Father's Day: A Slice of Life

By Greg Slominski

The novel engages readers in an entertaining story of love and family life with a few complications thrown in. Follow the characters for a year, from Father’s Day to Father’s Day in their heartfelt struggles and joys. See how, and how not, to love in the 21st Century.

 

Father’s Day is rich in intima

• Language: English
• Publisher: SDC Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781087861005

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book. No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without express written permission.

Father’s Day: A Slice of Life

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2019 Greg Slominski

All rights reserved.

SDC Publishing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Registration Number:

TXu 1-580-858

ISBN: 9781087824345

ISBN: 9781087861005 (e-book)

Contents

Preface

Introduction

Glimpse of Lunch

The Back Row

How We Met

The Talk

Feelings for Alexa

The Bean in a Nutshell

Eric & Kay

Lunch

Drive Home – Desire Returns

Measuring Up

93 out of 100 = 'A' for Effort

Crystal Stiletto

And Along Came Mary

Rusty & Barbara

Follow-up with Alexa

Father’s Day

BDA

A Noose by Any Other Name Still Chafes

A Dream Lost and Found

Harbingers of Trouble

Dogfights and Dr. Seuss

The Museum

Man Asks for Directions

Flower Power

Alexa’s Reply

Lewis and the Standing Eight Count

Color

Bon Voyage Cappy

Sacred Tombstone

Marriage Abandoned

The E-mail

Porn Star Saint

Framed

Best of Friends

UP!

Last Call for Unicorns!

Otter Lake

Ray’s Place

The Last Supper

Love is Like a Yo-Yo

Priceless

Closure

Father’s Day

About the Author

PREFACE

Remember… Remember when you were young.

Remember!

Remember when you were young and it was summer? Adults melted in humid sun-drenched days. To us kids, the heat fueled boundless energy. Remember how a day felt? Life coursed through our veins!

Shake off adult and remember.

Heartbeat quicker yet?

Summer was all about play and you didn’t want the day to end. Argh! Just the thought of the day ending seemed a travesty. Play all day at whatever entertained you and your friends… basketball, dodge ball, kickball, tag, red rover, hide and seek. Life was the moment—this moment-- revealed an instant at a time. And we experienced it in all its glory.

When friends weren’t around there were a thousand places and mysteries to discover on your bike, your freedom machine. My bike was a chopper, some called them banana bikes. It got the name chopper because the chrome handlebars jutted high like customized Harleys and banana bike because the long narrow seat accommodated two. Mine was green and came with bright green and white plastic tassels streaming from the rubber-coated handgrips. The tassels danced in the air as the bike zoomed streets and fields. Before I outgrew the bike, the handlebar tassels were worn clean off. The original seat and tires changed countless times.

Remember the feeling of freedom – the wind in your hair? No bike helmets back then. And no gears, just one speed that built thighs no exercise machine ever will!

There wasn’t a summer day we’d give up on. We frolicked as a swarm of kids bounding from one yard to the next, one activity to the next. Rain or shine, we’d play until supper. After supper we’d be back out, engaged to the hilt. Kick the can, freeze tag, ghost tag, or just swinging and sharing our most intimate feelings.

During hide and seek we’d shout the phrase Ollie, Ollie in com free! not knowing what the heck it meant except it drew the kids to base. I was all grown up when I finally realized that was bastardized old English: All ye all ye in come free! That chant’s passed through the centuries kid to kid long after the first inciter turned to dust.

We were kids, still shy of an age when the allure of the opposite sex took hold of us. We noted and admired the difference in the sexes, filing the realization for future reference, but we were kids and this was the season of our lives for wide-open play. For now, carefree romping came naturally. We were at one with the universe… stardust on a mission of joy and discovery.

Feel it?

Night rolled in. Play continued. The sun gave way to evening and we’d insist it was still too bright to come in. At twilight eyes adjusted guided by stars and imagination. Surrender neither day nor night! Time was too precious to waste, to stop playing, to yield to the practical demand of parents.

Night was magical! Dusk settled, air cooled, dew formed and smells changed. Eyes widened and senses came alive! The settling dampness gave a musky odor to the world and we played with new energy, directed no longer by sight but rather hearing smell and touch. Our ears perked up a notch, and our nostrils flared, bringing in the world around us. And touch – never forget touch. The differences between little boys and little girls enchanted the night. A casual touch at night during tag held a million possibilities.

