There was this girl.
That’s the first line of so many good
stories. There she was. Here she is, secure in memories of my childhood,
somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12. She wasn’t the first crush I ever had.
Those were numerous. I figured out early that girls were
infinitely more interesting and appealing than boys. Not that I was ever a
playah. I compare better to Karl Fredericksen in the movie UP! More of a silent but
loyal follower.
My parents had these friends who lived on the other side of town
and for a couple years they spent a great deal of time there playing cards and
talking until all hours. These friends didn’t have children our age, so if us kids
wanted to do anything fun, we had to create it ourselves. The finished basement
was our kingdom. It had a bar which was pretty cool for serving up drinks.
Alcohol wasn’t on our radar yet, but we had unfettered access to soda. There
was also a bumper pool table and a cabinet under the stairs with the biggest
stockpile of Playboys I had ever seen.
But in the daylight hours we would make our way outside. It was a
neighborhood, so there was always some impromptu gang of kids ready for more to
join in on whatever adventure was brewing. Whiffle
ball, hide and seek, or just plain exploration were the standard activities. In
my mind there were a dozen or so kids around.
But the only one I remember was
Angie Rinkenberger.
So many people have gone in and out of my life over the years. I've forgotten most of them. There are people who I have interacted with on a
daily basis for years, whose faces and names are fuzzy, faded memories to me.
This girl, who I saw a handful of times in the late 70’s or early 80’s, remains
fresh in my mind. I couldn't really tell you any specific things we did. I
can’t remember any of our conversations. I just remember looking for her. I
remember wanting to be around her.
First off, part of what made this girl memorable was her name. The
sound of it intrigued me even then. And now, as an adult, it sounds even more
like a girl from one’s past. I can say that I thought she was the most
beautiful girl I had ever seen. Angie seemed a bit more serious than the most of
the kids. Maybe a bit more ‘mature’ than the rest of us 10 year olds, so she always
came off as a leader. And where ever she wanted to go, I’d follow. I liked her eyes. And she smelled good.
What
the scent was escapes me now.
Was it her shampoo? Was it soap?
Maybe it was
bubble gum.
I can’t say, but it made me want to be close to her. I knew that I
wanted to ask her to be my girlfriend, but two things stopped me. Fear of
rejection. What if she said no? Then what?
Then there was fear of success. What
if she said yes? Then what? I’d have no idea what to do next.
No matter. I would instead,
admire her in secret and we’d have fun just being kids chasing lightning bugs
from one yard to the next.
Now, as I tend to do, I find myself skimming the
obituaries of the local papers and in that of my old hometown. I saw Angie’s
name and a picture of the grown up woman that she had become and my heart sank.
We went to different schools in Streator and I would later move to California, so my
memories of Angie were confined to our pre-teen years. I have no inkling of her
life or her journey or what would bring it to a premature end. The obituary
offered no clues, either.
I find myself so sad for her and sad for her family, losing her at
such a young age.
Selfishly, I am a little sad for myself, feeling the
reality of life and age setting in.
Instinctively, I was tempted to copy the picture from her obituary
and save it to a digital photo album. Stack it there with so many other
memories and events from my life.
There's no need for that, though, because I’m pretty happy with the picture in my mind that
has stayed with me for so many years. That of a humid Illinois evening and a
young girl on a grassy front lawn with wavy brown hair and dark eyes. She is dressed
in pink shorts and a white tank top, and she's saying “Follow me.”
