August 31, 1971

It’s hard to believe that I was just 12 on that storied day.   It’s even harder to believe that since then, I’ve had 40 birthdays.    

I turned 52 this past April and I have to tell you, a whole lot of water, both pristine and murky, has flowed under the proverbial bridge in these four decades, but whatever has happened to me;  what might happen to me in the future will never, ever occlude my memories of this very special day.

And cue harp for the flashback sequence.

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That day fell on a Monday that year and my oh my oh my oh my, it was a hot one in South Texas.   The Indian Summer had arrived early and even though it was late August, the shadows had already started to grow longer, while the days were getting shorter.   It was also the first day of school and the atmosphere was, as it always is around this time of year, damned near tactile.  I remember you could almost feel the approaching change of season, even in the lingering heat.  It was like a textured weightiness within the ether…and underlying coolness within the heat.   Hard to explain.   But that’s how I remember it.  For me, the Autumn promises renewal, even more so than  the Spring.   It has been and always will be one of my favorite times of the year.   And the morning of August 31, 1971 cemented a seasonal love affair with the Fall that I would carry with me for the rest of my life.  

But to get to the real significance behind the date,  August 31, 1971, you have to know what happened one day earlier.

I must begin by telling you that in the late spring of that year, I’d won a spot on the Jr High cheerleading squad…just as sixth grade was coming to an end.  I spent the summer with my “sisters in spirit” learning the yells and cheers and the customs and all the things that  go into being a cheerleader, which by the way, runs in my family.  My mother was one,  as  was an aunt and both of my sisters.   Not only was achieving this perceived social strata  of vital customary importance to the women of the Kendrick Phyla, it was also an important accoutrement to life as an indigenous female of the Great State of Texas.

Down in these parts, cattle is king and oil is a deity,  but for a few months every Autumn, football trumps both of them;  from Pop Warner all the way up to the NFL.  If you and the wife procreate and God bestows on you a male and a female child, you want your boy playing quarterback as early as 6th grade and you want your daughter on the sidelines in a short skirt and matching sweater,  encouraging spirit and imploring that the team get another ‘first in ten”.    To be a football player in Texas is epic; to be a cheerleader often reaches mythical status.  Big, fuel injected hair protects them both. 

So, I did my bit for familial solidarity and la cultura de Tejana.

The day before that first day of school was a Sunday.  After cheerleading practice and a quick dip in the pool, my sister Karol took me and a few of my fellow cheerleaders  for a ride.  Kids in small towns rode around a lot.  We singularly created the gas crunch in ’1974.   We drove to a nearby berg where her then boyfriend  and her best friend lived.   She took us to Kathleen’s house.   We piled out of the car and went inside.  

On our way to the den, we walked by her brother Jeff’s room and we stopped to say hello.  Sitting at a desk, cross-legged in a gold canvassed director’s chair, was a vision in shorts.   I remember him well.  He was blond, well tanned and had blue eyes…deep, robin’s egg blue and they crinkled and virtually disappeared when he smiled, which is exactly what happened when he looked up.    I stared at him, probably slack-jawed when my sister’s friend introduced us.

I was nervous and could only stammer a “Hey”.     He could only muster a “Hello”, then, he promptly went back to reading his MAD Magazine.  He looked up at me through the corner of his eye as I left the room.  I knew this because I was looking at him point-blank, with my mouth agape and probably looking  quite inbred, I would imagine.

His name was Mark and he was in eighth grade;  a boy from a neighboring town and also the most beautiful male child I had ever seen.    I was in love and it happened like that…in a snap; in a fraction of a second.    At the tender age of 12, I had captured a fleeting glimpse of forever and it had robin’s egg blue eyes.

I was affected physically and felt as though I’d been struck by something heavy and large.    I was weak and mentally befuddled for a few minutes.   What was this feeling?   Was this love???   I think it was.   It didn’t matter that my only encounter with him lasted less than two minutes and included a two-word exchange.   There was something magical….nay, there was something mystical about this boy and our meeting.   Whatever it was, it had me fully in its throes.   I was caught; held hostage.  I was a goner.

