A Long Search For The Right Kiss

By Jackie Needham

Stacey Ferguson was only six-years-old when he established his independence on Memorial Day weekend back in 1956. The declaration introduced unavoidable changes. Staking a claim on his freedom gave him time to think, and in doing so, made him keenly aware of his flaws, his surroundings, his desires, even what he sought from a simple kiss. Four years later in 1960, he met a girl his same age on the exact anniversary of that development. Arlene Rogers became the best friend he ever had. She was Stacey’s confidant and liaison, and he became hers. They stayed that way until life took them different directions in 1968 at age eighteen, which poses the question— Why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jackie Needham
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386333753

Book preview

A LONG SEARCH FOR THE RIGHT KISS

CHAPTER 1 STARTING WITH A PREFACE

In this tale, we are all flies on the wall so to speak. It is a past perfect account that generates a future narrative, a thoughtful analysis of the necessity for change. The chronicle focuses on an unusual soul of a boy as he grows to adulthood. To this end, we can all witness resistance to progress, while at the same time, the forward movement would have been beneficial, healthy, logical, and preserved precious happiness. The examination is but a microcosm of the problems we all have in common, inasmuch as the whole human race has some sort of imperfection to a varying degree. Moreover, the majority of our society doesn’t know what a fault is from a hole in the wall and place far too much importance on the wrong flaws when they look in the mirror. Disproportionate to them are an inspiring few among us who roll with whom, what they are, and do not care two wits what anybody else thinks. Generally, they garner our respect, as well they should. However, as compared to the first group who don’t see themselves as having any faults to speak of, is a strong but smaller segment that has low self-esteem. They too are divided into groups of degree. Some do not have to look in a mirror, and even refuse the confirmation because the self-righteous or the pious among us make them believe and accept they have an abnormality. The rest is left to the mercy of one or more bullies or abuser who figuratively or literally beat them into being an introvert. These tormentors have no moral compass at all. Imagine, if you will, their handicraft having to go through life sheltering secrets and relegated to maintaining damage control from the ill effects? This leads us to the story and search within it as it centers on one such person, his friend, and family. It would be a lie not to say there is a considerable amount of truth in it. The thread of change ties them to a place and a particularly wonderful time of year.

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This account began as a small six-year-old freckled faced boy with cotton candy cowlick light-brown hair, stood in quiet contemplation alone by the shoreline of a spring-fed pond. He stared down into the slightly rust-colored, but clear water of Nadley Family Pond Camping Area a foot in front of him. It was an early Friday afternoon heralding the start of Memorial Day weekend, the beginning of summer. The Ferguson family managed to beat all the holiday traffic because George and Margaret, Stacey’s mother and father, took the day off. It was a pre-thought out strategy to hit the road at eight AM for the campground, a little after breakfast. The plan was to avoid the inevitable deluge of rushing holiday travelers and get to choose a better site by the water when they arrived.

Stacey was the oldest son of three Ferguson children, his brother Christopher three years younger and his adorable sister Ann, just a mere five months. He enjoyed very much watching and caring for his siblings. But the boy was only six, and like any other six-year-old, he got sidetracked stretching a simple trip to the rustic campground bathrooms and shower house. Earlier, the camping gear unloaded from car roof racks, hand-packed the Thursday night before done without anybody’s help. All the unpacked gear had to set up, including all three canvas tents, cots, baby's crib, plus manage to separate the luggage, toys, blankets. Likewise, separated neatly, every bit of the cargo went into whoever was to occupy each tent for the next three days.

To make life easier, all the organized cooking gear sat in plain sight on a red and white plastic flannel-backed tablecloth spread out and thumb-tacked to the site’s picnic table. The wooden table got dragged within fifteen feet of a ring of rocks capped by a steel grate that formed a simple fireplace. Stacey thought at the time that the only thing left to do was to gather wood to burn in it. Aluminum folding chairs were opened and faced toward the pit that his parents sat on when he left for the bathrooms. The scene begged for fire later in the evening to gaze at and toast marshmallows on stiff sticks. There is nothing like marshmallows, toasted or raw from the bag. Well, maybe bacon sizzling in a cast iron fry pan wafting through the air the morning after.