Remember? Can you feel it like you used to?

It took a dad’s booming voice, loud enough to startle the whole neighborhood, to bring me home. Adults – clueless, yet in charge – finally prevailed.

I asked my dad one night as I came in the house; When do you get summer vacation?

I don’t.

And you’re OK with that?

I mumbled quite alarmed at the apparent lack of parental wisdom as I headed upstairs. "That seems strange! Adults create the rules and you don’t give yourself all summer off? What could be more important than enjoying life?

When I get older, I’ll change the rules and give adults the summer off too!

We were just kids, but we knew how sacred each day, each night, each moment. We lived to the fullest and were sometimes too tired to take a bath. Might clean up a bit, but then again, there were times we’d just crash all sweaty and dirty-- crash asleep on top of our sheets without undressing. Wasted. Blessedly wasted from draining the essence of creation.

Can you feel it in your heart again? Remember wide-open play? Try! Get there… we need you! You’ll need the energy to keep up.

It is hard to imagine that feeling once we become adults. I got a glimpse again.

The feeling of intense joy coursing through a kid’s veins is what teenagers try to regain as they cruise the strip in their cars on Friday night. That feeling of being totally alive is what young lovers briefly rekindle in each other’s arms. But as kids it was ours, a precious gift we didn’t seek. I got a glimpse again. I remember what it felt like because I’m in love again.

Trouble is-- she’s not my wife.

So pin your ears back. Let your smile pull back your cheeks and open your nostrils, because it is nighttime, we’re playing tag, and you’re it.

INTRODUCTION

Please note the following disclaimer:

WARNING: Do Not Try This At Home!

An emotional stuntman performed the absurd matters of the heart portrayed by the lead character. Any attempt to conduct your life in a similar manner will likely cause excruciating heartbreak and torment loved ones.

The book was written to help you know yourself, know others, and most importantly deepen your appreciation relationships with the opposite sex. The idea was to display wisdom and provide insights into love. I used my own life as fodder where wisdom was in short supply, so the book evolved into a humorous testament on how not to love in the 21st Century.

The journey explores many subjects surrounding love and the feelings of attraction, most notably unrequited love. I was forty-two and a half years old when I heard the word unrequited for the first time and realized many people experience this troubling challenge. Unrequited love is a one-way love, unanswered and unreturned. It is the kind of love you have when you’re head over heels in love with someone who sees you as a friend. It’s a widespread phenomenon.

Let’s go check in on the Bean and laugh, cry, learn, and love.

May the Bean’s journey help you rediscover a lost chunk of your heart.

Glimpse of Lunch

Twenty-three years is too long to go without feasting upon the face of your lover.

Her eyes enchanted the way the Queen of Sheba mesmerized. Glowing vibrant, she enthralled me from the start. Her eyes sparkled like effervescent conduits-- waterfalls from her soul cascading into mine. Tumbling rapturously in her presence, I swirled in an agitated whirlpool as my heart came alive and beat with new purpose. Consumed by her large brown eyes glistening with joy and wonderment, I soaked in her beauty.

I’d been captivated by her beauty years ago when we first met. I found myself similarly smitten years later over lunch.

It was beautiful day, mid-afternoon on a Thursday, June 12th. Late spring was usually muggy and hot around these parts. But fortune favored. The air felt more like late September as we casually dined on an elevated patio overlooking a lake.

It had been twenty-three years since we’d been on a date and twenty years since our last brief encounter. The realization drew a gasp. How could I have missed a moment being with her!

An honest gesture brought us together again. I’d contacted the Department of Health’s Environmental Services after receiving an invitation to attend a meeting and learned of her employment. She no longer carried her maiden name, so I assumed she was happily married or as close to that ideal as mere mortals achieve. Just business. Innocent.

She’d been married once and now divorced. I was married once and still married.

For the first forty-five minutes I swam in the pools of her eyes as we spoke across the small outdoor table in Raleigh. Her smile radiated and I felt at peace-- blessed like a flower waking up to the springs precious possibilities.

The sun shifted and she reached into her purse for sunglasses. I barely caught my mouth gaping in dismay as I lost the chance to look into her eyes. I spent the rest of the time listening intensely and taking in her cheeks and the gentle fall of her neck and shoulders.

