Each day we went farther, creating places for different activities. Past the Earel Camp Road, we set up a fort and played cowboys and Indians. Upstream a bit, we found an eddy where the fishing was good. Two hundred yards deeper, we discovered a meadow where we cleared out a spot for lunch. Maybe a half mile more and we found a beach where we brought our Tonka truck and loader (both mine, he didn’t have any) and we built roads, cities, and pools that fed from the river. We developed a routine that got us home later and later. Three times that summer I arrived home late for supper, sure my dad would break out the belt, or a switch, or his hand. He just frowned and said, “A little late tonight, aren’t you?” The third time he took away my dessert and ate it himself, lemon meringue pie. Ever since then, I can’t seem to get enough lemon meringue pie.
As we extended our borders and traveled farther upriver, we—that is, I—discovered Sandra Thompsen. Bored with the trucks, I suggested we row up a bit more. Johnny Ray climbed in and sat on the front of the boat, his legs hanging into the water. I rowed upstream, my strokes smooth and powerful, as the boat and us learned the ways of the water together. As I paddled close to the shore looking for snakes or frogs, we hit a clearing with a house. I spotted her on the deck in a chaise lounge chair. Sandra.
The clouds parted and the sun shone on her straight blond hair, and the music came up. None of that happened, but it might as well have. She was at an angle and leaned back on the chair, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She wore blue shorts and long tanned legs, her shirt a dazzling white. The sun bleached her hair to a bright blond. I stopped rowing and stared. Sandra was two grades ahead of me and in high school. I hadn’t seen her in two years. Those years had been good to her. She developed curves and shapes that transformed her from a gawky girl into a goddess. I turned the boat around and hoped she didn’t see me. Johnny Ray sat up with the changing motion.
“What’s going on?” he looked around.
“Nothing. Just going back down a bit,” I whispered.
“I thought we were going to try to get up to Bay Drive.”
“Not today.”
“Okay. Let’s go back and play trucks.”
I kept my voice low. “Naw, I don’t want to do that.” I prayed she didn’t hear our conversation.
“Cowboys and Indians in the inlet then.”
I just wanted to think about Sandra.
~
I rowed to her place alone. Tied the boat to her dock and sauntered up to her deck. Today, fully prepared, I wore a white shirt untucked with the top button unbuttoned. Sandra lay on the chaise lounge, sleeping. She wore the same outfit, blue shorts and white top. Her arms were tanning nicely.
“Hello, Sandra.”
She sat up, startled. “Bobby.” She brushed her beautiful golden locks away from her face and dazzling green eyes.
“Mind if I sit down?”
She patted the flat part of the chair beside her.
I sat so close our hips touched. She smelled like lilacs. “I saw you row past the other day.”
“You did?”
She nodded and closed her green eyes for a second. A dozen freckles graced each cheek. Full lips with a hint of lipstick. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since.”
“I have, too. I’ve bee—”
She kissed me. She put her long, slender fingers behind my head and pulled it to her face.
That’s the scene I rehearsed in my mind, every day, a thousand times, that summer. The blue and white outfit. The hair, brushed back. The kiss. A thousand times. Maybe more. Yet I never spoke to her, and she didn’t know I existed.
We didn’t mean to take the boat out every day that summer, Johnny Ray and I. Lots of times we’d play hopscotch or find other kids and played tag or Red Rover, but the sun would get up in the sky and beat down on us. We’d take off, and the other kids would beg us to bring them along. But their parents forbid it. We would launch as the big men in the neighborhood, and by the time we floated past Sandra’s house, we transformed into little boys.
After the first chance meeting, I made sure we rowed past her house, every day. Most days she didn’t appear, the star of the stage leaving the hungry crowd of one wanting more. But once in a while, she would appear as we cleared the trees, sunning, watering flowers, or lying in the hammock. That was the worst, as I could barely see her.
One day we glided past as Sandra played croquet with her mother. She bent over the ball, the mallet in her hands and her backside to us. An amazing view. She wore polka dotted shorts, blue on white, and her tan legs accented that outfit in an amazing display of beauty. Her mom said something and she laughed a high, carefree, lilting laugh that changed me. If I could make her laugh like that with me, it would be a time of blissful peace and harmony. We would both laugh together.
