Dear Everyone,
I must let you all know that I have started a new blog. It's going to be for all of my writings, especially the non-family related stories. I may continue to post some of the writings in both places, but I will probably reserve this one for family news (with more photos), and the other one for my "Look at me, I'm a writer!" kind of writings. For example, my book chapters for "The Falling Part" will be in both places because it's about me and my personal/family history, but things I do for writing practice or simply my opinions and such will be over there.
Sooo....will you please visit my blog over there, and follow me in both places? I'll be your best friend if you do! ; )
Here's my new blog:
http://happilyeverwriting.blogspot.com/
Thanks for reading!!! (and commenting!)
-Jenna
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
The Falling Part: My First Kiss
As it does for many heroines in romantic comedies, the moment of Mia's awaited kiss came to pass. Her dream guy even happened to be in her arms at that moment. But did the essential foot action happen? Not really. Her flip flop-adorned foot did "pop," but it got caught in a net in the process, and everything went downhill after that. Never fear...Mia did get a real "foot-poppin' kiss" during the happy conclusion of the movie. Whew!
For all of the hopeless romantics watching (such as myself), there was a nice lesson to be learned here. That is, if all of life's kisses were standing in line in chronological order, the best ones wouldn't necessarily get to be first. It's okay to dream up the perfect kissing scene, but be prepared to wait awhile as the less-than-dreamy scenes sometimes take precedence.
Although at age sixteen I hadn't spent too much time yet dreaming of my perfect kiss, I had imagined it would happen on a wonderful night to remember. As it turned out, the events surrounding my first kiss were quite a bit more like tangled nets than popping feet.
-------
Journal Entry, 8 September 1990:
Last night was our first football game of the season. We lost 14-12 against Reno. It was a really good game, we were ahead 12-0 until the 4th quarter. I sang the National Anthem for the game. I did alright.
There's this real cute guy at school--Evan Flinton. He's in my U.S. History class and Chemistry, and plays on the football team. I was hoping I would get to see him play at last night's game, but he didn't play because he hadn't had his physical yet.
At the dance after the game, I got to dance with Evan, to the song "What it Takes" by Aerosmith (it's a slow song). It was great--we talked, it wasn't one of those where you just sit there and try to think of what to say. It was a fun dance.
10 September:
I had quite an awesome conversation with Evan today in Chemistry. At the end of class, Evan just said to me, "You surprised me at the dance." I said "Why?" He-"When you asked me to dance, I wasn't expecting it 'cause we never talked before." (I was already loving the conversation and the look in his eyes.) I said, "That's not my fault." (Hint, Hint!) He- "Are you saying it's my fault if we never talk?" I- "Yeah." (Smile). He-"I'm sorry, I'll start talking to you more." I- "Okay." (Of course that was okay!!) He- "I'm sorry if I seemed a little distant when we were dancing, I'm just like that with people I don't know." I- "Oh that's all right." (I was dying inside!) Then we talked about the dance and other stuff 'till the end of class. : )
Over the next few weeks, Evan and I enjoyed flirting back and forth during and after our classes. He was different than most of the guys I had liked in the past. He was not musical, not a Mormon, and not blonde. So what did I like most about him? He was certainly handsome, with very dark hair, a strong square jaw, and his young football jock physique. Oh, and let's not forget his alluring full lips...I mean, smile! Though it wasn't until later that those features would make an impact on me (pun intended).
Outside of Chemistry and History class, we had one other unusual but exciting method of communication. I was the student secretary to his English teacher, Mrs. Barnes, and although I wasn't present during the hour when Evan had Mrs. Barnes, I had the privilege of grading the daily journal assignments from his class. For each assignment I would mark with a red pen my acknowledgement of each student having turned it in, and rather than leave just a check mark on Evan's writings, I would leave a quick note saying hello. Mrs. Barnes didn't mind, she was a pal.
Mrs. Barnes would assign a simple topic each day to get the kids' English brain cells and writing muscles warmed up, and I enjoyed reading Evan's creative writing each time. Imagine my delight the day I discovered Mrs. Barnes had assigned the topic of "Red," and Evan and his best friend Joey had written their entire paragraphs about me! "Red is the color of the hair of the girl I like..." he wrote. How fortunate that as one of the perks to my secretary responsibilities, I had easy access to the photo copy machine down the hall, so I was able to copy their essays and keep them forever (I bet I could find them among my high school keepsakes if I searched long enough).
One day, Evan was a little bolder, and he sent me a message on his daily essay asking me a very important question: "Do you want to go on a date?" Believe it or not, that day his essay got snagged and graded by a different hour's secretary (I wonder what she thought when she came across his note!), but that didn't stop Evan from repeating the invitation verbally when he saw me next.
