Boys I Want to Marry, III

This edition is brought to you by Chantix. I had some funky dreams last night, which has prompted today's offering of Boys I Want to Marry.

This is Dan. Dazzling photography, wouldn't you say? Actually, I snapped both photos from yearbooks. In the bottom one, he's playing a carnival game at Street Fair our junior year. I was there when my friend Dave, our yearbook/newspaper photographer, snapped this photo of Dan getting ready to slam the rubber frog into flight to win a prize.

I dreamed about Dan last night. I walked up to him in the dream, and said, "Oh Dan, I'm so sorry."

He gave me a perplexed look, and I said, "You don't recognize me, do you?"

When I told him who I was, he gave me a hug.

I'll spare you the rambling details, but let's just say, part way into the dream, I realized that Dan is dead. Though, in the dream, my friend and I were attending the funeral of Dan's five-year-old son. No, I don't pretend to understand the finer workings of my subconscious, either.

It's been a while since I've thought of Dan. Strangely enough, a few weeks ago, oh hell, maybe it was a few months ago...the older I get, "just the other day," could mean 1999.

Anyway, I went to the kitchen to do kitchen-type things, when I noticed a yellowed newspaper clipping on the floor. I picked it up and read the headline from Monday, January 2, 1989, "Hunting Accident Fatal, Despite Ardent Rescue."

I don't know why or how it ended up on the floor. I can't remember the last time I saw the article. However, I did have each of my kids read it, especially my younger child who has a penchant for hunting.

New Year's Eve day, 1988, I was 19 years old. The class of '87 had been out of school for about a year and a half. Most of my classmates were home for Christmas break. New Year's Eve parties were planned, and at the time, my friend Ryan was at my apartment when there was a knock on the door.

Ryan answered as I was making myself pretty, and my neighbor, another classmate of ours, announced the bad news - Dan was dead from a shotgun blow to his head. Overcome with disbelief, I had this guy repeat what he said three times.

I didn't know what to make of it. Ryan dismissed my neighbor, as he was a bit on the annoying side. His attitude was, "Shit happens, let's go celebrate New Year's Eve."

It wasn't the most joyous New Year's I've ever celebrated. Rumors circulated as to what happened, and I didn't find out for sure until I read the newspaper article. He'd been hunting, and when one of the beagles started eating a rabbit he'd shot (as reported by the kid who'd been the hunting partner that day), he used the stock of the gun to hit at the dog, some briar thicket caught the hammer of the shotgun. As they say, the rest is history. The shot struck his left temple.

I took some time off work to attend the calling before the funeral. It was our first class reunion - the room was packed with those I'd gone to school with.

It would be the first funeral I ever attended. I stood at the casket, his mom put her arm around me, and I fought back the tears. I had a silent conversation with him, mainly asking him what he was thinking being so careless. A photo of his nephew, who'd been accidentally backed over by a car when he was about two years old, was position in Dan's hands. There was no evidence that his temple had been blasted away, though I resisted the urge to stand on my tippy-toes to peer to the other side of the casket.

I'd known Dan since kindergarten. While I had the warm fuzzies for him during much of elementary school, he was never my boyfriend. I've tried to explain it many times, but when you are a classmate with someone for 13 years, and the class size for 7 of those years was maybe 25 students tops, if you don't become boyfriend/girlfriend, you become a bit like siblings.

Dan was a goofy boy, which was part of his charm. His feet grew years before the rest of him caught up with them. Seems like he was always tripping over them. He almost always appeared to have a tan, and man oh man, could he feather his hair. He was always bringing in trophies and ribbons he'd won in 4-H and other farming or hunting contests. A few times, his mom actually brought in some of his pets for show and tell.

Fourth grade was the beginning of my crush on him. I don't recall the specifics, but I know I was smitten with him. Perhaps there was no other reason than he was a cute, nice boy who had lots of pets, wore cowboy boots, and rode horses. In sixth grade, I secretly fantasized about sitting with him during the "Friday movie" and holding hands with him. (We watched a movie or some sort of film on the old projector every Friday. They weren't even educational flicks, unless you count learning to hold hands learning something.)