“Hey man, row,” Johnny Ray said.
The boat drifted toward their dock. I back paddled hard while trying to be quiet. Imagine if we crashed into her dock. Then I’d look idiotic. I aimed the boat downstream and let him row.
He steered the boat to Pirate’s Island, which wasn’t an island, just a bit of a sandy beach. Johnny Ray got a scarf and tied it on his head. He put his hands on his hips and said, “Arr.” He looked silly.
I decided I would go up to Sandra’s place the next day. Alone.
~
Because I couldn’t think of a good reason to tell Johnny Ray he couldn’t come, I just took off early by myself. I packed a lunch and some bait. And I brought my best white shirt. Pirate’s Island appeared out of the morning mist. I stopped there and practiced. “Hello, Sandra. I’m Bobbie. I’ve been rowing past your house this summer…”
No.
“Hi, Sandra. I couldn’t help but see you.”
No.
“Sandra. Would you like to go for a ride in my boat?”
Better. Then I would be offering her something.
I wrote her name in the sand with a stick while practicing my lines and carving our initials in a tree with a heart surrounding them. I tried to practice holding her hand, but holding my own didn’t work. At last I stood, and working up my courage, got in the boat and paddled to her house. Right as the trees would clear to her yard, I turned back. Repeated the same routine. Wrote her name. Carved another set of initials in another tree. Rehearsed the lines. Wrote ‘Bobbie and Sandra’ in the sand. Paddled to her house.
Nothing.
I couldn’t just walk up to the house and knock on her back door. She needed to be in the back yard for the plan to work. I rowed back to Pirate’s Island, the white shirt stuck to my back, soaked with sweat.
Okay. I took off the shirt and hung it on a tree. Swam in the river a bit. Got to get the sweat off. Cursed myself for failing to think of bringing deodorant. Put the shirt back on and once again headed to Sandra’s house. I set my will. If she’s there, I will get out and talk to her. I rowed slow and easy, but the sweat trickled down the center of my back.
As I rowed closer to her house, I could hear her muffled voice. Then I heard the most beautiful, sound—her lilting laugh as it skipped across the water. I moved the oars like a whisper through the water to savor the moment and conserve sweat. She spoke again, her voice low. Swiveling my head to find her, I saw her sitting on the dock, just a few feet away.
With Andy Workman, a football player.
What to do? Now I floated into their view, rowing upstream. Turning now would look idiotic, so I rowed onward, and they came into full view, seated side by side on the dock with their feet in the water, holding hands. Sandra smiled and waved at me. I stopped rowing with one hand and waved back, then fumbled for the oar. It popped out of the oarlock and I lunged for it. The boat tipped and I shot over the gunwale and into the water. Sandra and Andy got a good laugh out of that. I climbed back into the boat and realized I failed to recover the oar. I paddled with the one oar like a paddle, as they said something. Mortified, I didn’t hear what they said, except the word, ‘Bobbie.’ It sounded like a baby’s name, not Bob, or Ro
b, or Robert or something. I caught up to the oar and leaned over to grab it. Please, don’t fall in again. The boat turned toward the shore, so I rowed hard to straighten it.
No way was I going back by her yard. I bore down on the left oar and made a long arcing turn through the middle of the river and soon I could see the two of them on the dock.
Then Andy kissed her. Right on the mouth. I saw him do it. Then he pulled away and smiled at me, with a look that said, ‘I got her. You don’t.’
He may as well have stabbed me in the heart.
I rowed back home, the song in my head.
I had a girl
And Donna was her name.
Since she left me
I’ve never been the same.
Cause I love my girl
Donna, where can you be?
I stopped at Pirate’s Island and carved the initials out of the trees, making it unreadable. Swept my feet over the names carved in the sand. Wadded up the shirt and threw it in the river. As it moved downstream and settled into the depths, I realized my mother would kill me when she found out I lost it.
I rowed home.