"So when are we going to go out to dinner?" he asked, on our way to Chemistry.
Happily surprised by his question, I smiled big and answered, "Soon!"
We made tentative plans for the following week, and on his next writing assignment he confirmed, "Red, Definitely next Saturday after the McQueen game!" According to Evan, this was now grounds for telling our friends that we were "dating." That made me happy.
Little did I know, there was something else in store for me than dinner that night! Something better than dinner? Well, something unexpected, that's for sure.
Journal Entry, 4 October 1990:
I feel so weird. I guess I should be happy, but I'm not really.
Evan kissed me tonight after the game, my first kiss. It was nothing like I expected. I thought it would be awesome, but it wasn't that great. Then, I thought we were going out tonight, but we ended up going to the high school to decorate for next week's Homecoming festivities. We didn't even decorate. Then when he had to go, he went for another kiss, but I pulled away. Then I ran into him again before I left, and I talked to him a little, and he asked for a kiss goodbye, and I did, then he got a hug. It made me kind of upset that after I had refused that kiss goodbye, he still asked for one.
I had thought that my first kiss would be more dream-come-true like. More fireworks in the sky, more everything around me standing still, more weak-in-the-knees like.
Don't get me wrong. My first kiss was a little dreamy. I especially loved the setting. As the kicker for the football team, Evan had just kicked a field goal or extra point, securing the win for our team! All of the sweaty uniformed players were marching off of the field in victory, and there was "Evan's girl," in the right place at the right time...he found me standing, congratulating and beaming along with a crowd of other admiring fans just off of the field on his way to the locker room. He stopped only long enough to grab me gently by the shoulders, and planted his warm full beautiful lips right on mine for a long one or two luxurious seconds. --Wow! Did that really just happen to me?-- Then he said "I'll see you in a few minutes," and flew away with the rest of the team.
I must admit, I couldn't have asked for a more exciting scene. I'm very happy with how that part of the evening went down in my history.
If the evening had ended with the romantic dinner date I had been anticipating, and perhaps a little holding hands or just that warm hug in the end, it may have been perfect all together. But the dreamy experience had ended there on the field. Oh well.
Having your first kiss is kind of a lot to process, is it not? Evan had no way of knowing that was my first kiss. He actually never even found that out, because I never really had the chance to tell him. Sadly, my need for processing time was the main reason why I had not felt ready for the second kiss that same night. And even more sadly, my lack of experience may have been what signaled to Evan that I was no longer the right girl for him.
Journal Entry, 8 October 1990:
Evan and I are no longer seeing each other. I'm very sad. I didn't talk to him before school, but I got a note from him on his English journal page saying: "Red--I need to talk to you and it's not good." I saw him before lunch and asked him to come talk to me. JoAnn told me before that Joey said he wanted to break up. So when I talked to Evan I asked, "You don't want to see me anymore?" He told me he wanted to get to know me better and then maybe we could go out. I wasn't too upset, but I thought he didn't really mean what he said about just needing to know me better.
A week later, after our next big win at the Homecoming game, I enjoyed one final big hug from Evan as I congratulated him on the awesome game he played. Just as soon as I started thinking we stood a chance at getting back together, at the dance following the game, I received word from Pete that Evan had his arm around one of my good friends, Sarah.
I didn't know if I should be mad at her, or at him. Nevermind the fact that Sarah was further along the kissing road than I was, which must have made Evan happy (or at least together, she and Evan got further along that road than I did anyway)... but because I liked both of them so much, I chose to keep my chin up and let them have their fun.
I suffered disappointment and jealousy for a few solid days, but soon accepted the unavoidable truth that my Evan days were through. In the end, I knew that by holding back I had chosen to do what was right for me, and I was only better for the experience.
The scene surrounding my first kiss may not have been like the climax of a movie, but I wasn't worried. I believed the perfect kisses would come eventually.
I was right.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Falling Part: A Best Friend Kind of Love
-----
Did you ever have a best friend with whom you would laugh until your stomach hurt?
Did you ever hold hands with a best friend, just because it felt like the right thing to do? And even though holding hands was certainly an "I love you" thing, it wasn't necessarily a romantic thing?
Did you ever imagine marrying your best friend for no reason other than that you felt high as a kite just by being together?
Did you ever have a best friend with whom you could talk on the phone for hours, and the only reason you would get off the phone is because your mom said "That's enough for tonight...time to get off"? And you would get off, and then remember you forgot to tell him something important, so you'd get back on, and then talk and laugh for another hour...and your mom didn't really get mad because she could see how happy you were?
