Suz: An Unromantic Love Story

By Bill Mathews

Though they didn’t know it at first, Susan and Bill were destined to be friends from the very beginning.

After meeting on their first day of junior high, Susan and Bill quickly became friends and felt a special connection that they couldn’t quite explain. She was a bookworm who loved poetry while his passion was baseball; they couldn’t have been more different!

Despite that, this unlikely pair never lost sight of their friendship. Follow the true story of Susan and Bill as they navigate the ups and downs of teenage years, helping each other along the way. In the end, they needed each other more than they could have ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atlantic Publishing Group
• Release date: Oct 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781620237472

Book preview

Suz: An Unromantic Love Story

Copyright © 2020 Bill Mathews

1405 SW 6th Avenue • Ocala, Florida 34471 • Phone [phone] • Fax [phone]

Website: www.atlantic-pub.com • Email: [e-mail]

SAN Number: 268-1250

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be sent to Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc., 1405 SW 6th Avenue, Ocala, Florida 34471.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mathews, Bill, 1947- author.

Title: Suz : an unromantic love story / Bill Mathews.

Other titles: Suz, an unromantic love story

Description: Ocala, FL : Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc., 2020. | Summary: A memoir remembering the deep love of friendship shared between Suz and Bill as they grew up together— Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020002556 (print) | LCCN 2020002557 (ebook) |

ISBN 9781620237465 (paperback) | ISBN 9781620237472 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Matthews, Bill, 1947—-Childhood and youth. | Colonie (N.Y.)—Biography. | Frey, Susan Mary. | Teenagers—New York—Colonie—Biography. | School children—New York—Colonie—Biography. | Colonie (N.Y.)—Social life and customs—20th century. | Dating (Social customs)—Anecdotes. | Friendship.

Classification: LCC F129.C692 M38 2020 (print) | LCC F129.C692 (ebook) | DDC 974.7/42043092 [B]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002556 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002557

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Printed in the United States

PROJECT MANAGER: Crystal Edwards

INTERIOR LAYOUT AND JACKET DESIGN: Nicole Sturk

Dedication

For Susan

Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.

—Aristotle

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: First Blush

Chapter 2: Shoulder Bumps

Chapter 3: The First, First Time

Chapter 4: First Date

Chapter 5: Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed

Chapter 6: First Signs of Trouble

Chapter 7: First Fight

Chapter 8: More Signs of Trouble

Chapter 9: Drifting Apart

Chapter 10: Together Again

Chapter 11: Graduation Day

Chapter 12: Final Request

Epilogue

The Author

Introduction

A chance encounter on the first day of junior high developed into an improbable friendship that lasted a lifetime. We were two completely different individuals…she, an incredibly bright and imaginative bookworm, and me, the epitome of academic mediocrity who loved everything sports…and yet, somehow, we made this friendship work.

For years, I had thought the Susan that I knew should be shared with the world, but not being a writer, I had no idea how to even begin, so I kept her all to myself for a very long time. In the end, it was a little girl by the name of Annabel, outside of Westminster Abbey, who convinced me to tell our story. After decades of indecision, I finally summoned the courage to put pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard, as the case may be) and try to resurrect some of the memories of us growing up and coming of age in upstate New York.

At the 50th high school reunion of the Class of ‘65, I talked with a small group of friends that Susan and I had at Colonie Central and mentioned that I was writing a story about Susan. Donna Mitchell said that she would like to read my work, and became the first person to see what ultimately became Suz. Donna made a number of constructive criticisms to improve the manuscript, and I can’t thank her enough for taking the time to see this through with me. But she offered something even more valuable than technical advice…had it not been for her encouragement and that of two other classmates, Lyn Withkowski Stapf and Susan Bretsch, the original manuscript would be gathering dust on a bookshelf somewhere. Thank you to what I fondly call my editorial board.

I also want to thank Karen Fischetti and Anna-Carolyn Slot for spending hours going through my manuscript…many of the typos and poorly worded or confusing sentences that you don’t see are directly attributed to them.

