An Addiction to
Romance—Part I
Little wonder I became a romance writer, perhaps. There certainly seems to be a kind of inevitability about that direction. I always wanted to write; I was addicted to the idea of romantic love--voila!
Before I turned ten, I had grown enthralled by the fairy tale love songs from the golden age of operettas and
musical comedies. I knew which evening the radio offered the magical program
called “The Railroad Hour.” Which railroad sponsored it I cannot say, though,
as my big interest in trains grew a bit later. Anyway, that weekly show
featured tenor Gordon McRae and a variety of leading ladies of the musical world
presenting the highlights of an operetta or musical each week. They sang the
major arias and songs while a narrator provided the synopsis of the basic plot.
Of course these were not the tragedies of grand opera so they all provided a
satisfactory HEA (happily ever after) ending.
Before many more years had passed
my reading habit devoured all the Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Tarzan books in the local library and I
moved on to ‘westerns’ by the likes of Zane Grey, Honore Willsie Morrow, Grace
Livingston Hill and their ilk. To my delight, besides the adventures of saving
the ranch, rescuing the wild horses, bringing down the bad guys etc. there was
almost always a love story. By the time my teen years came along and hormones
began to kick in, I knew exactly what
I wanted: a handsome hero who would sweep me off my feet and carry me off to
his castle or even better, his beautiful ranch full of fine proud horses and
wonderful dogs!
The only problem was, I saw all of
my puppy love beaus and celebrity crushes through rose colored glasses that
magically wiped away almost ever flaw, wart, failing and very un-princely
trait! They were actually all just regular boys or heroes only on the screen or
in the rodeo arena. When their clay feet finally emerged I was devastated, but
my insatiable hunger and faith that “He”
was out there forced me to keep searching. Despite an exhausting sequence of
heart breaking disappointments and disillusionment I kept trying. Surely all
those books and love songs could not be wrong!
I was in sixth grade when I first
noticed a boy as something special and not just another kid, basically all
gender-neutral up to that point. Marvin was in the eighth grade in the one room
school I attended at that time. He was a blue eyed blond with a fetching dimple
and kind of a teacher’s pet, that teacher being my own father. Typical of puppy
love, he noticed me slightly but had really not quite reached that “Oh wow, girls”
stage. He teased me a bit and sometimes chose me for his team when we divided
up for various games in which all the kids took part. I was not terribly
athletic but could run fairly fast and did try, so I was not a really bad
choice.
About once a week we had a kind of
show and tell where everyone had to recite something, tell a story or sing a
song. This day one or two had belted out “Your Cheating Heart” with good Hank
Williams accents but I chose a tamer ballad, “Little Things Mean A Lot” which I
had heard Kitty Kallen sing on the radio. I am quite sure my adored one did not
get it although I looked right at him all the time!
The next year he was off to high
school and gone and the following year I changed from the small rural school to
a larger town school. My eighth grade class of about two dozen had only eight
girls but I did not become an instant queen of the May. I was too busy trying
to deal with the culture shock to spend much thought on romance. For the
duration I focused mostly on the current top rodeo cowboys and a few movie and
TV stars since the era of “the westerns” was just gaining real steam. One
favorite was Casey Tibbs, the champ saddle bronc rider of the time. I was heart
broken when he wed the daughter of the governor of South Dakota for I had
dreamed of doing that and becoming a champion barrel racer myself. He was
‘cute’ (though my classmates did not think cowboys were ‘cool’) also with a dimple
and a pug but fetching Irish mug.
Then I too got to high school,
still in the same building and setting, and there was suddenly a “new kid in
town.” Tyce was a brown eyed blond which combination I thought was “the most.”
He was also into western things since his parents had bought a ranch in the
area and he wore western shirts with his Levis and talked of horses. We never
“went steady” or anything—both at the too young to drive stage and I was
already kept on a very short rein. But he pestered me all the time and very
easily conned me into helping him with most subjects, even doing some of his
homework or letting him copy mine. Oddly, he was exactly twenty days older than
me, and for many years was the only guy near my age to win my regard. That
lasted for the whole year, but after school ended, I never saw him again. He
was sent off to military school since he’d not made good grades or behaved as
his parents felt was necessary.
When the next year began, two
districts had been consolidated to create a larger high school. Lo and behold,
Marvin was now back, a senior by this time and swaggering around like a BMOC.
He’d grown into a big galoot, suiting his new nickname of “Moose” and was
really not very cute any more but my old infatuation returned and stuck to me
like gum all year. My admiration was not
reciprocated now but it did not make much difference to me. I just knew he was
waiting for me to grow up a little more. Alas that proved not to be the case!
However, he managed to be co-salutatorian and at his graduation I recklessly
vowed I would be valedictorian to surpass him.
The odd thing is, I did it!
During all that time, I still
followed the rodeo and several of the TV westerns and even had a few
short-lived other crushes but they never survived more than a few weeks or even
days. Maybe I was actually ready to make a sea change…
The next year I dropped out of
school fairly early in the semester
after missing several weeks due to a couple of injuries in riding
accidents since by then our family was deep into a growing horse and mule
business. When I recovered, instead of going back to school, I became the
‘segundo’ or #2 wrangler at Chuck-a-Luck Ranch. I was a full time ranch hand
and mid-level trainer for the influx of animals that came our way. By the time
I did return to school the following year, my perceptions and even my character
had undergone some huge changes. For a year I had done an adult’s work, even a
man’s work, and dealt with adults on near equal footing.
