Seventh grade commenced with abysmal heartache. A few short days before the launch of school Grandmother suffered an unrelenting cerebral hemorrhage. Her brief bathroom run would soon prove to be harmful to my spirit. My Granny loved me unconditionally. Her delicate voice whispering words of encouragement – honey you can own the world. Skipping home one afternoon shortly after Gram’s ordeal various sedans lined the street. Our peevish neighbor rudely interrupted my groove–her words music to my ears though. You’re beloved grandmother is home. God had prevailed! Triumphantly I ran to the door only to discover Grandmother had gone on with the Lord. Devastation immediately set in. I couldn’t relish the neighbor’s cruel comments. Her aim for sure was to ease me into my first death experience. For ten years our family had taken up residency with my beloved grandparent’s at their duplex Grandmother was going to be sorely missed. She genuinely was my best-ever blue-ribbon pal.
Apparently my 6th grade classmates did not heighten or widen over summer break. For sure I still had the wrap on that. Uncomfortable in my skin I was alone and afraid. Disbursed into contrasting classes made it worse. Although I was friendless in elementary school, at least I knew the kids. Now I had to launch a new campaign and adjust my risk scope. Regardless of the lack of friends, I was overtly an authentic “boy” crazy geek.
Now I ask you. What hormonally challenged, imbalanced, immature, overdeveloped, precocious 7th grader is not fantasy driven by juvenile schoolboys? Privileged to work in a school today I see first hand how times have not changed in this dominion. EXCEPTION: Cell phones give more accessibility than the old-fashion two-party lines of 1963. And besides, dialing up a guy was not proper etiquette during this era.
Easing through the hallways proved to be okay. Making friends came easier than expected. Excelling in science left me as one of the top three students in class. This manifested a partial new-found confidence. Then there was the affair with math. Proving to be studious with numbers disrupted my brain temporarily. This was the first inauguration of —– well let’s just call him “Chuck.”
Undeniably Chuck was the Brad Pitt of 1963. He was slender with a pencil thin upper lip. His fierce brown eyes could darken any room instantly. His infectious laugh–mesmerizing. He was without a doubt non committed to math and thrived on the title of class clown. Don Juan was uniquely handsome, the jock of the school. His entourage of beauties flocked his every side. And my heart ached for the spotlight of this next James Bond. Romanticizing of my new Romeo endangered my heart right into abducting my brain.
And then it happened. Dorothy clicked her heels three times and Chuck appeared. The class clown needed a helping-hand with assignments. After all, one couldn’t expect the court jester of the classroom to categorically do his work. Approaching me directly after math his words flowed like milk and honey. Momentarily my conscious mind went blacker than black. Drifting in and out of reality I ultimately declared yes, yes and yes.
A few awkward minutes befell the two of us and then came the hard sell. Tutoring wasn’t in the cards after all. Those sweet puppy-dog eyes begging for co-operation. That angelic halo and those gorgeous lips –the statuesque of the picture perfect specimen. And there is was–the heart eating the brain. Honored as the desired choice I embraced the challenge–Chuck’s homework for the next three months. Judgement day arrived. Eventually caught the punishment indubitably suited the transgression. Five hundred times for each of us penning, “I will not do Chuck’s homework” weaved into a thousand words for me.
Love may come and love may go
No matter what age you’re all aglow
Sometimes it works though often naught
There is no need to be distraught
When God is ready He does provide
The perfect heart, the perfect tide.
Live Life to it’s Fullest and Follow Those Dreams
See you soon
|We are most alive…most free…when the fabric of our lives is woven from threads of the heart.
—from Recharge in Minutes by Dr. Suzanne Zoglio