We rode our bikes to the playground. It was a summer day in Arkansas. We were around twelve or thirteen. She was a skinny brunette with her hair pulled into a pigtail and I was a chubby kid with hair that wouldn’t stay combed. We were in the same class in Junior High. The playground was out in front of the elementary school where we’d attended until a couple of years ago. It was around the corner from where I lived, so I rode the two small blocks around it on nearly a daily basis. We’d stopped to play and started talking.
It was the mid-seventies. Star Wars and Smokey and the Bandit were big on-screen. TV was full of All in the Family, Chips, Three’s Company and The Love Boat. I loved the show Soap and Saturday Night Live. And Sam. I loved Sam. Since the fourth grade and the first time I saw her. And here she was talking to me like I was a real person.
She told me about how her dad had recently died. Murdered. Just the highlights, because she didn’t know much about it. She spoke softly about how her family had changed. It was hard on all of them. Her mom was depressed and trying to raise three girls and a son without a dad. Their grandparents were a big part of their lives. Sam was confused, mad and sad all at once. She was in the throes of adolescent rebellion, with good reason to be mad.
We talked as we walked around the playground. We followed each other (I followed her mostly) as we hopped on the roots of the big tree in the middle of the playground. We sat in the saddles between the roots. I listened to every sad word. We sat on the swings for a bit and even climbed the steps of the big metal slide. We slid down and got off before the hot metal had a chance to burn our skin. We wandered, pulling dandelions and honeysuckle from the grass and hedges. I barely noticed the heat as I watched her blow the seed florets from the dandelion. She watched them float gently away with the breeze. I watched her. We ended up climbing the old red metal “monkey bars” that were ten feet off of the ground, shaped like a cylinder with bars coming from the center pole, like spokes from a wheel. We sat quietly for a long time, looking out over the terrain of our childhood.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. I didn’t respond for a long while, because I had no idea. I was twelve. What could I know of what she was going through? My only reference was television. TV often gives us insights into how to deal with situations in real life that we have no experience in, or with. Of course, the insights might be totally wrong, insufficient or unworkable, since they were usually presented in shows of thirty minutes to an hour long. I don’t know if my infatuation with another brunette, Valerie Bertinelli, made me remember the words to the theme song of “One Day At A Time”, but that’s what I came up with. “You’ve just got to live one day at a time. It’s all we’ve got.” I offered. It was weak, I know, but I was just twelve. I thought it was generically reliable advice at the moment. She smiled the same sad, but attractive smile and looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. She knew I had no idea what she was going through, but she appreciated the effort. “That’s what I’ve been doing.” she didn’t go much further. We climbed down and parted ways. We’d not see each other again until school started.
I remember that day often. Sam and I had many more moments over the next twenty-five years. Six years after this we were married. By 1989 we had four beautiful children. She was a wonderful wife and mom. We went through a lot together. I’d do it all again, because it was worth it to be with her. Remembering that one day, at the playground, I’ve found that my clumsy advice still rings true. Just because I didn’t know what I was talking about at the time doesn’t mean I was wrong. This is life. The one we get. So go and have a ball.
God bless Y’all.
Rolling Stones 