Sharon and Shakespeare

We all grew up, and occasionally Mike would pursue Sharon. Before he left for the Navy, he drove to see her once or twice. I felt more than a little like Cyrano de Bergerac coaching him, from her sister’s names to her favorite color. No Romeo and Juliet, no Shakespeare here, let alone Edmond Rostand.. Yet I suppose that Mike paid the price—the dinner that her Mom fixed was a dish that he absolutely detested. Yet, to his credit, he ate it like a man.

A year or two later, I was taking the bus to visit my girlfriend—another girl that I had met when we were both counselors. Perhaps one day I’ll write about “Dana”. But I found that I had a long layover in the city near Sharon’s home. Just on an odd chance, since we were still writing, I called Sharon. I was pleased and a little surprised when she immediately told me that she would drive up to see me.

We ended up spending a couple of hours together, wandering downtown. I’ll always remember her face when she showed me the stuffed bear store just off the skywalk. It was a great day. Perhaps I even confessed, from the safety of another relationship, that I had liked her, all of those years ago.

Well, more time passed, and I finally transferred from junior college to the big university. I have to admit that of my three finalists, I selected this one simply because Sharon was there. And so this begins the final chapter of the saga of Sharon.

I arrived at the University for a visit before I enrolled, around my 22^nd birthday. It was late November, or early December, and I was staying with my cousin for the long weekend. After a day visiting with Professors and advisers, I called Sharon, hoping that she wasn’t out on a date. We hadn’t written in a bit, but my adviser at the junior college had attended Iowa State, and found her phone number and address with a phone call.

Sharon was pleased to hear from me, and invited me over. We ended up spending a couple of hours in the basement of her dorm as Sharon did laundry. She told me about her boyfriend (rats), and I told her about my plans. It was a really nice evening, there in that bare, bricked old laundry room.

I arrived for school in January, entirely unprepared for what I was getting into. Sharon was on the back of my mind, and eventually I called her. We sat in her cramped dorm and talked for a couple of hours. I was dismayed to find that she had broken up with her boyfriend of December, and was now seeing someone else. I had missed the opportunity of the interval!

Funny, she talked about how her then-boyfriend was a former wrestler, and very jealous. I wasn’t sure whether she was saying that as a good thing, or bad.

Not learning my lesson, weeks passed. Valentine’s Day approached, and I badly wanted to remember Sharon, once in my life. Yet I also remembered the "hulking and jealous wrestler”, and was apprehensive about doing so.

Finally, being the ninny that I am (or, was), I paid one of the guys on my dorm floor to go to a florist and send Sharon a rose anonymously. All right, so that was a bit…convoluted, even for me. I relaxed when he finally returned with the receipt.

A day or two later I got up my courage, and called Sharon. She invited me over when she was free, and as I walked into her room, I casually glanced at her dresser. Which held three single roses in vases. Huh.

With a bit more poise, I could have made a comment as to how popular she was. At the time, startled, I didn’t say anything—and as we talked Sharon didn’t mention any “secret admirer”. My, was I a gutless wonder.

But of course, the story hardly ends with Valentine's Day.

Sharon Sweetheart

I suppose that if I’m going to write about “Christianity and Sex”, I could have begun with “Sharon”. Sharon is a perfect illustration of my own bumbling attempts at romance, and the fact that there is something more in a Christian woman. Or, girl in this case.

Sharon is a simple story; I met her at Bible Camp the summer before I was a junior in high school, 1977. She was a year younger, petite and slender, with short, wavy blond hair and wire rimmed glasses. I don’t know what it was about her, but I liked her right away. She was smart, warm hearted, and a real sweetheart. Cute, too. We kind of chummed around for a week when we were both counselors, and I had high hopes for the senior high camp a couple of weeks later.

To make a long story short, I played it coy, not knowing how to treat a girl, and my best friend at Church, Mike, ended up with Sharon. That would be status quo for the ensuing several years. We were something of a trio, but Mike was always with Sharon. “One Who Wears Yellow Shorts”

I could tell you a lot about Sharon, and I’d like to. For example, she had a sister a year younger, “Kathy”, who had long, rich brown hair and was absolutely beautiful. And smart. Or how my stomach twisted when I would occasionally wander across Mike and Sharon kissing. Yet there are lots of things about Sharon that I simply can’t fit in here.

Oh sure, Sharon and I wrote for years, but I could never catch the right rhythm. I can remember my senior year, there was a winter youth retreat at a large hotel. I was excited about the weekend, because I knew that Mike wouldn’t be there. And I was eager, finally, to have my opportunity.

