Because I graduated in 1969, my 50th high school reunion is on the horizon.


I don’t know the specifics, but I’ve seen FB “Calling All Classmates” announcements here and there. Honestly, I’m only distantly connected. I spent high school not talking to most people, so why would I want to get all dolled up to spend an evening 50 years later not talking to most people?

In fact, I recently happened onto a friend’s video, based on yearbook photos, for the Class of 1968 reunion. It went on for 20 minutes, but I bailed halfway through. My heart simply folded at the sight of my 15-year-face. Not to mention the reminder that both of my high school boyfriends have died.

Then out of nowhere, I remembered three mysterious high school events that must be connected. It never occurred to me before.

61091272tro closedOurs was a large public high school with lockers lining the halls, but when you became an untouchable in the theater department, you were allowed to store your things in the drama teacher’s classroom closet. This transition carried a Knights of the Round Table status.

A rite of passage that signaled privilege.

lauren-ralph-lauren-orange-paisley-scarf-product-1-863753120-normalEach day I hung my gray Edwardian wool coat, along with a paisley silk scarf, on a hook and closed the door, securing the brass knob. Then one afternoon the scarf was gone. No one knew anything about it.

Simply vanished.

55d37adfe116bee12d91e12cff68262c--maurice-utrillo-paintings-for-saleAnd there was this. In art class, I developed a fondness for painting street scenes, so the teacher suggested I study Maurice Utrillo. Romantic that I was, I believed I would eventually live in Manhattan with a career in publishing. Or I’d be a Greenwich Village poet. He chose one of my pieces for the art show display, hanging it in a locked glass case at the cafeteria entrance. I received a number of compliments. Then one afternoon it was gone. He had no idea how it happened.

Simply vanished.

And this. For the spring prom, no boy asked me. During this era, no one went without a date. A group of friends attending was unacceptable. The night was all about starry-eyed couples–one boy and one girl. Both of the boys I loved took other girls, popular girls. But late into the loneliest night of my teenaged life, the kitchen phone rang. I answered, but no one spoke, no matter how many times I said, “Hello.” All I could hear was a noisy background and Ricky Nelson’s “Listen to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain.”

“Rain please tell me now does that seem fair
For her to steal my heart away when she don’t care.
I can’t love another when my heart’s somewhere far away.
The only girl I care about has gone away
Looking for a brand new start.
But little does she know that when she left that day
Along with her she took my heart.”
Click. The caller hung up.
Simply vanished.
I never knew who called. I never will.
But now after 50 years, I realize all three events were connected.
Quiet girls, no matter their age, never believe they were someone’s secret love. A missed chance.
Simply vanished.
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4 thoughts on “Mysterious Love

  1. Wow, Karen. “Quiet girls, no matter their age, never believe they were someone’s secret love. A missed chance.” You said a mouthful. It was as if a bit of a lock slid into place.

    I just mentioned to someone today that I am too dense to know when someone is flirting and usually too scary to find someone with courage enough to try.


  2. Somehow back then I must have missed the signs or misread them. Would it have made a difference if I’d known? Our lives, no matter how much we think we understand them, are filled with mysteries.


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