I sat in the backseat of my sister’s car as we drove the six miles to get back to our hometown.  I didn’t say a word.  I remember thinking about this boy with the immaculate face and spindly, but hairy legs. 

I looked down at my own very hairy appendages.  

Well, I had no clue as to he this boy was,  but I knew we had at least something in common.

That  night, I shaved my legs and thought about that 13-year-old cute hunk o’puberty.

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The next day–August 31st–I ate breakfast thinking about that boy.    It was hard concentrating on the first day of seventh grade, but I managed.  Doodling his initials “MM” all over my book covers helped.    

That night, I remember having spelling homework and was working on that when my parents and my sister Karol announced they were going out for dinner.   I declined the offer to go with them.   I wasn’t all that hungry, plus I homework to finish.      Little did I know that Fate had played a role in quelling my appetite and encouraging me to be studious (for the first and last time that year).   

The clock struck 7:05 PM and when it did, the phone rang upstairs.   It was Mr. Cuteness himself.   It was Mark.

He called to ask me if I would “go” with him.  That’s what we called being boyfriend and girlfriend back then.  You “went” with somebody.   I was elated and nervous and had never really had a real boyfriend before, so I wasn’t sure how to act.    He asked me the big question and I sheepishly said yes, I’d go with him.  He then asked what kind of dog I had.  I posed the same question and then we hung up.   Wow.  History started that very minute.   I sat there in a post conversational  afterglow that I swear, faded the carpet.  I knew he had a poodle named Tina;  he knew about my Cocker Spaniel named Friskie and I knew I was in love.

Well, as the following days turned into weeks and months;  as the Fall finally fell and cooler weather prevailed, I remember listening to the radio and of course, every song I heard was all about Mark and me.    Whenever I hear a song from that era, I’m taken back in time.  One song in particular can evoke so many emotions.  It’s Rod Stewart’s, “Maggie May”.   During the fall of my 7th grade year,  I listened to it in all its staticky glory on my AM radio.  To this day it reminds me of  Mark and that time in my life. 

I remember meeting him at the movie theatre on Friday and Saturday nights.   He’d hold my hand and my body would meld into this clump of Aunt Jemima pancake batter.    His entrance into my life and  the two years he remained there couldn’t have been more perfect. He helped me make such wonderful, golden memories.   He broke up with me on the third day of school my Freshman year and never explained why.   He broke my heart, but in some way, I suppose it was destiny.  

So here’s to you, Mark.   While I’ve freed myself from all those memories that have in some ways, held me hostage for so long, I will admit, I still think of you from time to time.  Not as often as I used to and when you enter my head, you leave it fairly quickly, which is at it should be.   Our paths haven’t crossed  cara a cara and to be honest, I pray they never will.   With all due respect, I don’t want to meet the man you’ve become.   Why?  I have no idea who that person is.  I have no connection to the adult Mark.   Besides,  I hear you got married and had kids.  I made a career in broadcasting and am very well invested in my life.     I’m glad life has gone on for both of us.    

BUT…

Even though the ride on this memory go-round is getting increasingly more brief and returning infrequently, I will freely admit here before God and man, that there are times when I can easily lapse right back into the safe, memory-laced confines of the last half 1971  through mid 1973 when music from that era compels me to do so.   The list of trigger songs reads like a scroll. 

So, I offer you my annual heartfelt thank you, Mark.    I know you’re oblivious as to what happened on this day all those years ago.   To you it probably means September’s bills are due.   And I doubt if I ever cross your mind, and really, that’s okay.    This is one time I prefer that things be as one-sided as they are.    

Well, that may be, but I hope the heifer to which you married is mean, fat and homely as ass!!!!

Oh sorry.  Did I mention I also have Tourette’s?????

Affectionately, 

♦

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Observations On Ted Kennedy’s Funeral

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There’s something  extremely interesting about watching a Kennedy in the process of being a Kennedy.   Tragically, funerals seem second nature to this family.   They’ve had many opportunities to fine tune this almost preternatural ability to mourn with grace and dignity.  