Did you ever have a best friend that you loved so much that you felt happy when he found a new girlfriend--even though it wasn't you?
Did you ever have a best friend break your heart temporarily, and then win your forgiveness by coming back to you right after you had set him free?
Did you ever love someone who took over a large portion of your heart, and then just stayed there forever, no matter what became of your friendship over the years?
I did. Pete was this kind of friend for me.
-----
Not long after my first date with Dad, I was honored to enjoy my second date, with Pete Saiben.
Pete played the trumpet, I played the flute and the piccolo. He sang tenor, I sang soprano. We marched in the marching band together, we went on all of the band and jazz choir trips together, we competed in the state competitions together, we rehearsed during and after school together. These gatherings made for plenty of time to enjoy each other's company, with a little horsing around on the side.
"Stop flirting, Jenny!" fellow band member Brandon said one day, during a break in our rehearsal, after I teasingly dropped a pen in Pete's shirt pocket.
"What? I'm not flirting." I rebutted, confused.
I didn't understand why Brandon would say such a thing. That was a funny moment to me--the moment I learned that all this time I had been mistaken about the definition of the word "flirting." I had thought it meant only those funny teasing things girls do in cartoons. Like when Minnie Mouse would bat her long eyelashes at Mickey. Or when all those animals in the movie Bambi delved into the world of twitterpation, as the females lured the males in with their high pitched giggles and coy looks over their shoulders. I wasn't doing any of that stuff, so what could Brandon mean by accusing me of flirting?
It turned out Brandon was right, of course, and probably just about everything I did in the beginning of my relationship with Pete could be considered flirting. I would do just about anything to win his attention, because Pete was beautiful. His light blonde hair, sharp facial features, and average athletic build (with the exception of his cute little skinny legs) demanded my notice. But most importantly, Pete was hilarious.
Pete had the biggest funny bone of anyone I had ever known. Everything he said was brilliantly witty. Not only that, but he could make really good sound effects and talk in funny voices. My favorite was when he would cup his hand over his mouth and pretend like he was making announcements over a CB radio. He was also really good at quoting Saturday Night Live skits, which always made him seem like a comedic genius (especially since I'd never seen that show, because I wasn't allowed to).
I suppose most of Pete's jokes were of the "you had to be there" variety, but he always knew how to get a laugh out of his audience. He made everything fun, including English class, math class, and every class. Sometimes we had to be separated seating-chart-wise because of our disruptive laughter, which was a bummer, but of course that couldn't deter a connection like ours.
No wonder I was thrilled to accept as my second official date, Pete's invitation to go out for pizza. Shooting our straw wrappers at each other across the booth built for two, and going for drives in his noisy little Volkswagen Bug hold their place in my collection of sweet moments during my earliest dating months.
One more memory of note from my privileged second date, which I incidentally almost regret to report (even though I find it amusing, now), is that my dating decorum was yet quite immature in at least one sense; even though Pete was my first choice in dating companions on that evening, Pete had to ask me directly to please stop mentioning Scott (that is, Chicago's Broken Heart Scott, with whom I was still exchanging occasional snail mail). Oops! Sorry, Pete. Still learning.
The summer just after my sophomore year proved that Pete and I didn't rely solely on school to bring us together. As we were both sixteen and had cars to drive, the couple of miles between our houses were easily surmountable. Easily traveled as well were the distances to each others' summer jobs downtown--his at Pizza Barn, and mine at Four Way Fitness Center. It was always a highlight to sneak in a visit only long enough to not get in trouble by our bosses.
To be true to history, I wish to divulge that my friendship with Pete wasn't 100% consistent. We did have our ups and downs. There were times when I wanted more than friendship with him, especially in the beginning. Things didn't really develop that way for us though. When he started to like one of my best friends, Krissy, we grew apart for a bit. I remember a rough conversation I had with Krissy over the phone when she told me she and Pete had kissed...
"I just feel like if I don't get to have him, no one should," I said. How selfish of me. I'm grateful that despite Krissy's shock at my less-than-gracious attitude, she and I have all remained life-long friends. Over time, Pete and I both went through our share of flings, and we were able to maintain our friendship through it all, most of the time.
Journal Entry, 7 February 1991:
I talked to Pete on the phone again tonight, he called me, but it wasn't good. To make a long story short, he said he needed some space. I've noticed that we haven't been close lately, and of course that makes me really sad. They say "distance makes the heart grow fonder," but what if we just keep getting more and more distant and end up not even being friends? I almost cried over the phone.
8 February:
School was okay with Pete, after awhile, but not during Pre-Cal; we didn't talk. In English we did. I cried really hard during first hour (choir), it was awful, but all my friends were there for me, that made me feel better.