I don't think I ever heard him utter a bad word about anyone. He was a sweet country boy who always had tons of friends. In high school, I'll never forget him still tripping over his clunky feet, with a trail of notebook paper, likely assignments, from his locker and textbooks.

The funeral was held in a large church. Even though a group of us walked the block from the funeral home to the church, we had to take a seat in the balcony area. By the time the service started, it was standing room only.

I totally lost it standing on the steps outside the church after the services. While others had a few tears flowing, I couldn't stop mine. Classmates who barely spoke to each other during the course of our high school years, comforted each other on those steps.

My apartment was across the street, and instead of going on to the graveside services, I opted to go home and mourn alone the loss of the boy I wanted to marry.

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

Boys I Want to Marry - Second Edition

Welcome to another edition of "Boys I Want to Marry."

This is Shane. The one on the right was his senior picture. The one on the left was taken in '87 with his little sister.

Shane came into my life during my junior year of high school. I signed up to take "Pub." Pub was Journalism, or more aptly, the school newspaper. We also had Algebra II together.

Going to a small high school, I knew who he was even though he was a grade ahead of me, but I didn't know too much about him. It wasn't long into the school year that Shane and I became friends. In even less time, I got the warm-tinglies for him.

My gawd, he was cute. I loved the mole by his mouth. And did he ever smell good wearing Grey Flannel. He had a sense of style that I admired. We started shopping together at Salvation Army and Good Will, and he helped me pick out my first trench coat. Hey, it was the 80s, and if scrounging in second-hand stores was good enough for Molly Ringwald in "Pretty in Pink," it was good enough for us. We'd dress to the hilt to go have dinner together, him helping me be sure the seam on my hose was straight and my wide belt positioned just so on my outfit.

Shane was my Ducky.

He introduced me to all sorts of music. Elvis Costello, Billie Holiday, Jim Croce, and The Cure. He gave me books of poetry, and gave me poems to read by Dorothy Parker, Anne Sexton, and Marge Piercy. He wrote his own poetry that he shared with me, too. He was deep, brooding, mysterious. He loved Marilyn Monroe; I loved James Dean.

More importantly, he taught me about showing affection. I didn't come from a touchy-feely, show your love through a hug, sort of family. In fact, the first time Shane hugged me, I froze. He asked if he made me uncomfortable, I fumbled with my words, and he said, "Oh, my little Kelly Girl," and hugged me again. You better believe the first time he kissed me on the cheek when he hugged me that I melted right there in his mom's kitchen.

Shane was a vegetarian. When I decided to give up meat as well, because you know the lengths a girl will go to for the sake of a boy's attention, he introduced me to pizza with only veggies on it. He and I shared many a sandwich made from cheese, pickles, and condiments.

When he graduated high school, he moved away to CA to live with his dad. We kept in touch via letters and phone calls. The letters I still have to this day full of intellect, poetry, and smartass remarks. Because if nothing else, he was indeed one of the most sarcastic, and witty, people I've ever known.

We had our falling outs, here and there. By the time I dropped out of college and moved back home, he was on his way back to the college where I'd left. You see, I thought he and I were going to be at school together, but his plans changed.

I truly loved him with everything I had. It wasn't a "boy-girl" love, but a very psychologically comforting sort of love. He was one of the best friends that I ever had, even though our interaction at times left one wonder what we saw in each other. When we fought, it was bitter, hurtful, and passionate. all at the same time.

He invited me once to visit him at college. I'd planned to drive down early on a Sat. morning. We spoke on the phone to discuss the details when he said, "I hope you don't mind, but you'll have to sleep with me, but I won't sleep naked like I usually do."

I don't know what it was about his statement that scared me so much. I was 20ish, and had shared a bed with a friend in the past, and knew it didn't necessarily mean that something sexual would transpire. It scared me, however, and I didn't end up going to see him, which I think he held a grudge about for a very long time.

I visited him after I got married and was pregnant. He looked at me and said, "Gawd Kel, you look so married." It wasn't exactly a comment to be flinging around to a hormonal pregnant chick. He told me to call him the next day, and I could come over to spend some time, but I never did.