Because it seems death has never taken a holiday from menacing the Kennedy family on a fairly regular basis, one might ask (as one has many times before) is there a curse attached to Joseph Kennedy’s extended family?  

Who can say, but I would think you take your chances when you’re wife gives birth to nine children.   Then,  those nine grow up to become equally prolific.     The larger the family; the more your increase your odds that well, in the simplest of terms, shit is going to happen.  

It is true that some Kennedy’s seem to die more tragically then most people, though.   Joe Jr. died in the midst of a military mission.  Kathleen died in a plane crash in the mid-40′s, Rosemary was born a tad slower than the rest of her siblings and her very proud father who couldn’t handle having a daughter who wasn’t as full of the same “vim, vitality and uh, viguh”  like his other children, had her lobotomized.   John and Robert were murdered; one while in the Oval Office;  the other while trying to get there.    There were the overdoses, the car accidents; the skiing mishap, the illnesses, the rape trial and of course, John Jr’s. plane crash.

What kills Kennedy’s?   Arrogance might be a factor, but plain old life and it’s “luck of the draw” randomness plays a role, to.

I wouldn’t think it easy to be a member of this clan.  I would think it to be quite touch in fact.   The legacy of public service;  that of achievement.   I would find it daunting to be a Kennedy.   Yet, they come together for family events..the happy evens and the sad ones and each seem to know the role they play. 

Teddy knew his.  He assumed the role of patriarch after Bobby was killed in 1968.     That only made him more visible and that only amplified the many mistakes he made in life.   Well, that and simply being potential headline that every Kennedy seems to be.

I knew several people who refused to watch the funeral because they couldn’t separate the man from his misdeeds.    I won’t chastise them for that.   Free will, you know?    Despite my feelings for the man, his actions and his politics, I decided to watch his funeral because if for nothing else, there is something  fascinating about watching this family as they try to hold the unit together…even though it slowly shrinks by attrition and time.

Just on a surface level, I must say this:  the organ playing left much to be desired.  I’ve never sat down at a huge, wall-to-wall Wurlitzer before and I’ve never tried to play one.   I can imagine that the prowessand dexterity needed to play must be incredible.   OK, I’ll give you that, but I do believe dexterity was an issue today, because I think I heard some “misplays” on the keys.

Secondly, did anyone else notice how hollow and old Bill Clinton is looking?   He’s pale and his stark, ruddy looking nose  and a swollen, reddish face only contrasts the difference.   Why the red nose I wonder?  Well, I could venture about three decent guesses, but I won’t.  Not here; not now.  Plus, as Clinton  was standing in a pew,  holding a funeral card, his hand shook vehemently.   Palsy-like.     It was odd.

And frankly, during the Intercession of Prayers when younger family members stood up and offered them, I was made a little uneasy and frankly, I didn’t appreciate the way they were politicized.    Health care was mention–that it should be a right and not a privilege.

One child mentioned his uncle’s desire to end all war.

Basic human rights for every one:  man, woman…gay and straight.

Then, Obama stood up before God and man and hit home more agenda driven comments that he should have omitted.

I’m all for peace.  I’m all for decent health care that makes sense to every American and not some knee jerk response to asuage a political mind set.   I love my gay friends and wish them access to tha  which makes them happy and feel equal.

But to extol these things out of the mouths of young children and in a Catholic church at a funeral for a man who’s own life was often tarnished by his own actions????

No.

If rhetoric like this was spewed forth during a Conservative’s funeral, the media would be all over it.  

Funerals are a signifying event which in no uncertain terms, commemorate a life lived; the ultimate indication of change.

They are not, nor should they ever be political rallies.   

Ted Kennedy’s life was not exemplary, regardless of how his family and political colleagues try to paint it post script.  His funeral never should have been as polarizing as his life had been and personally, I found many of the comments quite polarizing…especially in that they well placed during a nationally televised broadcast of a funeral.

That said, his life should have ended differently–his painful battle with brain cancer not withstanding.  This is just my opinion only, but there should have been more across the board closure involved with this ceremony of closure.   

And sadly, politicizing a funeral mass was not the way to do it.

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