Love in September

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Jason called her Carol.At first I thought she was his sister—a secret sibling he never mentioned before or a stepsister—but she wasn’t. Carol had long dark brown hair and greeneyes. She reminded me of Natalie Wood. She looked like she had just stepped outof the pages of a fashion magazine, complete with a trim figure that was wellformed where it needed to be, and graceful.

She was pretty and always wore attractive outfits. Long slender dresses referred to as pencil style dresses were part of the ensemble for ladies in the fifties and the style looked great on her. Sometimes she also wore that period’s popular pleated swing skirts with coordinating tops. There was never a time when she didn’t look nice. One could spend endless time just watching her walk. All the pieces blended together into one coordinated smooth motion.

A gold chain made of small hearts always adorned her neck. The sides of the chain merged together as they descended to where she buttoned her collar, and then disappeared down inside the front of her dress. She never wore it outside. I always wondered about that mysterious chain. She always smelled good, too. A fresh delicious sweet but not overpowering scent surrounded her that seemed to bond all her pleasant qualities together. I mentally put her on a pedestal. That's the way I was brought up.

The time was the fall of 1958 in Maryland. I remember what my mother told me. "Search the world for the precious beauty that it holds for you and never abuse it or take it for granted," she advised me. I always remembered that. It was from her that I learned to appreciate beauty no matter where I found it. She also cautioned me to obey rules or else they could come back to kick you hard in the pants if you played loose with them. She was a big believer in rules and doing what was right, as well as beauty.

My father on the other hand was more practical about rules and life. He was Mr. Logic all right. Everything had to follow some sort of practical plan for him. He always said that some rules were just begging to be broken. I reckon they were both right. But I suppose ultimately that it was my father’s logic that unknowingly influenced me that fateful fall of 1958.

In the fall of 1958, Lakewood, Maryland, a small community forty miles south of Baltimore, was filled with respectable people doing respectable things. I sure thought I was respectable, living there with my mom and dad —never thought otherwise. Back in 1958, rules were stricter for what was considered respectable behavior, especially in Lakewood, our happy little quiet community. At least on the outside it seemed happy and respectable.

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