As a working cowboy girl, I had
next to nothing in common with my schoolmates and boys no longer had any appeal
at all. What did some stupid kid have to offer me? I recognized my celebrity
crushes were equally pointless for they were not real nor physically present
and for them, I did not even exist. I
had started to look at men and they
were definitely looking back. At seventeen I might have been slim rather than
buxom but I was athletic and filled my Levis well enough to be noticed. I wore
some makeup, polished my nails and curled my shoulder length or longer hair
despite my masculine duties. I was a strange mixture of hoyden, hussy and
innocent which I later realized was appealing to many men on some level or
other.
The new group I began to flirt with
and dream of were flesh and blood males, wiling to play the game, at least to
some degree, since most realized I was still jail bait and probably most were
at least a bit intimidated by my dad’s reputation and even perhaps mine since I
always carried a sidearm and was seen riding some clearly half-wild and not
docile mounts. I suppose we brightened each other’s days a bit, me and these
guys I now call “the young and restless.”
They were mostly 20-30 year old
blue collar types who drove trucks, ran heavy equipment, delivered beer,
propane or other commodities, worked on telephone and electric lines and
similar jobs. Most were married and had become a bit disenchanted. The new had
worn off on the cute bouncy little teen they had married, often hastily. She
was now plump approaching fat, often slovenly, cross and tired, dragging around
two or more little kiddos who were still at the whining, messy and demanding
stages.
The men had to work to pay the
bills and were often not happy in their jobs, so they amused themselves with
motor cycles, fishing, hunting, cowboy pursuits like team roping and of course
boozing and hanging out with their buds. And flirting with the older teens,
especially the ones past eighteen who might be “available.” Actually I wasn’t available
even after my eighteenth birthday, but I never said that in so many words
unless pushed into a corner. The pistol usually precluded that as well as the
horse or mule who was liable to jump, kick or otherwise act up if approached
too quickly or aggressively. I was rarely seen apart from those activities, in
truth.
In retrospect, I did walk a narrow
edge for a time where one misstep could have ended matters very badly. Either some innate
caution or perhaps the intervention of my very overworked guardian angel saved
me. Thus I turned twenty-one, working full time since my graduation, without
having so much as been kissed! This now being the frisky sixties, that is
little short of incredible. I hardly believed it myself.
However, I did not ‘date’ all
through high school and opportunities to slip out at night were severely
limited. I did go out a few times with the brother of one of my best
girlfriends but those dates were very tame and chaste; maybe going to the movie
or the Dairy Queen and home to an early curfew. We didn’t even hold hands! He
was shy too.
Also in retrospect, I know now my
state was greatly exacerbated by the emotional incest situation in which I
lived. From about age ten, my father was determined to keep me snow-white pure,
a virtual vestal virgin. Of course he could not claim me as an actual mate but
I was a platonic surrogate spouse in many ways. It nearly choked the life out
of me for I did not understand or have any idea how to deal with it. Ultimately
I had to kick over the traces and my inappropriate flirtations were one
symptom. In parental eyes I went abruptly from the chaste protected princess to
an nonredeemable harlot and out-of-control slut. Considering how completely
inexperienced I was, that is a supreme irony.
I never really took those
flirtations seriously although I did have some crushes that could have gotten
out of hand. I think I realized none of the young and restless were remotely
prince charming material. Should one divorce or was actually single, if I let
myself be ‘rescued’ I would soon be the barefoot and pregnant girl at home, out
of one frying pan into another.
I also tried pen pals but that was
no more satisfactory than any of the other efforts. One by one they drifted
away. A few actually came and we met but none of them were anywhere near my
dream cowboy or hero. They soon joined the rest of the ghostly hoard of “former
fancies” along with Richard, the tractor driver putting in the gas lines; Vern
and Gordon, the propane truck guys; Bud, the telephone lineman; Buster, the
real cowboy; and the pen pals Howard, Wayne, Alfred, Daryl, Baird, Norm and
Jose. What a motley crew. Yet I still
hoped. I had begun to lose that hope, really, but I still wanted so very much
for my special someone to appear. There was no more telling me to wait and grow
up, to be patient and stay clean and pure and deserving! Though I did not use
such language then, I really wanted to say, “F**k that crap! I want to fall in
love, to make love, to be loved and to get the hell out of this stifling prison
you have me in!”
There I was, in the summer of 1964,
a free love era anachronism. Most of my former schoolmates were married and
moms, some had gone on to get a college degree and wed during or soon after.
Without a prospect and having finally realized the futility of all the methods
I had employed in my search for a fairy tale romance, I now simply kept my head
down and slogged along, doing hard, dangerous and heavy work with which I had a
love-hate relationship and feeling life passing me by like a fast freight.
Unbeknownst to me, I had caught
someone’s eye. He was watching me from about May until we finally spoke in
September. Another life changing event was heading my way. It was actually the
first of several although I intended for some years that it be the one and only.
Even there, fate had other plans. Still, I did get my very special romance and
to this day cherish the memories. Better late than never or better to have
loved and lost, perhaps.
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