MOSTLY TRUE

I was 8. Her name was Ashley, and we were in Sunday School together. That is to say, we attended the same Sunday School class at the same church. There was no sense of ‘togetherness’ — we never talked or visited or even knew each other’s last name.

However, it was to attract her attention that I tried to do better than anyone else in all our activities. It was to her I recited my lines in the Christmas play. All I remember now is a flash of blonde hair, but back then I thought she was the cutest girl I had met.

When I couldn’t attract her attention merely through drawing the best “Noah and the Ark” picture, I knew that a grand romantic gesture was in order. It was in all the movies. And what better day to do such than Valentine’s Day? And what better gesture, for an 8 year old, than the best card ever?

I slaved over the card much as I did building lego creations at home, or trying to craft a bow and arrow in the woods. I practiced that technique of folding the paper and cutting a mouse-shaped piece to form a heart…. Actually, I don’t remember much beyond the fact that it was big, and pink, and red, with lots of hearts — it was simply perfect.

Alas, there was one vital element that always seems to be forgotten by the love-struck: never, ever give a card to your beloved while surrounded by a crowd of peers.

I fully expected to come away from that encounter engaged to the young lass. Instead, I found myself the object of scorn and derision, and learned how awful that song sounds. You know the one: Tim and Ashley sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G… Yeah, that one.

It shows how distraught I was that I remember nothing of her.

Not whether she appreciated the gift, not whether she secretly returned my love. All I remember is that within the hour I had forgotten about anything but embarrassment. My parents were planning on finding a new church anyway.

Meanwhile, my friends — are all eight-year-olds this cruel? — loved my new position, and wouldn’t let it go.

They formed a club; and you were unable to join unless you kissed a girl on a cheek every time the club met. I was unwilling to do this. I remained aloof and club-free. Love and fate had conspired to burn me, and I swore I would remain an unswerving bachelor. Who needed the fairer sex, anyway? She would just interrupt my writing and reading.

Of course, I’m not much of a quitter, so by my teens I was giving in to the idea of eventually falling in love, with a bit more success and a lot more discretion.