Crenshaw didn’t seem to be around so I swam a bit to cool off, the sun now bearing down and the humid air still as death. Wandering home, I stole from place to place, surveying the neighborhood to avoid Johnny Ray and his wrath. Mom met me at the kitchen and gave me a glass of lemonade, dripping with cold droplets on the glass. She had the radio on and I sat on the couch with my feet on the coffee table. Perry Como sang. After his song the announcer said, “And now, the Poni Tails.” No, please. Not this song. Numerous women harmonized and stabbed my heart with the words.
Born too late for you to notice me
To you, I’m just a kid that you won’t date
Why was I born too late?
Mom walked in and said, “Are you okay, honey?”
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “This is a sad song.”
“It sure is.” She sat beside me and I leaned into her. “You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head and stood. “Think I’ll go find Johnny Ray. Head out to the river.” I walked out of the room as the Poni Tails continued their assault,
I see you walk with another
I wish it could be me
I long to hold and kiss you
But know it never can be.
We’ll go upriver and play trucks, pirates, Huck and Tom games. Do some fishing and fry them up. Maybe Johnny Ray can pump his legs, let go of the rope swing today.
But I’ll never go by Sandra’s house again.
Wisconsin
During our ride through Wisconsin, we managed to get into Lambeau Field for Family Day, where the team scrimmaged and 50,000 cheeseheads attended. Boy, they loved their beer, brats, and cheese. We attended a festival, too, but with much different results. Why can’t a… handsome-challenged and cool-deficient guy not get the girl? Warning: This story rated PG13 for gratuitous humor. You’ve been warned.
THE BEER, BRAT AND CHEESE FESTIVAL
Harvey Messman drove his beat-up Ford Focus into the town of Sister Bay. The road below teemed with cars, bicycles, and pedestrians. Beyond it, Green Bay extended, and Harvey wondered why people called it green when it looked gray. Sailboats and power boats dotted the seascape. The park almost disappeared underneath the hordes of people, celebrating Beer, Brats, and Cheese. Harvey gripped the wheel and wondered why he ever came to this celebration. The thought of meeting people made his hands clammy. He groaned and rolled down the hill, his foot on the brake.
He spotted a car leaving a space so he signaled and nosed his car into the gap. Bad idea. Instead of stopping ahead of the spot and backing in, parallel parking style, he went straight in, nose first, the front wheels against the curb, with the tail sticking out in traffic. Two women pointed and tittered.
“I got this.” He crawled forward until just about… Nope. He bumped the car in front of him. Hit reverse and jacked the wheel. The car turned and reversed with the front now sticking into traffic worse than before. As he noted that, the car continued backward until it hit the car behind, starting its alarm. Startled, Harvey threw it into drive and banged into the forward car until he hit it, sounding another horn. Frustrated, he backed and jacked and pulled out of the spot, cutting off a car coming his way. The driver slammed on his brakes and another plowed into him. Harvey eased by with a smile and shrug like, ‘what can you do?’ and searched for another spot. Not until he found one a mile from the event did he realize he’d parked, both times, on the wrong side of the street. Banging his door into a wooden planter gave him the clue. He surveyed the chip on his door, then shut it.
He rooted through his giant beach bag and found the sunscreen. Smearing on a thick white pancake batter layer of SPF 70, he checked out the crowd. Lots of fuzzy people. Oops. His glasses sat on the roof. He reached for them, but they shot out from between his greasy fingers. Startled, he jumped and landed on them. He held them close to his eyes and surveyed the damage. “Rats.” He walked to the back of the car, his hand on the side until he reached the trunk. Rooting around, he found a thick gob of transparent tape and wound it around the bridge of the nose section. He put them on, content with the fix. Except one cracked lens. If he tilted his head to the right, he could see just fine. He tossed the tape in the trunk, shut the lid and took a step, then fell to the ground. He’d gotten the bag stuck in the trunk. Opening it, he swept the bag away, then sauntered toward the park. “No more accidents.”