10 February:
It's Sunday again. Pete called me this morning, I guess I blew things way out of proportion thinking that we weren't friends anymore.
Whew! Although in hind sight it seems like a brief moment of pain, that was one of our worst downs. The earthquake that hit our friendship that February had one more little aftershock before the end of the month...
On February 24th, I called Pete on the phone to get things cleared up. I told him I couldn't tell if we were friends anymore and I needed to know.
"The last thing I want is to not be friends with you. Do you think we'll ever be close again?" I asked, already crying.
"You make it sound like we'll never be friends again," he answered.
"That's what it seems like to me," I replied sadly.
"It's not that I don't want to be friends, I just get so mad at you sometimes!" Pete confessed.
"I haven't changed, Pete." I said, pleading for his patience and understanding.
The conversation continued a few minutes more, and finally after a short moment of silence and with tears pouring down my face, I said, "Well, I'm here if you need me. It was nice talking to you." I hung up and let the emotional flood gates restrain me no longer. I called a girlfriend and she cheered me up a little, and then I got out my favorite photo of Pete and myself and cried some more. We looked so happy.
The next day at school brought a breath of fresh air; Pete was his old self again. My perception is that we had hit our rock bottom, and from there were able to rise up and together repair any hurt feelings with our familiar medicinal laughter. My friend had come back to me. My heart forgave and healed as if the wounds had never existed.
Our good times and laughter saw us through the rest of our high school years and on through graduation. He helped me get through Chemistry and English, I helped him get through Pre-Calculus and Calculus. Our band and choir excursions were continually fun-ified by Pete's clever rap lyrics projected through his CB radio hand. And most importantly, whenever I needed someone to buoy up my soul, he was only a phone call away.
I must tell you one final and most significant part of our story. Pete and I have an unresolved conflict. It developed primarily after high school, and it has weighed on my heart for many years.
For almost all of high school, Pete was not religious. Towards the end of his teenage years, he began to discover the gospel of Jesus Christ and hungered for the blessings that living a Christian life brings. After much investigation of both the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and one other non-denominational church in our town (which ironically was led by an ex-Mormon who actively preached against Mormonism), Pete decided to join with those of the anti-Mormon faith. I am forever grateful that Pete has become a follower of Christ and even has dedicated his life, as a pastor in his own church now, to introducing others to the wonderful blessings of the gospel. But it pains my heart that his personal beliefs now lead him to consider me a lost soul who belongs to a church which he believes to be an unworthy and unrighteous institution.
Our differences in faith never interfered with our feelings of mutual admiration when we were younger, but now as adults, this small but seemingly impenetrable barrier between us leaves me longing for closure. I debated including an entire separate chapter on this unsettling element of my relationship with Pete (for the details of his conversion, including his marrying the daughter of the ex-Mormon preacher, are interesting to say the least). But I wished instead to merely summarize it, so that we can all hopefully leave this chapter with only the sweet aftertaste of the delicious happiness that I received and cherish from our relationship.
Pete and I stayed in touch beyond high school, through college, and a little even now that we have our own families. I know he still cares for me. Pete will always own a part of my heart, and I'm so grateful for that!
Sunday, August 5, 2012
The Falling Part: Sixteen and Dating
I had such a fun birthday today. I'm 16! Yesterday in my Calculus class (the one that I'm secretary for), Mrs. Busboom brought cookies for my b-day (a day early 'cause I wouldn't be in school the next day) and they sang happy birthday to me--real loud so 5 other classes could hear just to tease me--so the one across the hall with a few of my friends in it came over and sang to me too. It was funny.
This morning our choir sang at a festival at UNR (University Nevada Reno), so we missed school all day.
I had my first date when I got home, with Dad. He took me to Stockman's for dinner, it was really nice. We were going to go to Reno for our date, but I didn't feel like it, 'cause that's where I just got back from. I wore a pretty white rose corsage that he gave me. Then we had my family party at home when Dad and I got back.
---
It finally arrived, that magical extra special day whose best gift to me was the number sixteen itself. This was the most anticipated age of my life thus far. Sixteen granted me permission for "like-a-dates," group dates, one-on-one dates... just about every-kind-under-the-sun dates! Let the dates begin!
I was a fortunate beginner dater--I got to have my first date right smack dab on my birthday itself. The lucky gentleman was my dad, and this special event had been on our calendar for years. He may have even planned this before I was born.
Daddy-daughter dates weren't new to me. The first date I remember with Dad was when I was eight years old, and we had another when I was twelve. This date on my sixteenth birthday was certainly the bet one yet, but let me take you back eight years to show you how good my dad was at making his daughter feel loved.