Anyway, it's been years since I've seen him or even talked to him. At least ten. I talk to his mom on occasion. I used to call him occasionally and leave a message. But when it became apparent that he didn't want to hear from me, I stopped.

There are people who come into your life and they leave a mark that lasts a lifetime. I guess, sometimes, though we get lost in the revolving doors of life. I think of Shane often. I miss him even though it's been 19 years since we were close. I still don't eat red meat. I know I'm in a rut if I start looking really "married." I can't hear Elvis Costello or read any poetry without thinking of this boy I wanted to marry. I carry a part of him in my soul.

Here's a poem he wrote, sitting in my living room when I had my own apartment. "Give me a piece of paper," he told me. This is what he wrote:

A Love Poem

My love for you

is a starving man

Lifting silver spoonfuls

of poison

to bleeding lips

Billie Holiday moans quietly

"Good morning heartache..."

She knows this cold companion

as I do

And that bones

Thin and clean

Never meant to carry

the weight

of a starving man,

Break...

SSK, 10:10 p.m., 5/11/99

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

Boys I Want to Marry

I'd been kicking around the idea of doing a weekly sort of thing here. This came about after I saw a photo of Haywood Nelson. He played Dwayne on the TV show "What's Happening."


It got me to thinking, as I'm prone to do. A lot. Too much.

The one thing I remembered was that he was cute. I had such a crush on him. Dwayne's "hey, hey, hey" could make me melt. I wanted to marry him. That's how I expressed mad, mad affection for any boy who happened to catch my eye when I was a youngin'. I was going to grow up and marry that boy.


This made me think of all the boys I found cute and wanted to marry, and what they inevitably taught me about myself, music, books, poetry, culture, or life in general.


I thought a moment and realized that Dwayne was not the first boy I wanted to marry. The first was Rick Dees. I'd been working on a write up about him earlier today. But as usual I got all sidetracked by trying to meet my column deadline and breaking up fights between these heathen children. Then I was totally distracted, so I started stopping by the blogs I read most often. I stopped by my friend's blog, Street Vein.



Mr. Street Vein and I happened upon each other on the internet. This is my favorite photo of him, and what I love even more is the caption, "Sinners Welcome."

He describes himself as a writer, progressive, thinker, intolerant of others, historian, left-wing, realist, humorist, skeptical, neurotic, pro-choice, anti-war, visionary, blind, dreamer, non-religious, out of style.

How could anyone read that and not want to be his new best friend?


He's even written a novel. And he's a fine writer at that.


One must go read his latest blog entry. Really, you must. Go ahead, then come back and finish reading. I'll wait.


Okay, now tell me how brilliant is that?


About a year ago, I got this wild notion to start stepping out of my comfort zone. I made it a goal to do something I wouldn't normally do at least once a week. I originally said once a day, but quite frankly, I tend to be wound as tight as an antique clock that's spring could inevitably inflict bodily harm when it finally uncoils. Throwing caution to the wind on a daily basis could have had me well on my way to a Xanax prescription.


Street Vein encourages everyone to make a list of rules we follow because they are conventional. Just sit down and start listing those things brought on by tradition. As the list becomes long, pick an easy one, and then break the rule.


He writes:

... Next, tell some jackass in your circle of “friends” that they are negative, unsupportive, and you no longer want to associate with miserable fucks like him/her. Admit to friends and strangers your deepest dreams and fears – screw ‘em if they think you’re weird. You are, but so are they.

... Speaking of uncomfortable positions – hang out with people you have nothing in common with and learn something about them, and yourself. The next time your gut says, “I’d like to try that,” but your mind says “No, you’ll look foolish,” go for it. Did I mention this will change your life?

Once a day, check off one of the stupid “rules” and begin to experience real freedom. You can thank me later.

I ask - how is that for a life changing revelation? Seriously.


So, Mr. Street Vein is hopefully one of many "Boys I Want to Marry" that I'll feature from time to time. No matter how cute Dwayne from "What's Happening" was, surely anyone can see why I made my choice today.


Get started on those lists. Let me know what you come up with when you decide to start breaking those traditions and what happens. I'm going to get started on my list, as well.

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.