And so, one way or another, I was at the hotel before Sharon’s group. I heard about their arrival, and headed for the lobby. An instant that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. For there was Sharon, recognizable next to Kathy, and the rest of her friends. But that was the only way.

For Sharon had…blossomed, since the summer. Her short, wavy blond hair was now shoulder length, straight, thick and golden, a blond counterpart to her sister’s chestnut loveliness. And she had finally gotten contacts, which freed her lovely features from “cute” into “beauty”. I felt my heart soar.

Yet this was the end of my hopes for Sharon. As sweet as she was, with “cute” I had a chance. At “beautiful”, she was far beyond me.

Or was it? For the story was not to end there.

Kay Remembered

I am reminded of a little story of “Kay” and “Paul” that will always linger in my mind. The time and greater context aren’t important, for the moment stands easily upon it’s own merits.

Just imagine a school bus full of people, people a bit subdued after a long trip. Paul is driving, with Kay alone in the seat immediately behind him. Most of the occupants tended towards the rear of the bus. I know that I was a row or two behind Kay, on the opposite side of the aisle.

On a long drive through busy traffic, suddenly caught in a jam Paul sees a landmark that strikes a chord. He and Kay are back in their hometown, they grew up blocks apart, though they didn’t meet until college. Paul is in a jovial, nostalgic mood, and as usual, is pleased to share his reminiscences.

“Hey there’s the Planetarium. Boy, do I remember some good times there,” he called over the chatter, drawing a momentary silence and the attention of the whole crowd. “That was one of the best places to go parking in the whole city.”

I could see him looking in the mirror above, but I didn’t know if he was glancing at Kay, or to see the reactions of his sudden audience. However, a glance at Kay told me that she had suddenly gone very still.

“Yep,” he continued, with apparent satisfaction, “I remember when Kay and I went parking at the Planetarium. Boy, did we have some fun there.”

Suddenly my eyes were fastened on Kay. And I swear I could feel the cold beginning to emanate from her on that sweltering bus. Yet Paul seemed entirely oblivious.

“Remember that, Kay?” The relish in his voice was evident…I’d almost call it lascivious. It was obvious that Paul certainly had had some good times there at the Planetarium.

Kay, if anything, was only getting stiller. I could feel the chill all the way to my seat.

“Eh, Kay?” Paul verbally nudged. H obviously wanted her to join in the fun, to coax her into acknowledging their adolescent fooling around.

I could almost see the waves of cold now emanating from Kay.

“Kay?” The playfulness was unabated. Though I could still see him looking in the mirror, Paul cannot have been paying the slightest attention to his wife.

Finally, she responded. I could feel the frost in her voice now, sub zero.

“I have never been parking at the Planetarium in my life.”

Her voice was final and absolute. Suddenly everyone busied themselves finding other things to do.

How can a man not remember his own wife any better? In something that had to have been merely a handful of years past? I have remembered, have treasured my handful of memories of Kay.

And this is why I have chosen to write her story.

Kay Summation

After all of this, I really only have one conclusion. Only one thing that I can really even truly guess at. Which is that Kay wanted something from me that she was lacking in her marriage. I can't guess exactly what it was. I am honest and frank enough with myself to recognize that perhaps she merely wanted someone who could make her pregnant, to fulfill her need for motherhood.

On the other hand, it could have been my honesty, my simple appreciation. Perhaps she sensed my generous soul, or even my gentleness. Some quality of "me" that caught her attention. I don't really know, and I suppose that this is something that will confuse me for the rest of my life.

I have seen Kay recently, at least in a photo. One day when I googled her, a photograph popped up. You could find it, too, if I told you her real name. Only a couple of years old. She was an organist for a wedding, and the joyful bride immortalized Kayon her wedding website.

I looked at the picture. A trace of gray in the soft, blond hair. A few fine wrinkles-she’s in her mid-fifties now. But still Kay. Still that warm and gentle smile—and somehow it didn’t surprise me, that in the midst of all of the gay colors of the wedding party, Kay was dressed in black. Still beautiful.

Truth be told?

Part of me would love to make a trip to the small town where Kay lives now. I think that I'd get a cabin on the lake, somewhere secluded, away from where everyone who walks past knows her. And I’d call Kay and ask her for that free haircut. Just to see if she would come to that cabin by the lake.