We wandered the width and breadth of the lost decades. Her mellow voice rang through my head like the gentle vibration that follows the percussion of a large bell. Clear, strong and soothing, it danced through my ears and tapped dormant emotions. Her voice resonated in an unexpected manner, giving me a warm feeling-- of finally being home.

My mind reeled at the discrepancy. Twenty years? It felt more like a long weekend since we’d been together, not half our lives. The woman who sat before me was as beautiful today as she was in college. My head knew I had a wife, and three wonderful kids, and that I lived in Lynchburg. But my heart realized that I loved Alexandra as much today as I did then.

As time did a quick rewind, Alexandra explained her favorite drink was shade-grown coffee. From that moment on, I was the Bean. Until then, our friendship hadn’t been the kind that would produce a nickname. We’d been friends in college, nothing more.

But it wasn’t my doing that kept us just friends. From the very first day we met, I wanted us to be a couple.

The Back Row

Caledonia! What makes your big head so hard! John Lee Hooker.

My friend Mark burdened my new 1980 Chevrolet Chevette hatchback with his clean laundry and a box of school supplies. College break and holiday trips home were punctuated with clean laundry and foodstuffs to restock our meager dorm rooms. This one was no different. This Christmas and New Year’s break was mild, like North Carolina usually is blessed. We loaded the car in short sleeves.

New ride! Nice color. Mark slid his hand along the deep blue paint of the passenger door as he opened it.

They call it midnight blue. I said with a young man’s pride of his first car.

Mark studied the color, Reminds me of those Mercedes sedans.

I acknowledged his complement with a nod. A tad cheaper but the color’s regal!

So how was N.A.S.A? Didn’t you work at Cape Canaveral or Houston?

Huntsville.

Huntsville?

Alabama, Marshall Space Flight Center-- its part of the Redstone Arsenal. America’s home of the rocket.

Oh. Marks’s interest waned instantly but he continued politely, Learn anything? How about one thing?

Plan-Do-Check-Act.

Mark looked befuddled.

Think of it as the scientific method on the go. Make an educated guess, test the hell out of it, refine the guess and do it again. That is pretty much what NASA is all about.

Easy enough. Braced for a more technical answer, Mark relaxed into the passenger seat and shifted his legs into a comfortable position. With supplies stowed around us like westward bound pioneers in a Conestoga, we departed on our journey to State.

Mark was a member of a group of friends playfully called the Back Row. The name dated back to high school. The moniker arose because many of us sat on the back row in our advanced math class.

Making friends was easy for me; keeping them was hard. My family moved about every year so I’d lost every buddy. I keenly appreciated the value of these guys, the Back Row, as we transitioned from high school to college.

How were school and Raleigh? I asked.

School was ok, didn’t fail anything. Social life sucked.

Same as last year?

Not better. How about Alabama?

A broad smile enveloped me; Mark… the weather does something to women. Warms them into Southern Bells.

Anticipation increased his stare.

Locals and transplants alike were all real friendly. Dated a girl from Colorado and one from Canada. Warm and friendly.

Wow! Better than Raleigh!

Hey, you’ll love this, I got into jazz and blues clubs! Great scene.

Jazz and blues!

Mark was the avid musician in the Back Row playing french horn, trumpet and coronet. He stayed with it at State marching in the band.

"Yep! Saw local bands and national acts too.

Hey, let’s put our newfound N.A.S.A knowledge to work?

Plan… Do… um this and that?

Plan, Do, Check, Act. I corrected. The social life in Raleigh is rotten you say. Huntsville was better, so what does that tell us?

We should have gone to Auburn?

Well possibly. Auburn’s a bit farther south. But let’s not give up on NC State just yet.

Mark nodded with a frown and a tight-lipped smile.

If we want something better than a social life that sucks, we can’t settle for what we’ve become accustomed to. Got to improve our lot!

Right! Mark’s enthusiastic response bubbled with unending bachelor hope.

Won’t get better on its own. It’s a sign of insanity to continue to do the same thing but expect different.

Mark nodded and flipped on the radio as we made headway into our seventy-five minute haul back to campus, bobbing his head to the tunes.

Can you change quickly? Can I change quickly? I questioned.

Uh… no!

Right. Let’s look for something else. Tweak another variable of the social scene.

Mark remained engaged but not getting warmer.

I prompted, How about the places we hang out in Raleigh? Bars are smoke filled. They smell like stale beer.

