with friends; but that's not the purpose of writing this. Instead, this is the story of someone who weaved herself into my life in a way that didn't become clear to me until almost six more decades had passed; the girl from my fourth grade class picture, Betty Harding. This particular girl wasn't a major part of my life at the time … what little I can remember of her in fourth thru sixth grade can be condensed down to one sentence: Betty was one of the “pretty girls” in class. 

Funny ... with her brown eyes and hair, and her cafe au lait skin, I always thought of her as a Hawaiian princess. I knew she wasn't, and I even knew it was silly at that time, but for some reason, that impression stayed with me. I even thought up a story at the time, fed by my imagination:

*****************

The night was warm, the air clean, and spiced with the smells of the tropical breeze from the forest onshore. The night is pitch black, as the six oarsmen spirited the outrigger canoe, oars dipping silently but swiftly, leaving phosphorescent trails to mark their path across the smooth surface of the lagoon on the way to the convent. In the middle of the canoo sat a little girl of about 4 years old, a princess named Betani.

Betani's father had been a young but respected chief named Kahlua (I hadn't a clue about Hawaiian culture; I just recall seeing a bottle of Kahlua in my mom's liquor cabinet). Sadly, he died, along with Betani's mother, in an unsuccessful battle to repulse a more warlike clan from a nearby island. In the aftermath of the battle, some of Kahlua's loyal warrior friends saw danger for Betani, and knew that she must be sent far away to escape the danger from a cruel chief bent on destroying the lineage of his late foe.  The warriors were aware of a convent of nuns on the island who sometimes took in abandoned children for adoption in the mainland U.S.A, and so spirited Betani away from danger and into a new life in a new world; safe, but so far away from her homeland … to an idyllic place called Cheverly. 

***************

Anyway ... silly fantasies aside … back to the story:

Honestly, for the three years I was at Cheverly Tuxedo Elementary, I have few memories of her, other than that she was cute, and that she hung out with two other girls that lived on the same street that the school was on: Belleview Avenue. I don't remember interacting with her, though I must have at times. I do recall walking up Belleview Avenue one day after school, hoping to see her house. As such, I know that, even then, she must have meant something to me ... but, honestly … that is my only remaining memory of Betty in three years of classes with her at elementary school. Sadly, I have forgotten too much from those early school days.

Fast forward one year... it is now 1968, and I am a freshly minted teenager. We've moved on from elementary school, and I'm now awkwardly walking the halls of Bladensburg Junior High (BJHS). Music from that year always bring back memories of the place; especially “Heard it through the grapevine” by Marvin Gaye; who grew up in a black neighborhood literally “across the tracks” from segregated Cheverly, but who was about 15 years older. Lots of other songs from that era bring me back there; Petula Clark reminds me of our young music teacher who played “Downtown” in class one day, which I thought was so cool! … and Gary Lewis and the Playboys “Count Me In” reminds me of our neighborhood in Cheverly, and, specifically, of Betty ... perhaps I was thinking of her when I heard the song over WPGC on my mom's radio in her VW bug?

Anyhow, BJHS was a sprawling brick building on top of a big hill overlooking Washington, D.C. This very hill was once traversed by Redcoats on the way to the sacking of the White House in Washington DC in 1814. Later on in life, I worked at the White House in the Secret Service for many years, and recall the blackened section of wall in the passageway under the main portico that was never painted; so as to remind us of the burning that took place by the British invaders. 

Bordering Cheverly on it's northwest side, Bladensburg was populated with a lot of kids that grew up in less advantageous circumstances than I was used to. It was a working class neighborhood … not that this matters much to the story, though. 

I had the usual experiences of a boy in school: drafting class taught by a World War II veteran of the Dutch Resistance, with his rich accent and a wealth of WWII battlefield stories. Mr. Spruill, while instructing us of the fine art of draftsmanship, often sprinkled his instruction with exciting battle scenes; such as the time he described Luftwaffe planes roaring past just overhead, strafing him and his buddies while they clutched their helmets in terror. I can see him now, balding, with dark framed glasses and a wistful smile, while he gave us advice, tilting his head slightly, and looking out the window of the class into the trees … words of wisdom … like when he admonished us to ”Mind our tree of life” when dating a member of the opposite sex! I also had a metal shop teacher, whose name I cannot remember, who had been a blacksmith for the railroad, and taught me how to work with red hot iron; I learned a lot of practical skills in this man's class that I still use today in my workshop. My homeroom was taught by a Civics teacher, a friendly man named Mr. Ault. There was an English teacher named Mr. Krokes (a good teacher, but one who once picked me up by my left sideburn one day for an uncharacteristically rude comment from me), and a nasty gym teacher, whose discipline was tinged with a genuine mean streak. I honestly can't recall if Betty was in any of my classes ... except for that gym class; it's not like she grabbed my attention very often up until this time. I learned much in the way of useful information from these teachers … well … all except the nasty gym teacher, whose teaching career I imagine did not turn out well. However; something happened in his class that became buried deep into my unconscious mind ... only to resurface some 55 years later ...