To Jason Rueckert, who created the cover from a sketch I made, you know how much that means to me. Thank you for making that little heart necklace come alive after residing only in my mind for more than 50 years.

And to all the friends who made such nice compliments after reading Suz, I thank you one and all.

To Doug Brown, Crystal Edwards, and Jessie Ranew, thank you for all of your help and support in navigating the waters of what to me is the confusing world of publishing and social media. And finally, thank you, thank you, thank you, Katie Cline, for taking the rough edges off my manuscript and making it look as though someone who really knows how to write wrote it!

Chapter 1

First Blush

I met her in the halls of Lisha Kill Junior High on the first day of seventh grade, and a little while later we became friends. As time went on, we grew as close as two 12-year-olds could possibly be without becoming girlfriend and boyfriend. But we never really understood why we were destined to meet or become friends at all…we were simply two very different people. It was something we talked about all the time, but one day, we decided to stop trying to figure it out and just enjoy the friendship we had. Why we met would have to remain one of the universe’s little secrets, but we thought it was pretty neat that once we did meet, destiny was powerless to prevent our friendship and incapable of ending it…and that was good enough for the both of us.

The days of our youth went by far too quickly and are little more than wisps of memory now, but I’ve never forgotten those two 12-year-olds or the friendship they shared. They defied logic; as quiet and shy as they were around everyone else, when they were together, they could talk for hours about anything under the sun. In the beginning, they were totally unaware of how much they meant to one another, but as time went on, they slowly began to realize that they had become so much more than friends. Maybe I was a little in love with her back then, but too naïve to know it. And maybe, just maybe…she was a little in love with me too.

Although those two 12-year-olds never figured out why they were destined to meet, not long after they did, they were absolutely stunned to learn that they had met before. The first time was—

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

So, let me take you back to that first day of junior high and tell you how an incredibly bright and thoughtful girl like her and an ever-so-average boy like me met on the morning of September 8, 1959.

It’s funny how you can wake up some mornings thinking that the day ahead is going to be one of the worst days of your life, and then, unbeknownst to you, fate weaves a series of seemingly unrelated events into a day you’ll never forget…

If nature had been kinder, I would have been blessed with better genes and the potential to be a lot smarter than I was. Maybe then, the first day of school wouldn’t have unnerved me as much as it did. After all the hard work and the many hours of study I had put into grade school, though, I turned out to be just an average student. All summer long, junior high weighed on my mind, but not nearly as much as it did the night before that first day of seventh grade.

I began tossing and turning the minute my head hit the pillow. I could no more close my eyes and fall asleep than I could stop worrying about going back to school in a few hours. Finally, at the ungodly hour of 5:30, I gave up and crawled out of bed.

There was absolutely nothing to do at that hour so rather than sit around and waste time until I had to compete with everyone else in the family for the use of our only bathroom, I decided to beat the rush. Still groggy from a lack of sleep, I dragged my weary carcass into the shower and waited for its warm, pelting spray to work its invigorating magic. By the time I felt human again, my fingertips resembled flesh-colored raisins, and I found myself enveloped in a thick, gray cloud of steam.

Revitalized, I climbed out of the tub, dried myself off, and peered at my blurry face through the dense fog stuck to the bathroom mirror. My reflection was hazy at best, but right there in the middle of my nose, plain as day, was the bane of my existence.

Good grief, I groaned, not another pimple! Puberty strikes again!

It was uncanny how that pesky little quirk of nature began plaguing me the minute I turned 12 years old. At that very moment, it seemed puberty took on a life of its own. Every hormone in my body went on a rampage and started having a field day with me. Some days those little chemical demons made me feel so self-conscious that I was embarrassed to show my pimply face in public.

And it didn’t stop there. I had always been tall for my age (just shy of 24 inches at birth), but that never fazed me since my arms, hands, legs, and feet grew quickly and evenly. Unfortunately, by the time I turned 12, those days seemed to be gone for good. Now, every part of me had a mind of its own and was growing out of control. I looked like a walking freak show!