Mark added, They keep the lights off because they’re nothing but empty rooms painted black. The volume is so loud you can’t talk to a girl once you get her attention.

Exactly. On the other hand, the blues and jazz clubs I visited in Huntsville offered air I could breathe without gagging. I could talk and enjoy the evening without permanent hearing loss. Unimaginative guys own college bars motivated by the profit gained by leading students toward a future of deaf alcoholism! What can you expect in an environment like that?

Mark answered flatly, Strikeout.

"After strikeout, after strikeout. Exactly! Year after year after year if you don’t change something! If we don’t change something.

Here’s the plan, we need to change something and run the experiment again. It isn’t you. It isn’t me. Well, if it’s one of us, it’s you.

Wide eyed, mark looked over and laughed.

I mean neither of us is going to be movie stars based on appearance alone.

Appearance alone? Yeah, guess I better start studying.

We laughed the plight of the ordinary.

Hard to change you and me. So change the music, change the beat, the scenery. You’re the music guy, when we get back to State, your job is to find a new place to meet girls.

Yes sir, captain!

Two hours later we were unpacked and milling in Clay and Mark’s room. Clay found a place for new Christmas gifts. A large hot plate and a hot air popcorn popper with a large yellow cover occupied his concern. The new appliances threatened to occupy way too much of the cramped room. Clay busied himself stashing socks and other laundry that Mark had shuttled from home. I lounged across one of the two single beds. Mark commanded the other. Décor highlights consisted of posters of Led Zeppelin and a wacked out black light poster of a stoned mouse with M Eye Sea Kay E Why written over his head that I could never seem to interpret.

Mark sat up as he glancing through the newspaper, Hey, there’s a new place. Crazy Zacks.

We exchanged a blank look.

Clay offered without looking up from drawing the last bundle of rolled socks, Oh that’s the new Beach music place down Hillsboro Street.

Mark and I silently mouthed Beach music? with faces drawn in distain.

Is that like blues or jazz? I admitted complete ignorance on the subject.

Mark bobbed his shoulders and turned to Clay for insight. Clay added I don’t know. But I hear the girls like it.

Mark ceased scanning the paper. His head rose and our eyes convened in the center of the room like we were engrossed in a séance. Clay so slowly slid the wooden drawer closed, turned, and only then realized the gravity of his proclamation.

I’ll drive.

How We Met

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea… The Drifters

Idrove up in my sparkling blue sophomore wheels. Mark, Clay, and Bob, all Back Row guys, un-piled ready to try the club specializing in the melodious strains of beach music for the usual reason. We wanted to meet girls.

That didn't take long. There was a small line queuing near the door. Immediately in front of us a gaggle of five girls convened. They talked about being students at a local all-girls’ college.

There were three such hallowed schools in Raleigh, Peace, St. Mary’s, and Meredith. Each school was a natural magnet for State’s male students. These young starletts attended the picturesque Meredith.

All five girls were attractive, but one radiant young lady stood out. She was… amazing! Quiet but confident, pretty, with gently tanned skin, dark hair, and beautiful eyes, she emanated an elegant panache. A beam of sunlight shone down and singled her out. It was love at first sight, instant corporal and emotional harmony. I felt infinitely alive and completed by her presence.

The pavement seemed to move like an escalator drawing me closer to her. A distortion of senses-- I shook my head.

Agitation arose amongst the ladies. A rift separated the group. Voices rose, despite effort to keep the commotion secret, and the tight formation spread disassociating the outcast. The line was moving now, and the girls drew near the ticket window where an attendant checked IDs and collected a small cover charge.

The radiant girl didn’t have her ID.

She hadn't forgotten her proof of age, she was just too young. A person had to be eighteen to enter a place that served beer and she was a month shy. Maybe she hoped no one at the club would check. Maybe it was just the freshman naiveté. But the older girl that drove them wasn't a freshman, and she wouldn’t interrupt her evening’s plans by carting this young back school.

I immediately offered, Hi. I’m Brian. Couldn’t help but overhear. Seems you have a little problem. I’ll be happy to drive you back to your dorm.

The Meredith driver looked infinitely relieved and disappeared. My guys shrugged knowing I’d be back to collect them. The remaining girls buzzed talking it over. The beautiful young lady gauged trust in a quickly shortening list of other options.

OK. She nodded acceptingly. My name is Alexandra.

We headed back to her school. She guided me through the streets of the petite campus and thanked me when we arrived in front of her dorm.