You see, it was in this gym class that I first learned to dance. I have to admit that I didn't care much for dancing at 13 years old … and, like any other boy that age, I was clumsy at it. Anyway, in order to dance, one has to have a partner. Now I had no experience, or skill, at dealing with girls; whose habits, interests, and ways of living seemed so foreign to a boy used to playing in trees and construction sites. Nonetheless, nothing could be done but to pair up with a girl for the dancing, and, for some reason, that's when Betty looked at me with a smile that I could never forget ... and, frankly, have never wanted to. It turns out that her smile had a profound effect on me...

I know for a fact that we danced together on two occasions … maybe more … the mists of time obscure any more details … but one thing that cannot be obscured is her smile, that sticks with me right now, some 56 years later. Holding hands with her was so exciting, even if scary at the same time! I cannot forget her pretty face, brown eyes, straight, mid-length brown hair, sweet smile and gentle manner. I have an indelible image of her in my mind's eye, and have thought of her so many times since those days so long ago. I see her right now in my mind's eye, just as she looked at me in 1968 … smiling shyly with her gentle eyes. I have no way of knowing why she smiled at me; perhaps it was just that she was familiar with me from previous years at elementary school? Or, maybe, (as I flatter myself to think) she was actually interested in me? At any rate, her smile gave me the courage to walk up and stand next to her. It was a thrilling experience, but one in which I felt, understandably, quite awkward. I still hadn't seriously gotten into music as I later would in high school. I certainly wasn't excited about square dancing music; and I never figured out what the fiddler on the record meant when he shouted “allemond left!”, but the excitement of dancing with Betty made up for all that! If, perhaps, I had been a year or two older at the time, I might have had the presence of mind to thank her after each dance … but I don't recall doing so. How I wish I had...

Anyway, the other excitements of boyhood caused me to not think much about it when I left gym class after each time we had danced. There were too many more exciting things to do rather that mull over girls. I do recall wishing that I could muster the courage to talk to her in the hallways, but, of course, sadly, I never did.

It was about this time that my mom decided to move us from Cheverly to Landover; into an old, rundown plantation style house on a farm, with the name of Inglewood. This imposing mansion, complete with an elevator, stood about a dozen miles east of Cheverly; but it might as well have been two hundred miles for a thirteen year old. I was told she moved from Cheverly to escape a relationship gone sour. Nonetheless, she still drove me into Bladensburg every day for the school year. During the time on the farm, I had many great experiences exploring the woods and swamps around Inglewood, which was outside of the newly constructed Beltway; and I date my love of the outdoors from that time. 

Well, after our two year hiatus from civilization at Inglewood, my mom had had enough, and decided to move us back to the suburbs on the north east side of Washington, D.C.; but not to Cheverly. Instead, she ended up buying a house in University Park … but more significantly … by doing so, I left BJHS, and Betty, forever...

So, I continued to plow thru my school years, not enjoying the remainder of junior high at Hyattsville JHS, or my subsequent high school experience that much; I was more interested in my life outside of school: bike riding, hiking, camping, music, and other hobbies. Life was a whirlwind of experiences that left me no time, or inclination, to reminisce about Betty, and Cheverly, which both soon became suppressed memories of a past life. I continued stumbling through my teenage years, seemingly learning nothing about girls, though I dated one for a while; though it wasn't that serious. I also became infatuated with a girl that wanted nothing at all to do with me for the longest time; another circumstance that forced me to forget about Betty. I definitely was attracted to girls, I was just bad at knowing how to handle the situations I found myself in; and besides, it interfered with biking, hiking, and camping, so I really got nowhere with girls.

