Always

1975

She was a skinny, lanky girl. Her long hair was set into a long pony tail down her back. Her eyes were sparkling green and full of life. She sat a t her desk, reading. She paid close attention in class. If she had a question for the teacher, she raised her hand and asked. She was not afraid. Whenever she spoke, I looked at her face. She was beautiful.

Mrs. Spiegle’s fourth grade class was my first introduction to the kids I would graduate with, far into the future, in 1983. Most of these children had lived in Turrell, Arkansas for the majority of their lives. I had not. We moved to Turrell from West Memphis, Arkansas in 1974. The year before, we’d lived in Georgia for over a year. I was born in West Memphis, and now I’d grow to adulthood just sixteen miles north of it. Turrell would become what I would forever see as my “hometown”. I would finish grade school and graduate high school here. My parents would live here for many years afterwards. I’d marry the beautiful, skinny girl that always asked questions and raise four fantastic kids with her.

When we were in fourth grade, I was (in my own mind) a bookworm (read-nerd) fat kid, with one eye. I’d lost an eye to infection when we lived in Georgia, and I had a “glass” eye. Looking back (pun intended) I see how that event in my life gave me self-esteem issues that would follow me throughout my life. I was also a tad over weight. I always thought of myself as the fat kid. It followed me for a long time. I wasted most of my youth on those two perceived handicaps. Even into my late teens, my lack of confidence stopped me from enjoying life as it should be enjoyed. The chances not taken, friends not made, and experiences not partaken of, are endless. I recall them only to remind myself that no matter how broken we are in life, perceived or real, we should live life to the fullest. That’s how I use those memories today. Not to wallow in regret, or lost chances, but to encourage myself to take each of life’s opportunities at face value. Take a chance. Take a shot. Make it count.

The girl with all the questions in Mrs. Spiegle’s fourth grade class always seemed like she was confident. She had opinions. Lots. She was the smartest person in class. Not the smartest girl, mind you. The smartest person. When she didn’t know the answer, she searched it out. She fought to find it. She asked questions, then questioned the answer until it stood up under examination. She was intimidating. And I loved her from the first day I laid eyes on her, to now.

One thing a low self-esteem does to a guy is to inhibit him from saying how he feels. Prepubescent kids are like that in general, but when you mix in a lower than normal sense of self-esteem, it can cripple a guy’s “game”. Yes, I said it. I had no game. It wasn’t until the following year, in Mr.Shepard’s fifth grade class, that I made my love known to her. I bared my soul to her in several unanswered notes. Yes, notes. Back in Medieval Times when one wanted to declare himself to the beautiful damsel, he would write flowery prose and have it delivered via a trusted friend. In the Medieval Ancient times of 1975, I sent my declarations to her, through my friend Michael True. A few notes into this declaration of my heart, I got my answer. Sam, and her friend Jolynn chased me down on the playground at recess and walloped me with purses I’m sure they’d brought to school for just that occasion. It was painful, but I definitely got her attention. I figured it was a step forward. I was wrong.

The fateful day came when I was working at my desk, oblivious to the coming onslaught of shame, and there was a knock at the classroom door. It was Sam. Mr. Shepard went to the door, and stepped out into the hallway with her. Though my heart jumped at seeing her, I had no idea it involved me. I figured the office just sent her to take something to the teacher. Not so. Mr.Shepard stuck his head back into the classroom, and called me to the door. He motioned for me to come out into the hall. When he’d closed the door behind me, and we were all three in the hallway, Mr. Shepard gave her the wind up.

“Sam has something she wants to say.” He nodded to her. She stood there with confidence, and not just a little anger and irritation, spoke to me. She continued to look at, and address, Mr. Shepard, but her words were for me.

“He won’t quit sending me notes. I don’t want him to send me any more notes. I don’t like him. I want him to stop.” The words went through my heart like a Mack truck speeding over a ripe, plump tomato. Mr. Shepard’s words to her are lost to my memory, but I know they were to the effect of “Kevin won’t write you any more notes, will you Kevin?” To which I’m sure I nodded, stunned. Satisfied that she’d made her point, Sam thanked him and left. Mr. Shepard let her walk away before addressing me, in a sympathetic voice.

“Some girls just don’t like that sort of thing. Let’s not do this again.” and we went back into the class room. My face could’ve lit the room, had it been dark. I felt as if I’d been in a horrible accident, and it’d been all my fault. My heart floated around somewhere in the bottom of my shoe.

It was my first encounter with the strength and confidence that was Cynthia Denise Williams. She left my ears ringing, though she hadn’t raised her voice. She’d shamed me into acquiescence and obedience. I didn’t cry, but it was close. My first attempt at wooing a smart, beautiful girl had ended with me in a devastated heap. It hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before. Kind of like a massive stomach ache. I stuffed my feelings deep down inside of me, close to the pain. I wrote no more notes. I still loved her, but for a dude in the fifth grade, that was some harsh stuff.

I married that beautiful skinny girl. We had four wonderful children together. From this brief glimpse into our childhood, who would’ve guessed we’d have ended up together? Not me. At the time of that story, if you would’ve told me that we would be married a short eight years later I would not have believed it. If I need to attach a moral to this story, it’s this: Love is always right. Sometimes you have to take the punches, the embarrassment and the pain to get to the part that’s worth it all. To ove is worth it. Always.

K.S.

Author: Kevin Stone

Kevin Stone aspires to write stories that you will enjoy. I hope to tell tales of the Stone Family that all generations may to come may read. I'll also write stories of all kinds, true and fiction, just for you to enjoy. View all posts by Kevin Stone