Stacey had all but put the unpacking job out of his mind for a while, including the marshmallows. It was just then he heard his name being called out by his mom. The quiet reverie of the private peaceful spot behind thick blueberry bushes growing close to the shore's edge was irrevocably broken. Even the fish he watched in the shallows he tried to calculate how to catch, scurried away. Stacey, She screeched again! She was accustomed to being heard and answered when she called. Every time she repeated his name, the echo of her voice carried to pierce the whole of the roughly 10-acre patch of recreational forest. She had a very high-pitched voice, to the point of being shrill. It was loud and noticeably obnoxious. On the other hand, even when called out that way, he always loved hearing his name. He was more than willing to have people’s heads turn, as long as they were not annoyed, to put his face to the name and the fact that he was a boy, albeit a very small one. Still, he was cute as a button, and he matched the name perfectly. It’s as if his parents knew something, even before he came out of the womb, naming a boy Stacey. All in all, small and a bit feminine, Stacey was pretty tough—tough defined a little differently in his case. He was called Stacey, too, never Stace, and it was spelled with an ‘ey’. For some reason, it always gave him pleasure. Staa-cee, she screeched again.

He was roughly five hundred feet away from where she repeatedly bleated out his name from space number twelve. He had to respond, but with a slight hint of annoyance in his voice said, I’ll be right there. But, she did not hear the answer to her call. He scrambled to emerge from his secluded spot behind the blueberry bushes. He broke into a run toward his family’s campsite knowing that if he didn’t put a stop to her repeated yelling, she would grow angry and end up irritating the other campers in the rapidly filling State Park. She would create enemies well before they could be befriended.

A short explanation is needed of Stacey’s view of the screeching dragon lady image at that time. It is because this was a pivotal point in his life. Stacey took control of his deepest thoughts and viewpoints, greatly reduced by any input garnered from his parents at the time. It began at that exact moment at the campground. It was the final straw that at the ripe old age of six, realized how he felt about things that shaped his desires, wants, and needs. It dawned on him for the first time that he loved his mom, but it became as clear as daylight, just then how much she embarrassed him to death sometimes. He had not yet formed an opinion about his dad because George generally did not interfere when his wife publicly displayed her volatile personality. The family’s rightful head of household was always hotly disputed in private, behind a closed bedroom door, and the only voice loud enough to ever be heard was mama Margaret. George was the type that argued in a calm condescending even-tempered way. He was intelligently abusive, that is to say, that he softly dished out venomous vitriol sounding collected and reasonable. Stacey could not have known such things at the time. Stacey was blinded to those kinds of things, much too young to understand.

Before hearing his mother screaming for him on that particular day, he never questioned what he was told before. The two parents truly caused him to believe he was more important to family security than he actually should have been. He was at the homemaker level of the pecking order because it kept both parents hard at work outside the home. If it weren’t for Stacey, the parents could not have done what they did to keep the family's standard of living clinging to below average, because every day was a financial struggle. The impression his mom and dad constantly reinforced into Stacey’s mind is that neither of them had any energy left for anything after their workdays ended. Until that day, Stacey bought into their reasoning hook line and sinker. Like all little boys and girls, he looked up to his mom and dad, and he saw nothing wrong. He detected no laziness or shirking of their parental responsibility.

Stacey was conditioned and trained to handle a long list of domestic chores he had to complete after school because had to be counted on to help out. The young mother hired to babysit Christopher and Ann to earn a few extra bucks had to return home to her own kids as soon as Stacey got home from school. For the few hours, until Stacey’s mom got home from work to assume watching over the children, it was decided they would be safe enough with Stacey.