Sadly, as I passed my teens into my early twenties, I was in almost exclusively male organizations. Fresh out of Northwestern High School, I immediately joined the USAF, to get away from home, and to see the world. This happened to be at a time when being in the military was extremely unpopular with most young women; for perhaps the first time in U.S. history! After training, I was shipped off to Iran; a conservative Muslim country. Following this, I decided to pursue engineering school … once again, very few women. This degree led to a series of engineering jobs; also with very few women. It was VERY frustrating at times, because I really wanted a female partner to share my life with; but met very few. I spent over a decade, until I met Jan, being extremely lonely.

One thing that always lingered, far back in my mind, through all of these lonely years was … my image of Betty; standing there in gym class, and smiling at me. It didn't happen all that often, as I recall, but she was always there; buried deep in a remote corner of my brain, resurfacing every once in a while.

While still in high school, it never occurred to me that I might drive my Triumph Spitfire, bought with Washington Post paper route money at age 15-1/2, all of the five miles over to Cheverly to knock on her door while when we were in separate high schools; me at Northwestern, and she at Fairmount Heights. I guess that, even if I had found the courage, she might have rejected me outright. Instead, for decades to follow, I never gave this idea a thought at all … until just a couple of years ago, when, looking back at those times, I got curious about whatever happened to her. She had occupied a special place, perhaps small, but no less precious, in my mind for such a long, long time; with her image clear as a photograph in my memory. I unwittingly had put her on a pedestal; representing everything that was good and pure about my childhood and teenage years. 

The years and decades passed, I lived all over the world, eventually met my beloved partner Jan, raised three kids, all of whom I love dearly, pursued many jobs, even started a business, and eventually retired. I now had more time on my hands, and, as we get older, we all of a sudden have more time on our hands, and tend to think back to previous eras in our lives … So … I went on social media, and found the two girls Betty hung out with from the old neighborhood. I was told that she was happily married, but in poor health. She wasn't on social media. Both of us being married, I felt uncomfortable prying further, so let it drop. A year or so later, one of the girls mentioned to me that Betty had passed away after a long battle with cancer. The news hit me hard, with a sadness that's still deep, and difficult to deal with ... I immediately felt as if a significant part of me had died along with her. I was surprised at my level of grief … and to this day am unable to bring my feelings about her to some sort of closure … all that I feel is a profound sense of sorrow and loss that I cannot adequately explain; after all, she had never even been close to being my “girlfriend”. The best way I can explain it is to say that an important part of my childhood and youth passed away when Betty died … she, unknowingly, took a piece of my heart with her when she made the journey into the unknown; and I am left with a deep and profound sense of loss and sorrow. I suspect that there is also a strong element of nostalgia for old Cheverly, the idyllic neighborhood that I grew up in, and now lost to me forever, mixed up with these feelings. But the fact remains that she was the first girl that I fell in love with. Call it “puppy love”, but it's just something I cannot forget...

As mentioned, I am happily married; and have been so for thirty four years. I have three beautiful children, now adults … I have a special wife who I love deeply, and could never live without … but still, I cannot help but wonder how different things might have turned out if I had just had a bit more skill with girls way back in the 60's, because I think that Betty might have saved me from years of loneliness and yearning for love that I experienced in my junior, senior high, and the next decade in my mostly all male career, when I rarely met women. Recently, I heard that she had troubles in high school, and can't help thinking that, if we had been closer, that I might have been able to help her; in fact, we might have helped each other throughout the sometimes socially tough high school years, as well as in the years to follow. This is all very silly, of course, and assumes that she would have reciprocated my interest … which I have no way of knowing. But … no matter … it may have been a one-way love; but it is no less real to me for having been so. As it is, I was terribly lonely for about sixteen years after I left Betty's world, and until I found the love of my life with my own wife. With the benefit of hindsight, and a smattering of wisdom resulting from a lifetime of experiences, I now realize that it was Betty that had been missing during those lonely years; I was just too clueless to realize it, and do something about it, at the time ... 

Now, of course every sad tale has a happy part: Like me, Betty found a partner who gave her a loving and happy life, even though she had to leave him far too soon. I've talked to him, and he is grieving at his loss, as one would expect. My heart goes out to him. I played no part in Betty's story after age thirteen; but I am sincerely happy that she found her life's partner. Such is the only closure I can hope to find.