Arriving at the grassy park along the bay, he pushed his glasses onto his nose and checked out the crowd. Folks shuffled by each other, shoulder to shoulder along the booths at the Beer, Brat, and Cheese Festival in Sister Bay. A guy jostled him and his bag fell to the grass. Bending over, he knocked over a bicyclist. “Sorry.” Time for some refreshments. He got in two separate lines to acquire a good sized paper cup of beer and a huge hot brat lying in a bun that he balanced on a paper plate. Stopping at the condiment table, he carefully painted a thick stripe of ketchup on one side and mustard on the other. Harvey liked things neat and tidy. That’s why he kept his pens in his pocket protector. They always seemed to leak. The crowd bumped him as he turned to consider wading into it, each hand busy with balance, the bag slipping down his shoulder. He shrugged it back a bit. Everything looked weird, thanks to the crack in his lens. He leaned his head to the right. “No more accidents today,” he said aloud. No worries about anyone hearing him as the band belted out, ‘Surfing USA’ nearby. Somehow he would worm his way through the masses to a table and sit down, mitigating his chances for an accident. Impatient to get started eating, he held up the brat to take a bite.
He took one step. One. Then he saw Tawny Brittenhouse walking toward him. He gulped. Tawny worked at the same Real Estate office as he did, in sales, while he worked accounting. She always flashed through the building with dangling earrings and bracelets, wearing fabulous clothes and makeup. All the accounting guys talked about how cool it would be to walk around with Tawny on their arm, and other conquests, like it could happen. Harvey knew better, but engaged in the conversations anyway. They even found fault with her attributes, but today he could find nothing to support their lame opinions.
Today Tawny dressed casually, but wow. She wore a tight pair of white shorts with brown high heel sandals at the ends of her long, tanned legs. Blond hair curled down to her shoulders. Gold and silver bracelets graced both arms, jangling a musical note. Her bright red shirt must have been two sizes too small, accentuating her flat stomach and curving hips. And the Twin Peaks did everything possible to break free of their confines, spilling over the red ledge.
Harvey gulped again. Oops. He gulped with the brat in his mouth. It slid down his throat and stuck. He swung his hand to his throat, but it held the plastic cup of beer. The cup bounced off his chin and flew the other way, dumping its contents into the valley between the Delightful D’s. Tawny shrieked.
Harvey backpedaled and tripped, the bag falling to th
e ground, his arms cartwheeling and his eyes huge as he stumbled backward, the brat still jammed in his mouth. He fell onto the condiment table and the back of his head smacked a glass tray of cheese samples. As he continued his descent, the tray somersaulted over, throwing a cheese slice up and arcing, landing with a splat on the tanned surface of Tawny’s chest, flanked by the Pretty Pair. The tray landed flat on Harvey’ stomach, acting like a Heimlich maneuver; pushing the air out his mouth, the brat flew out with a whoosh. Doing what extreme snowboarders call a ten-twenty, which translated means it made three complete somersaults in the air before wedging itself between the Matching Mounds, ketchup oozing down one side and mustard down the other.
Seeing the damage, Harvey grabbed the tablecloth to pull himself up, dragging cheese, napkins, plates, and plastic forks, mustard, ketchup, and other condiments to the ground, not before cascading over his head. After being helped to his feet, he immediately reached over to clean up the ketchup and mustard before stopping.
The brat stood upright against the backdrop of cheese, with beer trickling down like a waterfall inside the Secret Set.
Harvey spotted the brat. “I uh, excuse me, but,” he approached the brat with finger and thumb, extricating it like a scientist handling nuclear material. “I believe that is mine.” He slid the brat from between the Pair of Pretties.
He shoved it in his pocket protector, then surveyed the damage at the Darling Duo. Reaching in his other pocket, he produced a handkerchief and attempted to wipe the damage from the landscape.
Tawny swatted his hand away and put hers on each of his SPF 70 cheeks. “Are you all right?”
Unaccustomed to speaking with anyone so beautiful, he started to cry. With all the other trauma he endured, he didn’t even notice, but a tear trickled down his left cheek. Maybe he didn’t notice because it flowed over a layer of SPF 70. Tawny wiped it away. “Oh, you poor dear. Here, come with me. I’ve got a blanket and picnic set up near that tree.” She pointed. “You think you can make it?”
He gave a couple of nervous nods. She put her arm around his shoulders and steered him to the blanket. He stopped, turned, and picked up his bag. Workers knelt and picked up debris from the grass. “Sorry.” He shrugged the bag onto his shoulder and caught up with Tawny.
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E. Page 6