And if she came…

Well, I think that’s quite another story, yet to be written, now isn’t it?

Kay Post Script

There is one more, tiny little chapter for Kay.

It was about some years later, still now years ago, when I finally tracked down where Paul and Kay had moved about to. In the mean time, the couple had adopted two wonderful children, doubtless to Kay’s utter delight. Much to my chagrin, they had just left a position, where I found Kay's recently abandoned personal e-mail address.

Still, with a little help from the internet, I found their new phone number, took a deep breath, and gave them a call. Much to my surprise and pleasure, I got to speak with Kay first. We had fun chatting for several minutes on a variety of innocent topics, then I caught her off guard, remembering that free haircut that Kay had offered so long ago. My, did she break into peals of laughter! She quickly informed me that her son would not allow her anywhere near his hair!

We talked for a minute or two longer, then in the midst of a sentence, she interrupted me with "Would you like to talk to Paul?"

Wishing to finish what I was saying, and not listening to how she had suddenly gone flat , her voice monochromatic, I said, "Sure, in a moment," and continued on.

I have mentioned 'dense' before, haven't I?

But all that I wanted to tell her, finally, was that she was a beautiful woman. That I understood. And I finally had the chance…I blundered on.

I finally caught it when Kay politely interrupted me again, with that same neutral tone, "Would you like to talk to Paul?"

Duh. Paul was standing there, silently demanding the phone.

After I had chatted with him, going over old times for a while and hung up the phone, that fact eventually sunk in. I haven't had the heart to call them again, though I was tempted to try to catch Kay at home alone sometime.

I have to admit that it hurt, knowing that for Kay, after all of these years, nothing had changed. She still couldn’t be free, was bound more tightly than any woman should be. Knowing that I had failed her.

Yet even so, that's still not the end of the story. You might have to wait for this one…

Kay Oh'd

Sometimes, there is that little epiphany. Even for a guy as dense as me. I cannot fully describe the event, just that Kay and Paul were leaving the Church for another position, so a party was thrown for them in the banquet hall. Of course there was a receiving line (for those departing?) before the buffet, and I found myself standing alone, about two-thirds of the way back in the queue of a hundred or two people who attended. Paul and Kay really were loved. Finally, I reached the feted couple, and stepped up to shake Paul's hand. No animosity between us, at that stage a year or two later I had forgotten all about these little "anomalies". They had totally slipped from my consciousness, and I was genuinely regretting seeing Paul leave.

I had a word with him, then the couple before me stepped on from Kay. As the family behind me stepped up to greet Paul, I moved towards her, arm outstretched...and was quite surprised when she stepped past my proffered hand and into my arms.

That wasn't the only emotion that I immediately felt, for Kay nestled into the length of my body like she belonged there, melded like she was a part of me that I had been missing. She just fit, and perfectly so, right there in my arms. She allowed herself to fit, and I could feel her essence, her being flow into me. This might sound silly, but that hug was one of the few times that I have mingled completely and utterly with a woman.

Oh...

Allowing her to give to me, and to drink of myself. I could feel her openness, and was drawn into it myself. Now, I'm trying to describe it too much. And in that amazed instant, I finally understood. And...was amazed all the more.

For as good as Kay felt, she was doing so in front of her husband, in front of the whole Church as well. For she didn't just step into my arms, allow herself into me, she molded to me, soaked into me, gave of herself, her warmth, her femininity—and drank deeply of me at the same time...and I found that I had absolutely no desire to part, to leave. I was suddenly and completely aware of Kay…as a woman. I can’t tell you what an incredible gift that was.

Yet as fully aware of Kay as I was, as wholly filled with sudden wonder, I was equally as completely aware of the myriad people around us.

For like a raindrop in a still pool, the silence spread about us. I held Kay in my arms, and first I heard the murmur of the group behind me, speaking with Paul, fall silent. Then the people standing behind them, and the people sitting beyond. It was like a curtain falling across the room. And still, Kay lingered. She didn't cling, she simply, and utterly...belonged. She fit.

And finally, when I knew full well that the whole hall was completely silent, that everyone was aware of how long--how many long and graceful minutes falling into hours that I savored--Kay had been in my arms, she pulled herself free.

All that I remember of the next moments, quite dizzied, was that she promised a free haircut if I should manage to visit where they were bound. And that wasn't the end of Kay--though it is the last time that I have seen her.

