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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 06/08/2011
First Love - The Un-Ending Riddle
Born 1954, M, from Magalia, California, United States- First Love -
The Un-Ending Riddle
She was so beautiful. That’s all I could think. The moment I heard her speak I was rendered totally helpless. Why was she speaking to me? Most girls treated me as if I was from some other planet. The only way I was able to start a conversation with almost any of the fairer ones was to make some silly joke or do something to make them laugh at me. And this was the beginning of the most wonderful part of the year, when the girls are the prettiest. That’s why I was sitting in the high school park at lunch. It was springtime. The sun was shining. And the girls were blooming.
I had a good job after school, so I could afford a date, but I rarely asked for one. All too often, when I did get my nerve up to ask, I was turned down, or even worse, not taken seriously. As you can tell, I suffered from a malady that is common to teen-age boys, and still do, somewhat, until this very day. I was more than just girl shy. I was completely convinced that there was no way I could capture the interest of one of these wonderful creatures. Yet, there she was.
Billie sat next to me on the grass of the park lawn, opposite the high school to which I had just returned after Memorial Day weekend. It was 1969, and mini skirts were the rage among the rebels of the opposite sex. She was incredibly, beautifully rebellious and nearly as tall as I was. It was all I could do to look her in the face and say hello without my voice quivering. Why was she favoring me with her attention? In fear of saying something stupid, which was a sure bet, I waited for her to speak to me.
I was 16 years old, six feet and one inch tall, and I weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds. I was trying really hard to look like Alvin Lee, of Ten Years After, but from the pictures I’ve seen I did more credit to Shaggy from the Skooby Doo cartoons. I had just moved into a small town just far enough from the city to be a little behind in the styles of the times. For some reason most of the girls looked pretty hip, but the guys still looked as if they all belonged in a James Dean movie. Not that there was anything wrong with James Dean, but he was just not up there with Peter Fonda, in Easy Rider. I didn’t really fit in with my high healed boots, bell-bottom cords, wide belt, paisley shirt and a silver neck chain. In fact, it made me the object of a lot of queer jokes. All the rest of the guys were wearing their pegged Levi’s, cowboy boots or tennis shoes, and white T-shirts with a pack of Marlboros rolled up in their sleeve, and they just couldn’t resist ridiculing somebody dressed differently. To go along with that, I had no interest in sports and I took typing, not auto shop. Billie didn’t seem to notice.
It was a good thing that she didn’t mind carrying the load of the conversation at that first meeting, as I couldn’t do much more than gawk, grin, and nod once in a while. (All the while I tried heroically not to slobber all over myself.) To this day I really couldn’t tell you how it happened during our first conversation, but I wound up with a date to go ice skating with her. It must have been my idea, as I found that I had to show her how to make herself even move with the skates on.
A little at a time, I got to know her. She was fun. She was kind of wild and she seemed to expect me to be wild, too. I worked overtime at trying not to disappoint her. She liked music, and she told me that she had seen me at the first dance I had ever played my drums. She was evidently one of the few who bothered to show up at the dance we put on just prior to our return to school. I was really glad that she liked our music because it gave me a topic that I wasn’t nervous to talk about. We were playing tunes by the Jefferson Airplane and Chambers Brothers, Credence Clearwater Revival and Donavan. It was funny.
The cowboys really didn’t like us, but the girls did, so they had to learn to dance to our stuff, eventually, or it would mess up their dates. We barely paid for the building we rented, but we were playing music and some people clapped, evidently including Billie.
It wasn’t too long until I noticed that the guys at school started to treat me differently. Some were friendlier, inviting me to parties. Quite a number of girls began paying more than the usual attention to me. I was friendly in return, of course, but Billie was my friend. I thought their behavior was strange and didn’t bother to wonder why.
Billie really encouraged my music and came to all the practice sessions with the band. It was nice to have her around, treating me like I was something special. It was unreal to me, to have someone like her treating me like I meant something. I really came to care about her a lot. We shared our intimate feelings and affections. There was no doubt that I was in love. Was she? What did she see in me?
She said that we would be friends, forever. She thought that I was funny and sensitive, and she enjoyed being with me. She really dug my music and she thought that I was a really great drummer. But her fiancée had just got out of the Navy, and she was going to be married next month. (Huh? She told me this in the back seat of my car.) I told her that it was all cool, and that I would always love her. Love was a word that came out fairly easy during that time period. It was “popular.” I smiled and pretended “everything was cool” and that I was stupid enough to believe that I would ever see her again. I never did.
She was so beautiful. She was so smart. Because of her I became accepted among my classmates and was treated with respect for the rest of my high school days. After she was gone I was never in want of a date, which I again attribute to her as I hadn’t changed. It always makes me sad to think of her. I find it difficult to believe that anyone would be so convincing, so open and intimate, and not really care. I think her view of love was one greatly differing from mine. It’s not something that can just be put away for a convenient time and the deep sharing of the soul is to be kept and cherished forever. I can’t believe that she purposely lifted me up and nurtured my self confidence, filled me with hope and then just left with any premeditated malice. I think the Disney owl would say I was twitterpated and she wasn’t. My heart tells me that something inside her was broken.
