My First Love and a Childhood Gone By

   In my experience, memories of a first love can be fickle. They seem to morph with the passage of time. Sometimes, the memories glow with pristine preservation. Sometimes, they wither and fade. For me, they often come in dreams. Nonetheless, they always tend to make me happy, reminding me of carefree days gone by.

I'd like to preface this with how content I am with my life currently. I don't really long for anything beyond what I have now; a happy partner who is my number one, a healthy three-month-old boy who is responsible for my smile, and a family who makes up the rest of my world.

    With that clarified, I admit that I believe happiness is only a state of mind, one we all strive to reach, rather than a tangible destination to set your sights on. I stand firmly with the thought that happiness is generated from the inside-out (and not the other way around). With the happiness and innocence I find in Owen's eyes everyday, its been taking me back through the yellowing pages of my mind's memory notebook. For a long time, there's been one page that I've found myself constantly coming back to. A page who's colors and lines are still as vibrant as the day they were first inscribed. So, I decided it was high-time I sit down awhile and try to make sense of the strokes, color by color.

(Note: I will not name the girl I write about here, out of respect for her privacy.)

    I really believe I first fell in love in the fourth grade. It sounds funny, but for me, it is the first instance I can recall where I felt a genuine care for someone who wasn't a member of my extended family. My feelings for her were everlasting. She was the apple of many young men's eyes through elementary, middle, and high school (obviously mine included). Today, she is still the athletic, light-eyed, natural blonde with the same smile that melted my little heart all the way back in elementary school.

    One of my favorite memories of her in the midst of our fourth grade fling, was a time that our class had been studying the history and heritage of Native Americans. We had each been assigned to construct some sort of Haudenosaunee 'artifact' and research it enough to, in turn, present it for our fellow classmates. I clearly remember staying up later than I should have working on this project with the help of my mother, scrambling at the last minute due to my own procrastination. We came up with having me sew together a set of mini moccasins for my presentation the next morning. There had been a crafting kit my mother had found that day, so that night, it was all hands on deck to get these moccasins together.

    Everybody’s nerves were pretty high the next day. Being in front of your class, let alone speaking in front of it, was a major hurdle to jump over for a fourth-grader. Her and I had passed notes for the majority of that day leading up to the presentations and I had wished her luck with her presentation in a piece of ripped lined paper. She was to present prior to me, so to ease the pressure, I teased her a bit via more notes before she was called up. Her presentation concluded and I passed her a "You did a great job!", along with a smiley face. My turn made its way around and she also wished me good luck through our note passing. After presenting a project that, for the most part, my mother had put together, things went off without a hitch. I had put just enough effort in to make something from nothing... unlike most, who had intricate miniature longhouses built in gravel pits, replica campsites, jewelry, and many other things that were completed over the course of several nights (not one).

    Once I was done and sat down, I quickly found another note passed to me on a scrap piece of ripped paper. I unfolded it and made sure I kept it under the lip of my school desk so as not to be seen by eyes to the right and left of me that were starting to get curious. "You did a great job, too!" was scribbled down, along with a matching smiley face. We had survived one of our biggest projects of the year that year, cheering each other on.

    There's another memory from that same time that makes me laugh at myself when I think back on it. What's more grade school than after-school dances in the gym? Well, I planned to make the most of one particular dance, coordinating with her during the school day (instead of paying attention my math work) to make sure we were both attending the dance that afternoon. Well, then lunch came along. Fries had been featured on the menu, a weekly staple. With fries, comes ketchup. Ketchup and heather grey hooded sweatshirts have, historically, never really gotten along. This instance was no exception, as the two clashed on the right corner of the front pocket on my hoodie. I remember immediately panicking about the dance. How was I supposed to impress her with an unhidable reddish, brown spot on my sweatshirt?! I was deflated and desperate to come up with a cover. So, I spent the rest of the school day formulating ideas.

    Once the school day came to a close, it was time for students who were staying for the dance to report to the gym area. I nervously did just that, meeting her and her friend inside the dimly lit gym. All was well and somehow I was pulling off not having the stain be discovered. But, it was hot and loud in the gym, so when she suggested going back into the hallway for a break, I was all for it. I had forgotten all about the stain and was having an awesome time being a kid at a school dance. That was, until we were out in the hallway.

    In the fluorescent lighting, all came to light. The three of us had talked for a brief moment, until she spotted the spot and asked, "What's that on your shirt right there?" pointing at the ketchup. I was just as interested as she was to find that, yes, indeed it hadn't magically disappeared along with my worries about it. I froze and raced to an explanation. "Oh, it's blood. I was bleeding." I said as nonchalantly cool as I possibly could. I immediately regretted that, because I knew I had no story to expand on beyond it 'just being blood'. Her friend and her gave me a look and giggled (thinking back, I didn't blame them a bit). Her friend whispered something into her ear and they both headed back into the gym. I later found out that the friend had whispered to her that she thought I was weird. Luckly, she didn't share the same feeling as her friend, because we went on liking each other for a while after that. Maybe, unlike her friend, she thought I was at least half as cool as I thought I was.