My long-sleeved shirts came halfway up my forearms, every pair of pants I owned looked like they were ten sizes too small, and I walked around on feet big enough to fill an oversized pair of clown shoes. My nose had blossomed into a gigantic blob in the middle of my face, my ears seemed to take up every square inch of real estate on the sides of my head, and now, to cap it all off, I was blessed with acne! I’d never had so much as a blemish until a few weeks before school started, but there was no telling what puberty had in store for me next. I used to be a semi-cute, little kid with blond hair and blue eyes, but not anymore. Unfortunately, the 12-year-old version of me was about to go on full display at Lisha Kill Junior High.

After commiserating with my fuzzy figure in the foggy mirror, I half-heartedly raked a comb through my tangled hair before tiptoeing back to the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I quietly got dressed and groped my way down the hall toward the kitchen.

Shrouded in darkness, I fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on. While rummaging through the cupboards in search of my favorite cereal, I heard the muffled thud of the morning paper plop down onto the front porch.

Good, I thought to myself as I pulled out the sky-blue box of cereal, at least now I can get started on the day’s news over a relaxing bowl of Rice Krispies.

Even though reading had never been one of my strong points, I slogged through the early edition of the newspaper every morning just to make sure that I never missed out on any Earth-shattering events.

As usual, the main section was dominated by politics—a topic I despised with a passion. Lackadaisically, I thumbed through every page of frivolous gibberish and political mumbo jumbo and found it all to be nothing more than mind-numbing nonsense. Next came the Business Section. Except for stories about crooked politicians and unsavory political hacks, listing row after row of ticker symbols and stock prices had to be the newspaper’s biggest waste of ink and space imaginable. It was hardly worth my effort to peek inside, so I skipped it altogether and went right to Section C. This is where the sun rose and set on my world. Everything I cared passionately about was in the Sports Section. Sometimes I think my love of sports was the only reason I learned how to read at all.

During baseball season, the Times Union was a treasure trove of facts and figures about the New York Yankees. I would memorize every trivial statistic and gorge myself on story after story about the team I idolized since the day I could pronounce its name. Even at this late date, in what had been a miserable season for the Yanks, I still hoped that the ‘58 World Series Champs could pull out another American League pennant. But that morning, I merely had to read the headline in the Sports Section to realize that their season was all but over.

Whether the Yanks won or lost, though, I checked the box score religiously every morning to see how my team did against opposing pitchers. I scanned the page and was a little surprised to find they actually managed to get nine hits against Boston in an otherwise lopsided game. But deep down I knew that even if they had beaten the Red Sox that day, their chances of making up 15 games on Chicago by the end of the season were nil to non-existent. After digesting every heartbreaking detail of their loss, I folded the Sports Section and disgustedly flung it across the table.

My mind echoed the words muttered by millions of disappointed fans since the dawn of modern sports: Wait ‘til next year!

Somehow, I had to distract myself from the disappointment of the Yankee’s crushing defeat while, at the same time, avoiding having a nervous breakdown over seventh grade; so I sought solace in the funnies. Maybe Dagwood Bumpstead, Beetle Bailey, and Charlie Brown could ease my mind and allay my fears.

And thankfully it worked. The comic strip gang kept me so engrossed in their petty problems that I never noticed the sky growing lighter outside the kitchen window.

As I chuckled at Snoopy’s antics, I heard my mother trying to wake my father, and I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was 6:45! At the supper table the night before, my father had said emphatically that he wanted to leave the house no later than 7 o’clock, but at this point, that would take a minor miracle.

Things were about to get hectic in our household, and though I had no time to spare, I began worrying about junior high all over again. The thoughts of going to a brand-new school with hundreds of kids I didn’t know and an army of new teachers were daunting enough for someone as quiet and shy as me, but I had other concerns too.

For starters, I wasn’t the kind of kid who could just sit around all day in a classroom taking notes on things that rarely captured my imagination. I was better equipped physically than I was mentally. Gym class was more my speed, but in the academic world of the 1950s, physical education was held in such low esteem that little time was dedicated to it, and it was worth nothing more than a passing comment on report cards.