**************

And so ... it came to pass that Betty's ashes were spread by her grieving husband into the sea at one of her favorite places; along the Acadia National Seashore. The April sky was cool and overcast, the water frigid and grayish green, and his tears flowed freely as he waded into the frigid water to spread her ashes in the waves to fulfill her her final wish. As he emerged, numbed by the cold, from the shallow water, returning to the sandy beach, he returned his gaze to the sea for one final farewell through an older man's sad, moist eyes. The cold morning mist obscured the sea's horizon; but, still he saw, vaguely, a hundred yards off of the beach, what appeared to be a long, narrow outrigger canoe, manned by six athletically built rowers, who have momentarily stopped to help a lithe young woman up into the canoe, where she quickly dons a grass skirt, and is draped with perhaps a dozen lei of fresh flowers. As the rowers turn the canoe out to sea, the young woman stands up in the canoe, raises a hand to her lips, then extends it towards her husband one more time as the canoe fades into the mist, on the beginning of it's long journey back to the warm waters of Molokai, to reunite her with the spirits of her father and mother. 

**************

… such is the silly conclusion to the tale I originally made up as a boy who fell briefly in love with her, as written earlier in this story. I dreamed this conclusion up after I learned of the passing of Betty; from some snippets of what her husband told me about her Celebration of Life; in order to bookend the story I had created over half a century ago …

When someone you have loved passes away, they take a part of your heart with them; leaving an empty corner which was once filled with pleasant memories. The passions of youth leave powerful feelings and memories in their wake, and losses, such as this one, are a source of bittersweet sadness for me. As we grow older, such experiences grow more frequent. As my older brother said a couple of years back when talking about the loss of old friends: “Get used to it”. The simple truth of these words often comes back to bite me at this stage of life. My dad passed away two years ago at the age of 99. By that time, he had been the last of his friends still living for over ten years. So often nowadays, I wish that I could drop by his house, share a beer, crack a few crabs from the Chesapeake Bay that he was so fond of, and hear some stories about his own youth. Those who are blessed with a long life, are nevertheless cursed with the fact that they will have to endure the loss of all of their friends, and many of their loved ones, before they pass on from this life.

I feel very sad that I couldn't reach Betty, and at least offer her some comfort, and maybe a few smiles, as she struggled with her long illness. It breaks my heart when I think that she suffered; but I'm sure that she persevered with grace. I now have no means to let her know how much our dancing meant to me throughout the decades that have passed since those happy, if awkward, days of our youth. Did she ever recall these brief moments we shared? I'll never know. Even though I never got to see her again, the memory of the feelings I had for her linger on, and always will; as with all of the other women I have been blessed to be close to in some way or another throughout my life. Cue Willy Nelson singing “To All the Girls I've Loved”...

We all experience similar feelings to some extent; some more than others. I suppose that all we can do to deal with it is to celebrate the fact that, as we grow old, we can still pay tribute to their legacies, and treasure their memories in our hearts. Even though I didn't know her as an adult, I'm sure that Betty was treasured by those that she was close to; and that gives me some consolation in my grief at her loss.

I am not a religious man … I believe that our existence ends when we die, and all that remains of us is memories of our loved ones, along, of course, with any records, writings, and stuff, that we leave behind. As such, I have no hope of passing my feelings along to Betty in some sort of afterlife ... to let her know what she meant to me, and to thank her for those moments of excitement, and of love, that she blessed me with so long ago. But if I am wrong, and there is some sort of life after death, than I can only hope that Betty somehow receives this letter from me, and that it might put a smile on her face for the memory of these small events that happened when we were so young. And if so, Betty, know that your sweet smile will remain with me until my final hours of life … and may you rest in eternal peace and happiness!

I suppose that if there is a lesson in this story, it is not to wait too long to get in contact with old friends, relatives, and lovers to reminisce; and not put those opportunities off, waiting for a more opportune time … because you might not ever get that opportunity again.

Note: This story contains a few flights of fantasy; but, I assure you, it is not fiction. I really know next to nothing about her life after Bladensburg Junior High; all I have are brief comments I've heard from some of her old friends on social media, and a few short conversations with her widowed husband. I am also not sure how this story could affect him … but I think he understands … in no way do I want to impose on his own precious memories; which are far more important than mine. My own rather ancient memories of the Betty I knew are my own burden to bear. The feelings are very real to this day; I only wrote this as a means to obtain some sort of closure about my feelings for her; and to offer a tribute to a girl who grew up, by all accounts I've heard, into a fine woman. I am fortunate to have a loving wife, a woman whom I love dearly, and without whose love I would be lost. Nonetheless, the first love in one's life is not easily dismissed, nor easily forgotten ...