𝗔 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗥𝗨𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 𝗜 𝗖𝗔𝗡'𝗧 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗠𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗬

Some are mathematicians, some are carpenter's wives              

Don't know it all got started, I don't know what they're doing with their lives. . . .  

Dylan, "Tangled Up in Blue"

This is one of those autobiographical anecdotes no one will care about that I'm posting for my own psychological needs, the kind of story I usually delete when I reread it in the morning.

I've just finished a 750 ML bottle of San Simon Tempranillo after ignoring the Government Warning on the label because "Hell, I'm not a pregnant woman."

An inner conflict that's been raging for days concerns my hometown listing on Facebook.  

For years now the listing has been Kent, Washington, but deep inside I knew that was wrong, so wrong, disloyal and wrong.  

Sure I finished high school at Kent-Meridian. . . "Onward mighty Kent-Meridian.  Foes tremble at the feet of Kent-Meridian."  

That's a lie.  No "foes" trembled at the feet of Kent-Meridian.  The only reason we beat Seattle Garfield, an all-Black high school, is that we had some very tall white boys who could play.

But, Renton, the home of the Boeing Aircraft Company, is my real home town.  

As a ten year old, I got a job with the Seattle Times circulation department.  We had to pay for our papers, a wholesale rate, then tried to sell them for the retail price and pocket the difference.  Since, back then, the papers only sold for a dime, profits were slim.

In downtown Renton I tried an approach I'd seen in the movies:  "Extra, extra. . . read all about it."

That never sold any papers and I soon quit, no richer than when I started.

Henry Ford Elementary, Renton, Washington

No worries.  I was a big shot at Henry Ford Elementary anyway, responsible for seeing that the metal school girl was placed into a hole each morning on the highway running north of the school.  

Our precision unit marched each morning to fulfill our mission.  When I commanded "Attention!" my two troops saluted.  This was not child's play because, with the mere dispatch of a flag, we could stop a speeding car on the highway.

We didn't abuse our authority, though, usually waiting for traffic to subside, before setting up our crosswalk operation and placing our metal girlfriend in the middle. 

Since it was usually drizzling during recess, we had the option of square-dancing with the girls in the gym or playing b-ball outside in the rain.

Since I knew how to dribble around puddles, I usually quarterbacked the team although few shots went into the crooked rim without a net.  The wet, outdoor game was such a futile effort, although one could work up a sweat even in the rain.

Well, that was Renton.  My ne'er do-well dad briefly worked for Boeing's boiler room in Renton until he lost that job, too.  

Anyway, I've been typing about Renton, but thinking about Kent and a life-changing moment I totally fumbled.

In the crowded corridors/halls of the very populous Kent-Meridian H.S., I was gently approached by the most beautiful girl in that school or any school. . . . . I won't reveal her name as she's a woman of some substance, living in Olympia, Washington's capital.

I've only recently learned that this black-haired beauty was part of a family whose courageous father had smuggled out of Russia to escape religious persecution.  

So athletic and beautiful, I can still close my eyes and visualize her with the rest of the cheerleading team, her long legs kicking up into air, her obvious assets so apparent to us all.

Yet, the georgous woman did stop me in the hall with a ridiculous question so carefully framed:  "Jim, I've heard that you're a genius." 

Stunned, my fundamentalist religious upbringing took over and all I could think to say was:  "Oh, no.  That's not true."

"Well, that's what I've heard," the Russian girl responded, obviously wanting to extend the conversation.

All I could think of was the ruddy-faced Joseph facing seduction by Potiphar's wife and I'm sure I ran like the wind and like a fool to not be tempted, except there was no temptation, just an attempt at adult conversation by a rare beauty totally unaffected by it, just natural and real. 

Shit.  I could have at least offered her a ride home in my '59 VW bug.  Her Russian dad might have been gruff, but I'd have won him over once I convinced him of my honorable intentions. 

Of course, I was a stupid, undeveloped, late 16, early 17 year old, who'd gotten out of bed, splashed his face with water, ran a wet comb through his hair, then donned t-shirt, jeans and a pair of Jeeper's Creepers, those $1.99 slip on tennis shoes from J.C. Penneys, now face-to-face with an actual Miss Universe, who was so unaffected, so natural, thinking so little of herself, she didn't even realize she wasn't just out of my league, but in a different stratosphere.

In retrospect, we're both now 76, have lived our lives, so all this means nothing, except for the might-have-beens etched in my memory.  She'd be oblivious to all that and certainly gracious at some high school reunion if I ever went to one.