𝗕𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗙 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖 𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗕𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗨𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

                                            

Born into a sexually-repressive religion, where even holding hands could be construed as a sin, I did no dating during school years, but that didn't mean I didn't notice girls just as some noticed me.

During fifth grade, at the historic Henry Ford Grade School in Renton, I made the list of the "Top Five Boys" that the girls were sharing and giggling about amongst themselves, learning in their description that I was "smart, but laid back."

Potsky, the heavy boy who each day smashed his potato chips and then crammed them into his bologna sandwich, did not make the list.  Guy Wilson, who I personally witnessed globbing a whole tube of Brylcream into his black hair in the boys restroom, did.

"Brylcream, a little dab will do ya, use more, only if you dare.  But, watch out! The gals will all pursue ya.  They love to put their fingers in your hair." 

When my ne'er-do-well dad lost the only good job he'd ever have in the boiler room at Boeing, my family followed him through at least 40 moves I've registered and chronicled in my brain, through Washington state, Oregon, Idaho and even Iowa, where, in each new location, I adjusted as the "new boy."

After Boeing, my father found the distasteful, smelly job of tanning hides, then tried to sell Simcas, then Renaults, then books over the phone, but not selling enough for us to live on.  

His next opportunity, not selling Gates belts and hoses, but the new line of Gates tires, took us to Eastern Oregon, actually Pilot Rock, 20 miles south of Pendleton.

Pilot Rock was one of those towns where, as a 7th grader, I was instantly popular and, despite being only 12, found myself listed in a separate Pilot Rock Teenager's Phonebook published by Northwestern Bell.  That got me calls to play baseball after school every day with a bunch of boys who imitated the batter's box mannerisms of Mays, Mantle and Willie McCovey while emulating the pitching styles of Don Drysdale, Sandy Koufax and Whitey Ford and my personal favorite, Ryne Duren. 

The informal group got very good at baseball; hitting, fielding and pitching, turning double plays, catching long flies in the outfield, using the knowledge some had gained in Little League or by simply watching Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese do the Game of the Week on TV.

When someone we later learned was a Little League coach saw me pull a pitch over the left field fence of the high school field, he took the mound, tossing me about a dozen easy pitches over the plate, half of which I knocked over the fence. (He couldn't believe I was just 12.)

It was the summer of '60 and my parents had rented a 3 bedroom ranch style house butted up against the fence of a wheat field. With my dad gone for a week or even two weeks at a time, trying to sell Gates tires to The Dalles, La Grande, Pendleton and Ontario in eastern Oregon and Payette, Weiser and Caldwell in western Idaho, I could actually breathe for the first time in my life.   I felt free, not just of my religion's rules and prohibitions, but dad's self-righteous and hypocritical enforcement and interpretation of them.

In the halls between classes at Pilot Rock Junior and Senior High School I kept being stopped.  The message was always "Nizhoni is looking for you," someone I later learned was a girl from the Umatilla reservation.  Even when I ventured into the high school area for the obligatory class in German, an older high school couple, who looked married to me, told me "Nizhoni really likes you!"

A "friend," Michael, stopped me outside the school, claiming he'd once dated my new "girlfriend," falsely claiming and bragging that she "wore pink panties."  Even at 12, I realized he knew nothing about her underwear.

When I finally saw Nizhoni walking in the hall, then pointing me out to two other girls, she was not someone I'd have described as a mere "girl," but more like a beautiful grown woman.

All of these experiences were new to me although I was at an age where sexual feelings had started to stir.  When a school dance was scheduled during the week while dad was out on the road selling, I approached my mom about going, something my father would have never permitted.

After she gave approval, I went to the bathroom mirror, combing my longish blonde hair back on both sides into a ducktail, considered a juvenile delinquent style haircut in those days.  Mom glanced at me before I went out the door, saying that before going to the dance I needed a trim.  Then she added the attachment to the electric razor and gave me a complete buzz cut with mounds of hair falling to the floor.

Just glad to get permission to go, I sprinted the ten blocks to the school gym.  Walking in, I was met by the established couple I'd met in the high school hallway.  They had serious news.

"Nizhoni saw your haircut.  She no longer likes you."  

With that the older girl offered me what was obviously a pity dance.  I stayed just a few minutes before running back home, vowing never to let my hair be cut short again.