by Michael S. Kaplan, published on 2007/12/02, original URI: http://blogs.msdn.com/b/michkap/archive/2007/12/02/6645014.aspx
This was an easy one to overhear, actually.
Since I am the one who said it.
Though that actually could make it more of a challenge, since I seldom pay attention to what I'm saying. Or writing....
A long time ago, I lived in Mequon, Wisconsin.
And when I say a long time ago, I mean a really really long time ago.
I was in first grade that year.
I kind of had a girlfriend, too.
Her name was Brenda. Brenda Pearce (or maybe Pierce? I was in first grade and spelling her last name was not really a priority, especially since she was going to have my last name soon. Or so I thought?).
Her best friend's name was Donna, I think. I am fuzzy on the details here.
Anyway, I remember how it happened.
We were in the music class we took, and we would sing this song.
Basically one person would sing it by themselves, running once around the room. Then they would pick one friend to run with them and sing the song again. And then everyone would run around the room, all singing it together.
The song involved seagulls, and that is all I remember about it.
I do not remember the name of the song.
I do not remember the words.
I do not remember the music teacher's name.
But I do remember the day that Brenda picked me to run around the room with her. That, I'll always remember.
And all I remember about the rest of the year is that girls were not icky and that hanging around with Brenda and her friend Donna at recess seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world.
We moved away the next year, to Beachwood, Ohio.
I still never thought that girls were icky. But I never saw Brenda again.
The last time I was back in Beachwood (visiting family), I asked my mother whether she remembered Brenda Pearce and she immediately did. Apparently I talked about her a lot when I got home from school back then.
My mother didn't know the spelling for sure, either.
Brenda is probably the only person I'd seriously consider Google-stalking to try and find her, if only because there is probably no other way we would ever see each other again.
Of course she may not even remember any of this. She probably doesn't.
Which is why the Google-stalking idea dies somewhere between the chair and the keyboard.
This not entirely unhealthy ideal about girls stayed with me at least until fifth grade, and a story I won't tell since there is a slim chance I will see that woman if I go to the 20th High School reunion coming up next year.
I told this story about Brenda and running around the room singing the seagull song to a therapist once. He asked me if I enjoyed running. At the time, I did. He thought it was interesting that my one of my most vivid memories of childhood was running around the room with a girl in the first grade.
And now that I can't even walk all that much, I really miss running. What will I do if Brenda picks me again?
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