I’ve never said anything bad about her to anyone. In fact, I’ve never mentioned her to anyone since she left, except for this very sparse account of my experience with her. At times I still worry about her. If she had behaved in the same manner with any number of men I’ve met over the years she could have been hurt badly. And what about the man that she was marrying? How would he feel? How did he feel? How would he react? I so want her to be safe. I hope she’s happy, and I wish her well.
I’ve had years to think about Billie. I can still see her standing over me in her mini skirt and those killer spike heeled boots and sparkly beads as she asked, “You’re Ric, the drummer with the Aces, aren’t you?”
I brilliantly replied, “Ah, sometimes. Sometimes not. I was last weekend. Yeah, uh, my name’s Ric.”
“I’m Billie. Can I sit with you?”
She was so beautiful. I still don’t understand. Why me?
First Love - The Un-Ending Riddle(Ric Wooldridge)
- First Love -
The Un-Ending Riddle
She was so beautiful. That’s all I could think. The moment I heard her speak I was rendered totally helpless. Why was she speaking to me? Most girls treated me as if I was from some other planet. The only way I was able to start a conversation with almost any of the fairer ones was to make some silly joke or do something to make them laugh at me. And this was the beginning of the most wonderful part of the year, when the girls are the prettiest. That’s why I was sitting in the high school park at lunch. It was springtime. The sun was shining. And the girls were blooming.
I had a good job after school, so I could afford a date, but I rarely asked for one. All too often, when I did get my nerve up to ask, I was turned down, or even worse, not taken seriously. As you can tell, I suffered from a malady that is common to teen-age boys, and still do, somewhat, until this very day. I was more than just girl shy. I was completely convinced that there was no way I could capture the interest of one of these wonderful creatures. Yet, there she was.
Billie sat next to me on the grass of the park lawn, opposite the high school to which I had just returned after Memorial Day weekend. It was 1969, and mini skirts were the rage among the rebels of the opposite sex. She was incredibly, beautifully rebellious and nearly as tall as I was. It was all I could do to look her in the face and say hello without my voice quivering. Why was she favoring me with her attention? In fear of saying something stupid, which was a sure bet, I waited for her to speak to me.
I was 16 years old, six feet and one inch tall, and I weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds. I was trying really hard to look like Alvin Lee, of Ten Years After, but from the pictures I’ve seen I did more credit to Shaggy from the Skooby Doo cartoons. I had just moved into a small town just far enough from the city to be a little behind in the styles of the times. For some reason most of the girls looked pretty hip, but the guys still looked as if they all belonged in a James Dean movie. Not that there was anything wrong with James Dean, but he was just not up there with Peter Fonda, in Easy Rider. I didn’t really fit in with my high healed boots, bell-bottom cords, wide belt, paisley shirt and a silver neck chain. In fact, it made me the object of a lot of queer jokes. All the rest of the guys were wearing their pegged Levi’s, cowboy boots or tennis shoes, and white T-shirts with a pack of Marlboros rolled up in their sleeve, and they just couldn’t resist ridiculing somebody dressed differently. To go along with that, I had no interest in sports and I took typing, not auto shop. Billie didn’t seem to notice.
It was a good thing that she didn’t mind carrying the load of the conversation at that first meeting, as I couldn’t do much more than gawk, grin, and nod once in a while. (All the while I tried heroically not to slobber all over myself.) To this day I really couldn’t tell you how it happened during our first conversation, but I wound up with a date to go ice skating with her. It must have been my idea, as I found that I had to show her how to make herself even move with the skates on.
A little at a time, I got to know her. She was fun. She was kind of wild and she seemed to expect me to be wild, too. I worked overtime at trying not to disappoint her. She liked music, and she told me that she had seen me at the first dance I had ever played my drums. She was evidently one of the few who bothered to show up at the dance we put on just prior to our return to school. I was really glad that she liked our music because it gave me a topic that I wasn’t nervous to talk about. We were playing tunes by the Jefferson Airplane and Chambers Brothers, Credence Clearwater Revival and Donavan. It was funny.
The cowboys really didn’t like us, but the girls did, so they had to learn to dance to our stuff, eventually, or it would mess up their dates. We barely paid for the building we rented, but we were playing music and some people clapped, evidently including Billie.
It wasn’t too long until I noticed that the guys at school started to treat me differently. Some were friendlier, inviting me to parties. Quite a number of girls began paying more than the usual attention to me. I was friendly in return, of course, but Billie was my friend. I thought their behavior was strange and didn’t bother to wonder why.
Billie really encouraged my music and came to all the practice sessions with the band. It was nice to have her around, treating me like I was something special. It was unreal to me, to have someone like her treating me like I meant something. I really came to care about her a lot. We shared our intimate feelings and affections. There was no doubt that I was in love. Was she? What did she see in me?