And then there were my parents! Even though neither of them had graduated from high school, they expected me to bring home straight A’s on every report card. But I had never been a straight A-student. By the end of sixth grade, mom and dad seemed to finally resign themselves to the fact that their eldest child was no genius. Still, that did little to dampen their demand for good grades.

My stomach churned at the thought of all the junior-high horrors awaiting me. There was a queasiness in my belly that not even my relaxing bowl of Rice Krispies could quell.

I was at the sink rinsing out my cereal bowl when my father rushed into the kitchen and turned the teakettle on—he had a hard time starting his day without a cup of coffee.

Eyeing the sports pages on the table, he asked, Did the Yanks win yesterday?

Nope. Boston bombed them 12 to 4. No World Series this year.

I’m afraid you’re right. Then, wondering about his favorite Yankee, Mickey Mantle, he asked, How did the Mick do?

One for four—a homer.

A quick smile flashed across his face, and then he abruptly changed the subject, Your mother and I overslept, so we’re going to have to hurry. Wake up your brother, help him get dressed, and for God’s sake, make sure he puts his shoes on the right feet.

It was Frankie’s first day of kindergarten, but he still had problems dressing himself. Buttoning a shirt and running a belt through the loops of his pants gave him fits, and for some odd reason, he always seemed to put his shoes on the wrong feet—it was one of those little things in life that drove my father absolutely crazy.

As late as it was, I was half-tempted to bring up a very touchy subject. Since my days of kindergarten, my father had been taking me to school early on the first day of the year to have a few words with my new teacher (no one else’s father did that…just mine!). But now that I was older, I resented being treated like a little kid. I just wanted to take the bus like everyone else and start the school year off without dad embarrassing me in front of my teacher. Unfortunately, I had as much of a chance convincing him to let me take the bus that morning as the Yanks had of winning the pennant.

I had every intention of bringing it up, but I chickened out at the last second and, instead, cowardly asked, Do you want me to get Cheri ready too?

No, let your mother handle her, you’ll have your hands full with your brother. And don’t worry about making him breakfast; he can eat at Gram’s.

The little guy was sound asleep when I walked into the bedroom and opened the curtains. I thought that a little more light might help wake him up, but I swear that boy could sleep through World War III. Even with my prodding, it took him a long time to start stirring, and when he finally opened his eyes, I ordered him to get dressed. He moved at the speed of a lethargic sloth. To hurry things along, I helped him with his belt and shirt, but sure enough, when it came to his shoes, he put them on the wrong feet. I was almost as exasperated as my father would have been. Eventually, I got everything straightened out and marched him into the bathroom.

After brushing our teeth, it was time to tackle his hair, but it was useless. He had a cowlick that just would not cooperate even after I tried plastering it down with some of my butch wax. He’d just have to go to school with that thing sticking straight up in the air like Alfalfa. In my opinion, though, he looked good enough for his first day of kindergarten, so I gave him a swat on the keister and told him to go to the kitchen and wait.

Mom scurried past us on her way to my sister’s room. I asked if she needed any help, but she said no and told me to make sure that my brother was ready to go in a couple of minutes.

Dad had already begun loading the car and was coming in the front door on his way to the kitchen.

I glanced at the clock as he gulped what was left of his coffee. It was already after 7, and emboldened by the lateness of the hour, I began pleading my case for getting myself to school.

Seeing it’s so late, why don’t I just take the bus this morning so you don’t have to drive all the way across town and—

We went all through that last night at the supper table. You’re going with me.

But you’ll never make it to work on time! I argued.

You heard me. I’m taking you to school, and that’s final!

I’m not a little kid anymore, Dad. I’m almost 13.

"I don’t care if you’re 30! As long as you’re living under my roof, you’re going to do as I say."

He may have thought the argument was over, but that didn’t stop me from muttering my dissatisfaction, Boy, there’s something to look forward to, daddy driving me to school when I’m 30!

That snide remark drew an icy stare.

