How NOT To

St. Paul Church in San Francisco

The teen church group I was in flourished. Led by two excellent adults who kept us organized and occupied, attendance was regular with a good mix of girls, boys, and ages. Discussions at meetings had good participation.

 

Jean seldom said much at the meetings, but the adults were thrilled with her, as she volunteered naturally, and she could type up a storm.  That was not taken casually, as the typewriter in those days was a dinosaur.  She did everything with a room-lighting smile.  She was, in fact, a very pretty girl, too.

I hadn't given her much attention, but when one of the adults said to me that Jean's mother had called to ask if one of us boys would mind “seeing” Jean home after meetings, as it was several blocks, I didn't hesitate.

No problem, I said.

The third time I'd walked Jean home, I invited her to a Friday evening dance.  Her response was so instant that even I could tell that she'd been waiting for me to do something.

Friday went very well. Both of us had really enjoyed the evening. At her doorway at the top of the stairway, she put a key into the lock then turned toward me, smiling.  I bent and kissed her.

 

I'm sure she was not surprised.  But I was. 

Reflexively, I had stepped back...off of the landing. She gave a little scream and vanished. I found myself looking up at the night sky while cradled in a bush. I was not even scratched, probably because of the heavy overcoat I'd worn against the chill Bay Area nights.

In a flicker, she was there, panicked, asking if I was “all right,” and urging me to go into the house to let her folks see to my wounds.  One thing I was NOT going to do was reveal my embarrassment to her parents.  I reassured her.  Then I went home.  My own parents never learned a thing.

On our next date, we went up on her porch again and I observed that we went to the far end away from the staircase.

On teen meeting evenings I began to pick her up at her home, walking us to the church, and I noticed that she took my arm as we descended the stairs.  She was not going to see me plunge into that bush again.

I missed a lot at the discussions after the “fall.”  We routinely sat together, with my passing her notes I’d brought from home.  Sometimes they were more than just notes.  She would fold them into the Bible she brought to the meetings.

We dated regularly that school year until her family moved to Sonoma. She gave me her new address but she didn't write.  Neither did I.

After more than half a century, an e-mail appeared on my computer with a sender name that meant nothing.  I almost sent it to “junk mail” but decided instead to have a look.

It was Jean, now a grandmother many times over. She wrote that she had been going through memorabilia and had come across those notes. She saved, she wrote, “everything” and reading them again had prompted her to get in touch. She wouldn't tell me what I'd written, though. I guess I'm glad I don't remember. When an idiot teen doesn't even realize he's about to kiss a very pretty girl, it's quite likely he wrote stuff he's happier not recalling.