Might your nickname Sasha?

Why yes! She sat back in her seat impressed, if I caught the brief display of feeling correctly. How did you know? She relaxed and finally graced me with a look that didn’t wander.

Chance acquaintance with a Russian girl while I lived overseas. My Dad was in the Army. We traveled. After a football game I met a Russian girl. She was introduced as Alexandra but quickly confided that her friends called her Sasha.

Alexandra offered warmly Well, how about that. I lived overseas growing up too! My father was in the Navy. And only two people regularly call me Sasha, my maternal grandmother and my mom. None of my friends at school know me by that name.

A smile must have crossed my face. Grandma, Mom, and me.

Sasha began her challenge of finding a girl on campus whose ID looked enough like her to fool the beach club’s gatekeeper. Spring semester classes hadn’t started; few students were back from the holiday break.

Sasha offered me an excuse to depart. This may take a while. She said holding the door.

I’ll wait. Take your time.

In her absence, the thought crossed my mind: Why doesn't she just wait a few months until she's legal? But it seemed like a harmless tweaking of authority. I’d done something similar a year ago. That night I walked into a sandwich shop a month before I turned eighteen and ordered a beer. I got about two sips down before the manager carded us at the table. I relinquished the beer. Kindly the manager didn’t ask us to leave.

Sasha returned dejected after fifteen minutes.

Hey, I’m happy to continue waiting… for you.

Really? She perked up, I’ll try another dorm."

She emerged with an ID and took a seat. The inexpensive upholstery barely made a sound as she alighted. Does it look like me?

I laughed at the lack of resemblance, No, but it will probably suffice. A pretty girl isn’t going to get turned away. They want you in there to liven up the place. If it doesn’t work, I'll drive you back to your dorm. Fair enough?

She agreed with a nod.

When we got back to the club we split up. She hadn’t come to meet me, though I was delighted to have met her. It wasn’t quite so large an establishment that she could hide. We joined each other a few times that night and danced.

That wonderfully spontaneous chance meeting led to many precious dates.

The Talk

Growing up was tough. Coming of age, hormones, half kid and half adult. As middle and high school students we saw ourselves as increasing independent, yet we were blind to how impressionable we were. For me, the hardest part of adolescence was becoming sexually awake but feeling socially restrained from acting. God, that was tough. Stuck between a rock and a hard place!

Parental wisdom was bestowed during The Talk while I was in what was then called junior high.

Mom’s version came first. Mom was motivated by my older sister’s remark displaying a woeful lack of biological acumen.

During a romantic TV movie scene my sister covered her eyes, Kissing will get that girl pregnant!

Mom and I looked at each in disbelief. In my sensitive brotherly way I derided, No it won’t you idiot!

Mom approached the learning opportunity more constructively.

Mom addressed us separately, sister first. My sister emerged sullen faced fully in denial that man and woman, especially our parents, could do anything so ghastly. She strode past me down the hall encased in the ashen face reserved for funeral homes. I puckered for another snide comment but mom cut me off with a sharp look and the your next inviting finger.

Mom was raised in rural eastern North Carolina and her advice was influenced by her Dixie upbringing. She described the man’s role in dating with a detached, almost revered, manner. A calm trance enveloped her and generations of farmwomen that knew youthful fleeting romance followed by hard work. Eons of laborious lives spoke through her. Let the girl make the first contact. If she wants to hold hands, she’ll touch your arm or slip her hand in your hand. Same goes for kissing. If she wants to be kissed, she’ll lean close… you’ll know.

I listened to her words and pondered the urges that had taken hold inside. I’d stayed out of trouble through a combination of self-control and fear of the unknown. But even at my young age self-discipline was sorely tested by the mere presence of the fairer gender.

The biological urge to close ranks with girls and reproduce grows within a teenage boy with the patience of a stampeding bull buffalo. Guys want to charge into the fertile pasture and graze! Yet society and wisdom preaches restraint. Mom put the control, the signal to initiate contact, into the girl’s domain. Her way proved a good check to the compulsion that gathered in my loins. Giving the girl control made me keep the brakes on until I got a hint of a green light. That one little talk, motherly advice, kept me from pushing myself on girls. Over the next few years, her advice left me dry after many dates when I might otherwise have tasted sweet lips. I panted plenty, awash in passion, checked like a hound dog driven mad lunging against a restraining chain staked to moral ground. I suffered that way, as many well-raised boys do.