Kay Interlude

I'm sorry, you'll have to wait a bit for the next real installment of the Kay thread. I'm not quite satisfied with some of my phraseology. This was a beautiful thing, whatever it was, whatever Kay offered or desired, and I want to be able to do justice to the moment...and the woman. Especially the moment yet to arrive.

Perhaps you haven't seen this, grasped my intent, for I know that my writing ability (or perhaps the restricted space) isn't what I might desire in adequately expressing myself. But there is something I want to be clear about, before I conclude this little saga.

I really didn't understand.

The reasons for this are manifold. Part of it is very straightforward. I was an ugly duckling--or I thought that I was. I remember when my ninth grade English teacher (apparently) took pity on me, and told me that I was a good looking young man. I was surprised that anyone would say such a thing...and of course, didn't believe it for a minute. But I was gratified, nonetheless. For none of the girls my own age would have anything to do with me.

All right, some were willing to be friends, were indeed open with me, but only on a platonic level. And only when there weren't large groups around. After all, I do listen well.

And...Kay?

I guess that you do get to hear more of her qualities.

As good looking, as attractive, as beautiful as she was, perhaps the greatest thing that I can say about Kay was that she was a real sweetheart. She is one of those women who simply have a great deal of love in their heart, a great deal of love to give. It was easy to taste her warm, gentle femininity.

And her music, the flow of melody through her, added another dimension to her soul. Is it just another creative person who can see this? For in the rich blend of harmony, so her soul opened more deeply, more completely to beauty. As notes flowed and intertwined, blended and blossomed, so did Kay. So did her heart take on the beauty, the majesty, the purity, the love and passion of the music that reached through her eyes, and poured from her fingers.

Hmmm. After even that poor effort, to attempt to tell you how physically beautiful Kay was, almost seems a detraction. I remember softly waved blond hair, clear blue eyes and great cheeks; but I think that her real beauty emerged when her face reflected her soul, when she laughed whole heartedly, or any other time that she allowed her true spirit to flow free. Her eyes alight and twinkling. Or lost in the magic of music. When she relaxed in talk, or was laughing and open. I suppose other people might have called Kay merely 'pretty', but I always saw far more in her.

And after that, am I supposed to tell you that Kay had a great body? Well, of course she did. And why no one else saw that, I don't know. I remember very nice legs, a wonderful rump, and at least the hint of very nice breasts. I have a suspicion that they were very pretty. Especially if they were as nice as that backside was. Do you really want me to say that Kay had a great ass?

So here was me. Tall, gawky, a castaway. Homely. An outsider. And there was Kay. More mature, ten years older. Talented. Popular. ‘Pretty’ flowing on into ‘beautiful’. Let alone married. I simply had no reason to begin to imagine, let alone believe, that such a...wonderful woman could begin to be attracted to me. It simply wasn't possible.

All of these years later, I'll admit that perhaps "homely" was only in my mind. Still...

And there was that other level, that forbidden level, for Kay was undeniably sexy. Sexy in a wholesome way, of course, but as I look back, there was a longing for more. Hints, and glimpses here and there. I have this strong suspicion that if ever allowed to roam free, that Kay would have been an incredible lover.

Aye, and there's the rub.

You have to remember how I'm built, and forget about all of the other issues. Fact one---sex outside of marriage is a sin. No ifs, ands or buts. Just the facts, ma'am. Return to Go, do not collect a hundred dollars.

That is a value that I was practically born with.

Perhaps today it is modified to "sex without commitment is a sin". Or even "sex without love..."

So there's the dichotomy. Kay was not only forbidden, but unimaginable.

And still...

I think that I can be honest with myself. I'm not sure. My soul is cleaved in half, for part of me believes that it's best that nothing ever happened between us.

And part of me wishes that at least once I had had the opportunity to reach out to this beautiful woman. To touch that wonderful skin, to caress her, to feel Kay come alive.

Getting to know Kay would have been like a song. Loving her, like music. First, strike a chord.

Love with Kay would have been a tune that grows into a melody. A melody that blends into a harmony...harmony that grows into a symphony...

Kay has an incredible richness and beauty of essence. This was a woman to be savored. How can I not regret not even tasting the smallest sip of her?

Not pouring myself deep into her, healing the hurts, filling the cracks and crevices of her soul...

Most of all, I think that I regret not giving her whatever it was that she desired. A moment, a memory, a gentle touch of real love; some small breadth of honest appreciation.

And I easily could have spent hours, or days, doing so.

And that without…commitment.

Where might a greater opportunity have led?

How pathetic that sounds.

I didn’t understand…