    Another memory I can distinctly remember, is of that Smith Road Elementary School's annual fourth grade science fair held one night. Cafeteria tables were littered with paper-mâché volcanoes, sponges that grew in water, and magnets attracting through set barriers. The usual suspects. The science fair transformed the cafeteria and gave parents and students alike a chance to wander the aisles between lunch tables leading to each science display individually being demonstrated. Oddly enough, the baking soda and vinegar needed for every volcano in the room still wasn’t enough to override the lingering smell of pizza and bleach. It wasn’t the smells that I remember the best, though. It was the introduction of her family that had left an impression on me. Before long, they collected before my less-than-impressive display, ready for my demo.

    Meeting your crush’s parents, at that age, was intimidating. They made it easy, though. “So, what does it do?” her mother had asked me. As I began with fiddle with my magnet-based demonstration, I felt the eyes of her mother, father, and grandmother upon me. Once again acting as cool as I could, I finished my presentation in probably three minutes that seemed to me more like three hours. Her mother began again, “Well, that was pretty cool, didn’t you think?” The question was shot over to the father, who responded with a head nod and a, “Yeah.”. Her father reminded me a lot of my own. A working man, one who was proud to have a lot of hard days of work under his belt.

    The kindest of the lot, however, was her grandmother. Her grandmother's eyes had the same particular warmth to them that her eyes had. Before the three walked on to the next demonstration, I remember her grandmother had stayed behind to tell me that I did very well with my demonstration. Later on, I could see between the crowd, my excited crush explaining to her family members that I had been the silly boy who had a crush on her. I could see their eyes dancing to my direction from across the room as she pointed me out as discreetly as possible.

    Some time after that, I recall my teacher pulling me aside. Sitting on the cubbies outside her classroom, she insisted that I should probably worry less about girls and that, if I wasn’t careful, I could potentially fall behind in my school work. Paying attention to schoolwork just wasn't on my agenda. Forget social studies and division. None of it mattered to me anyway. I was dead-set on winning this girl over at every pass.

    Well, the school year came and went, and I finished fourth grade with five things known:

1. I knew I hadn't paid an ounce of attention in math class because I was too busy passing notes (something I'm still paying for to this day).
2. I knew had the Miss Cairn's Fourth Grade Class Clown Award in the bag, which I actually did go on to win (humble brag), as voted on by my classmates.
3. I knew I had felt a really special connection to this girl and she felt the same way about me.
4. I knew that she would be attending Roxboro Road Middle School next year.
5. I knew in that case, I would be attending Roxboro Road Middle School next year.

    The fact was, I was able to pick between Gillette Road Middle School or Roxboro Road Middle School, due to riding the line of designated zones according where we lived at the time. Many of my friends had would be heading to Gillette, while I chose Roxboro... for her. I wasn't ready to let that go. Little me wanted to see things through, and a moving from elementary to middle school wasn't about to stop me.

    Unfortunately, middle school is and has always been a crapshoot. It is the hardest handful of years we go through in school because cliques are formed, sides are taken, and everybody is just looking to fit in with what's popular. So, even though her and I had ended up in the same school, there were many more kids and much less time we got to see each other. I think feelings faded on both ends by the time sixth grade rolled around, me being only a distant planet in her crowded orbit of football jocks and soccer stars.

    By the time highschool rolled around, I was pretty withdrawn from her and her group of friends. She was the high school quarterback's girlfriend, and I wasn't even in the stands at the games. Time had passed us by, or maybe just me.

    It started in fourth grade, with harmless notes passed back and forth, just scribbled transcriptions on ripped, crumpled, lined paper. Many of which I kept for a long while after, locked away in a tin box. Eventually, the fiber and lead wore away, but the words held the same emotion they did the second they had been jotted down and slipped to the hands of the one I admired. Now, only the memories of those notes and moments are left from it all. And they are sweet ones that I am thankful for.  

    In hindsight, I think I'd compare the feelings to being somehow cosmically tethered in a past or parallel life. The connection I felt was far deeper than even I could begin to explain. Especially for such a young age. In reality, elementary school was a much simpler time. At that stage in life, things such as love, death, loss, and fear should be quite difficult to comprehend. Yet, I thought I had at least one of those things completely figured out. 

    And maybe I was right. 

    Thinking back, our childhoods will always be linked with similar memories of each other's company. Perhaps, it was a sort of foresight? Could it be that our first love is designed to stand as a monument in time; always able to tie us back to days gone by? Maybe we are all astronomically fused to our first loves to serve as specific markers of time; reminders of what brought us to today. 

    And today, those days are behind us. We're both big grown-ups, with grown-up lives and responsibilities, memories in each other's mental notebooks.

    But, I'd like to think those two silly kids exist out there somewhere... 

    Still teasing and chasing each other around the playground. 

    That's how I'd like to keep the notebook pages of my memory. The ones that include my first love and my childhood as a whole: untainted and unbothered. 

    Aged, yet intact. Gone, yet remembered.

Happy. Innocent. 

    Filled with love, line by line.