Dad shared his side of The Talk a year or two later during tenth grade. Dad was great at dad things but remained quiet on matters of the heart. He was very supportive of the athletic events and academic pursuits. We didn’t talk about emotions or take quiet walks together. Talking about feelings and relationships wasn’t the strong point of The Greatest Generation. But out of the blue early one Saturday afternoon something important perched in his mind. He suggested, Let’s take a walk.

With dad, most statements came across like orders. Such were the ways of being an infantry officer and a dad. Even when he was being sensitive, it felt like a salute was in order.

In tenth grade we lived in Teheran, Iran. Most Army tours of duty were for one or two years. We were in the second year of this assignment, settled in a nice rented house situated as far north in the capital city as roads and terrain allow.

Teheran spreads out on a massive plateau that butts up to the Elburz Mountains. Like the topography of Denver Colorado, the mountains form a sheer rise, confining urban growth. We lived on the gentle rise of the first foothill. The road ceased about three blocks north, turning into a pedestrian trail that wound upward.

Dad hung a left as we departed the gated house, heading for the cool mountain air.

There aren’t many more important conversations a father and son can have. He didn’t rush it.

Do you know… the basics… about conception?

I’d never seen him troubled so, almost stumbling in step and words.

With understated certainty, I offered Yes, I think so.

Half the weight disappeared off his shoulders. With reestablished confidence his curiosity grew, Where and when did you learn?

Remember back at Fort Ord, our neighbor Col. Heinz? They had a son about five years older than me. He filled me in.

He nodded recollecting the duty assignment and neighbors.

GI Joes, playing in foxholes, and the birds and the bees.

He nodded remembering the older boy and the clarity that such a friend would cover more ground that action figures.

In hindsight, it seems natural to learn the facts from a guy. But it would have been a far more compelling memory to be schooled by a girl!

I added, Didn’t think much at all about it at the time. The whole dual-purpose penis thing was beyond my comprehension as a third grader. Guess you have to grow into some facts to appreciate.

Dad offered a genuine smile.

I gave a quick rundown to convince him the natural science facts were solid.

He nodded satisfied and then launched words of restraint rather than coaching success. When I was your age, guys felt the same urges you do. Some guys got lost in girls.

I waited for him to continue, but he held a thoughtful pause through many strides up hill. The surrounded pines and other evergreens enveloped us adding a sense of privacy to our otherwise open discussion.

I looked in the woods left and right following hard on his heels. Lost in girls?

The allure of a vagina was tempting beyond reason, but it could a guy get lost in there?

Lost in girls. They lost their heads over girls. They got so hung up… He stopped momentarily, looking much farther away than the surroundings allowed, They couldn’t get enough of them and they lost all focus.

Dad started walking again, Those guys didn’t amount to much in life. They never regained their composure.

I relaxed logging it as emotional loss, a spiritual loss. Not a navigational error.

I looked with different eyes on dad that instant. He spoke as if he had been on the brink. Good friends had gone astray. Some guys failed to pass transformation from boy to man without irreparable damage.

That was heavy! This was for real-- a true test of character. A guy could become so enamored, so infatuated, that he lost direction and set out with a singular goal that might yield sexual pleasure, but leave him without reason or greater purpose.

Wow! That is a surprise. News to me boys got lost in girls, in the pleasures of sex, in your generation. I never imagined folks-- - dads--would have given up on their studies, athletics, and all for girls.

Centered within the generation that has received much acclaim, dad gazed down from his taller and wiser perspective. He added flatly, Women were as attractive to us then as they are to you now.

Ah, the cherished gifts of the female, I smiles to myself. Forty years ago a skirt was still a skirt and a smooth calf exposed by a playful wind yanked at boys’ hearts as much as hip hugger jeans fashions torment today.

We shared a long glance and nodded in unison as we stepped in stride.

Dad’s advice reassured. I comforted in the assumption that these teenage years were the most tortuous. He lived through it. I realized turbulent times would calm.

Strange thing though. I never imagined troubled days might reappear, say mid-life.

I added I know guys who were already sexually active and show traces of being lost in girls.

Like the would-be addict who must shun the needle the first time to save his life, I wondered if once I embraced my desire, would I survive the thrill? Or would I be lost? As we strolled, I thought of those rare young couples that dated steadily in high school and appeared to balance