She said that we would be friends, forever. She thought that I was funny and sensitive, and she enjoyed being with me. She really dug my music and she thought that I was a really great drummer. But her fiancée had just got out of the Navy, and she was going to be married next month. (Huh? She told me this in the back seat of my car.) I told her that it was all cool, and that I would always love her. Love was a word that came out fairly easy during that time period. It was “popular.” I smiled and pretended “everything was cool” and that I was stupid enough to believe that I would ever see her again. I never did.
She was so beautiful. She was so smart. Because of her I became accepted among my classmates and was treated with respect for the rest of my high school days. After she was gone I was never in want of a date, which I again attribute to her as I hadn’t changed. It always makes me sad to think of her. I find it difficult to believe that anyone would be so convincing, so open and intimate, and not really care. I think her view of love was one greatly differing from mine. It’s not something that can just be put away for a convenient time and the deep sharing of the soul is to be kept and cherished forever. I can’t believe that she purposely lifted me up and nurtured my self confidence, filled me with hope and then just left with any premeditated malice. I think the Disney owl would say I was twitterpated and she wasn’t. My heart tells me that something inside her was broken.
I’ve never said anything bad about her to anyone. In fact, I’ve never mentioned her to anyone since she left, except for this very sparse account of my experience with her. At times I still worry about her. If she had behaved in the same manner with any number of men I’ve met over the years she could have been hurt badly. And what about the man that she was marrying? How would he feel? How did he feel? How would he react? I so want her to be safe. I hope she’s happy, and I wish her well.
I’ve had years to think about Billie. I can still see her standing over me in her mini skirt and those killer spike heeled boots and sparkly beads as she asked, “You’re Ric, the drummer with the Aces, aren’t you?”
I brilliantly replied, “Ah, sometimes. Sometimes not. I was last weekend. Yeah, uh, my name’s Ric.”
“I’m Billie. Can I sit with you?”
She was so beautiful. I still don’t understand. Why me?
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Rich Puckett
02/16/2019Frist love true love filled with such devotion, ah yes, I know the tail, and have felt th music and wonder if I saw her now, would we dance as if young again, or say when did you get so ugly?
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
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Kevin Hughes
02/16/2019Ric,
I hesitated to tell you this, because I didn't want to set up false hopes for you to go contact Billie- because often people are in your past for a reason. And I can tell you from personal experience- many times they wish you had stayed gone. They haven't thought of you in a decades, and you have thought about them often. And that stings a second time.
But, if you want to see what those Interviews led up to of finding your first love, or old true love, it was a book I wrote called: Wife after Death. And most of the Stories involve meeting back up after fifty or more years. I was only in my early fifties when I wrote it- and didn't realize it would hurt to read for most folks. Now that I am close to seventy and forty years of marriage, I realize the absolute soul robbing fear of losing your mate for life.
Older people do not want to lose their life long love, the person there for every major life trial, or Joyful moment - for a chance to meet up with an old flame. And our bodies can really wreak havoc on a relationship. One of my buddies got a girlfriend after his wife passed on. They were both in their seventies, when they met. Her health held up. His did not.
After health issue after health issue, she finally broke it off (even though they still remain friends) as she says: "I didn't sign up for this. I wanted a partner- not to be a caretaker or nurse. " And that is a statement you will never hear from someone like my Kathy or myself- or any other life long love. Sickness and health is a promise most of us keep. But not for a date!
Smiles, Kevin
Help Us Understand What's Happening
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Ric Wooldridge
02/16/2019I have fond memories of Billy. This short story is pure fiction, but Billy was my first girlfriend. I was so young I still squeaked. I'm married and living in Mexico, but I'd like to know if she's doing ok. She was special.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
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Kevin Hughes
02/16/2019Ric,
There is so much I want to say about this story. You are not alone- would be my first comment. I bumped up against this in my own life- if it hadn't been for the girl in High School (and Grade School) who taught me to love - I would not have been ready for my Kathy many years later.
I did a series of interviews of Widowers who said they would never marry again after their wife died. Most of these guys were married for thirty five to fifty five years. Out of the 300 or so I interviewed, almost a quarter of them went back and married their HS sweetheart, or first Fiance.
I also did some work to see why folks remember their first love for so long (mostly males do this - by the way!) and there have to be some conditions: the "love" had to be ended abruptly ( a move, a parent putting a stop to it for religious, or status reasons- or in your case- engagement to another unknown person). The person in love has to be between the ages of 12 and 22 . They think that has something to do with the final tuning of the brain, and the powerful hormones running around too.
Funnily enough, if they love died a normal death - because you grew apart, grew up, or grew different- both move on easily.
But believe me, you are not alone. Of my closest friends (friends of fifty five years - in one case) three of them could have written this story. Including me. LOL
Smiles, Kevin
COMMENTS (3)