Gradually, what happened was, when his mother actually did get home from work, the routine did not really change much. Stacey simply continued caring for the baby and chores after having to fight with Christopher. The three-year-old toddler became quite a handful. His six-year-old older brother was viewed by his mom as both protagonist and antagonist in the sibling rivalries and squabbles. She did not want to hear about any of it, not even the truth. Stacey got an earful about how he was supposedly old enough to know better, then she got out of her work clothes to dodge any more bullets. George Ferguson had a built in handy excuse not to participate in child rearing. Stacey’s dad contracted polio when he was seventeen and landed in an iron lung at the time. Everyone around him was reminded of his accomplishments, as well as his perceived limitations. He was absolved of any further duties other than having a beer and cracking open roasted peanuts and dropping husks on the living room floor while watching the news before dinnertime. Most acquaintances were awed by the man, including Stacey. He had more than proven he was just as capable as anyone by the time he was twenty-four. After all, he did sire three children, drive to work, stay on the job, and respectfully carry out all his duties for eight hours without ever taking a sick day.

The Memorial Day weekend camping trip was to be a respite for the whole family, and a fun reward for Stacey, who had been doing his ‘fair share’, or so his mom and dad both said. However, having his mom screech out his name the same way as she did day in and day out at home, indicated to Stacey that this was not to be the vacation holiday that was promised. It already seemed like any other day. STAAA-CEY, his mom screamed out one last time, short, punched and demanding.

I’m here, her son replied, nearly under her nose and big mouth. I was over by the pond. I tried, but I could not get here fast enough. I’m sorry mommy. Did I do something wrong?

Yes. You know damned well that Ann won’t settle down unless you're around—or Christopher either. You have the touch. You always did. She’s miserable, and we’re supposed to be relaxing, Stacey. Don’t you have a heart? You know, if you can’t help us out, we can always turn around and go home. I won’t stay here if I’m going to go nuts. Your father and I should have stayed at work today. We could have used the money.

I’ll take care of her—I’ll take care of her. I promise. When she goes to sleep, I’ll take Chris to help me find sticks for the fire in the woods. Okay? Don’t take us home, mommy. I’ll take care of everything. Margaret humphed, and returned to an upside-down book on the arm of her aluminum chair, open to where she left off reading. A bottle of cola sat on the ground between where she and George sat, who never took his nose out of a newspaper while sipping a beer.

Stacey made a second decision about his life, right there, right then. At the ripe old age of six, he knew there was something different about him and other kids his age, and if the truth was told, he was jealous of them. He figured to find more spots to be alone like the one behind the blueberry bushes whenever he could manage it, including at home. He not only wanted to think thoughts that he chose to think, he wanted to explore, and play. He would begin to do it very soon. As a matter of fact, he would find a spot explore later in the day, and every day after that. Sure he would be the Stacey his family knew and depended on, but also the Stacey he craved to be at the same time. To his way of thinking, he would be like the rest of the kids he saw around him. He would steal time to do that, literally steal it like a thief.

Stacey found Ann in his parent’s tent, and she was really upset, just as his mom had said. She could not be comforted. Her little legs and arms kicked furiously in the portable crib he set up. The flaps on the door and windows of the tent were open, and there was a good cross breeze. The tent was under a shady tree. The heat was not the problem. She did not want to take a bottle or a binky with honey on it to suck for that matter. Her brother soon found out that she had a soaking wet diaper under her plastic pants that needed changing. However, when Stacey took off the garments to clean her tiny bottom, he discovered the real source of her discomfort. A rash had developed that was bad enough that the inside of her butt cheeks was raw and angry-looking. He decided not to bother his mom with the problem because he reasoned that she would probably decide to take the family back home. Instead, he searched Ann’s diaper bag for something he could use to ease what had her in such anguish, and put something on her to give the rash a chance to get better. He hoped it would work. At the least, he would monitor the problem closely to look for signs of worsening, or hopefully a reverse to get better. All the medicinal tools available for use was a tube of zinc-oxide and some baby powder.