His stare was legendary in our family. No one—and I mean no one—wanted to be anywhere near his line of sight when that blood-curdling look came over his face. And Lord have mercy on the poor soul it was aimed at. I walked away as quickly as possible, trying to avoid his stare and the fate of being turned into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife.

It never really bothered me that dad took me to school on the first day of the year until fourth grade when I realized that he used it as a scare tactic. It was psychological warfare at its best…pure and simple. It was merely a ploy to get his foot in the school door for the sole purpose of laying down the law to me in front of my new teacher. Year after year, he delivered the same not-so-veiled threat to prevent any thought that I might have of becoming a problem child in class while, at the same time, letting my teacher know what he expected of her if I did misbehave.

The conversation always started out so innocently. He would politely introduce himself before gesturing to me and saying, This is my son, Billy. After he and my unsuspecting teacher exchanged a few pleasantries, his tone would change, and he lowered the boom: "If he ever misbehaves in your class, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to make him mind. And if he gives you any trouble, call me. I’ll make sure that it never happens again. Translation: Billy will get a licking he’ll not soon forget. I’d also like a call if he fails to hand in any homework or begins doing poorly in class. I have remedies for those problems, too." The threat of being grounded for life always came to mind when he said something like that.

Having said his piece, he would hand a slip of paper to my teacher and very nicely say, Here’s my name and number. Call me anytime.

I would be mortified, my teacher speechless, and my father just as pleased as punch knowing that he had gotten his point across to the both of us for yet another year.

And it looked as though I was doomed to suffer the same humiliation again.

It was nothing short of a miracle that the five of us were piling into our dark blue 1947 Buick Super Convertible shortly after 7 o’clock. Since we lived less than three miles from my grandparents, we managed to pull up to their door only a few minutes later.

My mother took my brother and sister inside as dad and I unloaded all the paraphernalia my grandmother would need to watch my sister for the day. Gramp offered my father a cup of coffee, but there was no time for coffee or chitchat that morning. Dad had to hurry me off to school so he’d have time to deliver his annual address to any member of the teaching staff he could find and still make it to work on time. If he were late, it would mean less money in his pay envelope at the end of the week, and in those days, money was tight.

Following the usual round of hugs and kisses, handshakes, and well-wishes, everyone came out onto the front porch for one last goodbye.

Dad and I walked to the car, waved, got in, and drove away.

For the first time since our confrontation in the kitchen, dad and I were alone except for the tension that filled the car. At the end of Dott Avenue, he casually reached over and turned the radio on, saying, Maybe I’ll have time to play some catch before supper tonight.

I knew what that meant—he wanted to talk, and there was no better way for us to do that than to throw a baseball back and forth. When I was a little tyke, the only thing we talked about was baseball, but now when we played catch, other things seemed to creep into our conversations. We didn’t play it as much as we used to, but we still tossed a ball around every chance we got. There was something almost magical about my father and me throwing a baseball back and forth. It seemed to make everything right with the world.

But for the past few months, we had been having more than our share of squabbles (stemming, most likely, from all of the new hormones bombarding my system), so now when we played catch, some of that time was spent settling our differences man-to-man. He often joked that he majored in Baseball Therapy at the College of Hard Knocks, and playing catch was his therapeutic tool of choice with me. This time, however, he began plying his trade without a ball or glove in sight; he seemed determined to resolve the rough start we’d had that morning before the day progressed any further.

He tuned the radio to WABY, which was the only station left in the Capital District that still played music from the Big Band Era. Because he had made an effort to smooth things over between us, I felt that I could do the same.

Why do you like all that ‘30s and ‘40s music so much? They weren’t such great times, were they?

No, they weren’t, he admitted, but when I was in Europe during the war, hearing these songs from time to time made me feel close to home, and they still bring back some good memories. What about you? What kind of music do you like listening to these days?

Rock ‘n roll—it’s all the craze!

What’s your favorite station? he asked, reaching for the dial.

WPTR, but don’t change the channel. I still like these old songs, too.

He breathed a