The musical "Annie" starring Aileen Quinn was in the movie theaters, and Dad decided to take me out to see it. What a luxury! I can count on one hand--and maybe even on two fingers-- the number of times I saw a movie in the theater when I was a kid. But Dad knew this movie character of Annie and I could have a unique connection, almost like Mulan and her reflection. Annie and I were the same age (give or take), we both had curly red hair, a face covered in freckles, and we both knew that singing in the spotlight was the best way to spread the sunshine from our souls. Annie and I were meant to come together, and Dad honored me with that exhilarating musical movie experience.
Dad sweetened the evening by splurging on some treats. At the movie he let me choose whichever candy I wanted, so I chose Sugar Babies, and he chose a Sugar Daddy. Even better than the movie treat, he took me to a donut shop. I can't remember if that was actually before or after the movie, but that place was amazing. I felt like I was in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory when he told me I could pick out any donut I wanted.
"Any donut I want? In the whole store?" I asked, incredulously.
"Yes, any donut you want, in the whole store," he answered.
"Could I even choose that one?" I asked, pointing to the most glorious donut I had ever seen.
"You sure can!" he said.
"Okay, I would like one of those, please," I told the donut shop lady, still hardly believing my eyes. And the donut shop lady served her elated Annie look-alike customer that large glazed donut with chocolate frosting, mountains of whipped cream, and a cherry on top. It looked and tasted like a dream come true. Did a father ever love a daughter more than mine loved me? I thought not.
Fast forward eight years, and Dad was about to make another historical date memory for me. Not only did he want to show me how much he loved me, but out of his duty as my father, he was determined to help me start my dating journey off on the right foot. This was to be a date by which I could measure the worthiness of all future dates. Or at least serve as an intro to "proper dating etiquette," which sounded perfectly fascinating (and exciting) to me!
I had come home from my school choir trip exhausted, but I knew this night was going to be special, so I did my best to fix myself up. I chose my favorite forest green sweater, paired it with cream colored pants (because we all know it wouldn't be right to wear jeans), and wore my hair up in an elegant french twist. A beautiful white rose corsage pinned to my sweater completed the outfit. Thanks, Dad!
Dad spiffed himself up in a traditional Western way, with a white button-up short-sleeved shirt completed with his favorite bolo tie, and surely his best cowboy boots. (In my hometown of Fallon, Nevada, any Fallonite would agree that you don't have to be a cowboy to dress like one--even military men like my dad could pull off that style).
Dad chose the nicest restaurant we had in our small country town, it was called Stockman's. Dad called ahead and made reservations for two. We entered through the casino (Nevadans don't think twice about this), and found our way to what looked like the reception area of the restaurant. The cashier acted confused when we told her our names and announced that we had reservations, but led us back and seated us in a booth nearby.
Something wasn't quite right. Where was our server? Why did this "fanciest restaurant in town" resemble the plain old diner next door? After a few minutes of sitting and waiting and not being served, we realized that we had gone to the wrong place. We got up and asked an employee to help us find the real fancy restaurant part of Stockman's, and eventually we were led around to the back of the building where the real fancy dates took place.
We walked in and both let out a sigh of relief--this was so much better! The lights were low, soft music played, centerpieces adorned the tables, polite and formal waiters glided silently through the room, and we were seated with respect. Indeed, Dad knew how to pick 'em.
"You'll allow your date to order for you" he told me. (Really? Hmmm... I took all of his protocol advice as gospel, even though I'm pretty sure 99.9% of my future dates were oblivious to these prescribed manners).
After Dad helped me understand what some of the elaborate menu items were, I let him order for me: Chicken Cordon Bleu (mmm...delicious). Even though I may rarely see the opportunity to order this often, if ever I see it on a menu, I am happily taken back to my sixteenth birthday.
Dad was the perfect gentleman. He helped me with my chair in the beginning, he paid for our meal at the end. We had some laughs, we had some dessert (which might have even had a birthday candle on top), and the fancy restaurant dinner date was just about complete.
On our way out, I remember one final sweet moment. You know how some restaurants put a dish of mints for you to grab after your meal? Stockman's had some of those yummy thin cookie sticks dipped in chocolate, and he grabbed a couple for each of us.
"Are we allowed to take these?" I asked, unsure.
"You bet, that's what they're here for." Dad just seemed to know everything about dates!
He was able to throw in a couple more gentlemanly gestures such as opening and closing my car door for me, and as he drove me home, offered a few final words of counsel about the dos and don'ts of dating.
One thing's for sure: if every date were as special and full of love as my very first real date, with Dad, people would probably not take so long to find the right person to marry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)