Stacey used a fresh clean washcloth to clean as best he could do without hurting her and applied a coat of the salve until the baby’s bottom was almost white. Then he dusted her really well with baby powder. Almost instantly, the screaming fits due to her anguish subsided and reduced to sobbing. He finished attaching safety pins to the diaper, and finally a fresh new pair of plastic pants, then picked her up to feed the bottle she rejected just minutes earlier. Inside of twenty minutes, she drifted off to sleep in his arms, no doubt exhausted from all the exertion of crying so hard. When Stacey emerged from the tent his mom said, You see Stacey, only you have the touch. Thank you.

The next thing Stacey did was renege on his promise to take Christopher off his parent's hands. He was playing in some loose dirt close to his mom and dad, filling a big yellow toy dump truck with a matching bulldozer. He was making contented ‘b-b-b-b-b-b’ engine sounds, filthy, but happy where he was. Stacey said as much to his mother because he saw an opportunity. He aimed to be alone when he went into the woods, and do some exploring at the same time. His excitement built as he imagined more exploring than gathering wood. Praying his logic would work on his mother, he told her that the job would go much quicker if he went alone to hunt up wood to burn in the pit. Thankfully, she agreed with him but told him not to go far, or to get lost. It was unclear if she was concerned that he would get lost not to find his way back, or if she meant not being available for her beck and call. It did not matter either way because off he went for some hard fought deserved tranquility, as well as more age appropriate exploration. Stacey felt sneaky and dishonest because he flat out pilfered that time to be alone. When he outsmarted his mother, he felt exhilarated.

There were really no thick woods in the camping park. Well-traveled pathways cut throughout the area designed to enjoy short hikes that led back to the same source every time. Even so, to a six-year-old boy, it felt as though he was tackling brand new territory. That is until he met up with a couple who thought they too were alone in the wooded area. They were taking advantage of that perceived privacy in a big way while being closely supervised by a quiet, wide-eyed boy hiding some distance away behind some bushes. They were kissing. He personally loved hugs and kisses. His Grandmother came to mind because she was very forthcoming with hugs and kisses. However, the kissing led to other stuff; something he’d never seen. Uh-uh, not ever! He would have remembered. Holy Moly. What they were doing was all new to Stacey, and it was ever so very interesting, at least at first.

The man was big and Montgomery Ward catalog handsome, and a had very pretty girl pinned up against a tree when his hand slipped up under her dress. They stopped what they were doing long enough to spread a blanket under the same tree, and then to Stacey’s surprise, they took off every stitch of their clothes. Well, something involuntarily stirred in Stacey, damned tootin’. He had a debate going on in his mind who was the more attractive. One was pretty, the other pretty fascinating. They had interesting differences, separately distinct, but the guy was very hard for Stacey not to stare at. He was pretty near six foot three or four, huge shoulders, and a muscular body that was cut up like a young Saturday afternoon television pro-wrestler. Furthermore, he could not take his eyes away from the man’s thingy that hung prominently between his legs. It made Stacey’s own look—well let’s just say, different. The pretty brunette girl was just as naked, but he appreciated her in a different way. She was petite, smooth, curvy and as hairless as he was. She was organized and clean. He respected that. She took off a very pretty yellow dress with white flowers on the bottom hem, folded it neatly, and placed the garment on the blanket along with the rest of her under things.

By comparison, the guy quickly took off his clothes and threw them in all directions, like a slob. When they were finished disrobing, she reached down while she kissed him. Or maybe it was the other way around, and he kissed her? It was hard for Stacey to tell for sure. The kissing part he liked, but then she took the man’s thingy into her hand, and stroked it until it grew even larger.

After that, he forgot all about them both, and which of them was the more beautiful because he did not care. He decided it might be more fun to check out his own thingy, which he now could feel was larger than usual. He undid his pants, peeled them down until they were around his ankles where he stood and began exploring his body instead of being a voyeur. Nothing much happened. He enjoyed himself a little, but he tried to imagine himself looking like the big man someday. He got bored with it and soon lost interest because he did not see the point of what he was doing, or what the couple did either. Nor was the thought of growing up to be a man who looked like him when he was naked all that alluring. He pulled his pants up