Kiss in Kindergarten

Kiss in Kindergarten
01.26.2010

I can never remember where I’m at in a book, what I’m supposed to get at the grocery store or how many minutes to microwave the rice. But I can vividly remember several things about my childhood that happened over 30 years ago. Why the 70s are easier to remember than my repetitious
yesterday is beyond me.
Probably my oldest memory is one where I’m sitting upright in Oma’s foyer, trying to put those shoes on my feet that all kids have to wear. Of course, I’m talking about the rock hard, white, leather ones that make you walk funny because they are so flat and don’t give at all, but eventually help you walk right because of these very same reasons. I don’t know how old I was, but I’m going to go with 2. I say this because it was before Oma had turned the foyer into an extra bedroom. So I’ll go with late 1975. It was right about the time I slipped out of her fridge and busted out (knocked out, rather) both of my front teeth. But that’s a story within itself.
I basically grew up on the floor board of a 1974 Ford pickup. I slept on a pillow when we travelled. And we travelled alot. My dad was a pipe fitter and worked shut-downs in various states across the southeast. We went everywhere. Travel trailer parks and instant grits at gas stations were all I knew until I was about school age. He settle into the place I’d spend my entire grade school career when I was 7. But the period before the age of 7 is quite fond to me.
I can remember several things from that very influential period in my life. Most of it, I learned from TV. Success meant pretty girls, a fast car and a hanging basket chair in your living room because Dan Tanner had all three. I thought that Leonard Nimoy was a bit odd, but that George Reeves was quite believable. A car chase involving a cop always ended in a spectacular way with rampa and an 18 wheeler. TV Dinners took forever to cook. Lunch boxes were made out of metal and made an awesome sound if you slid them on the floor just right. Captain Kangaroo was not a real captain. There was something odd and dainty about the relationship between Mr. Rogers and Mr. McFeely. Bozo was a real live person. Oh, and how words are very important. In music, that is.
Jump start to the late 70s. I know that I went half a year of kindergarten in Oklahoma and half a year in Arkansas. I know that my teacher first kindergarten teacher was a large black woman that I adored. She involved us a lot with Show and Tell and often she’d bring us cookies. Cookies made with lots of sugar. And then they were sprinkled with even more sugar. Homemade. None of that boxed shit. We drank gallons of Kool-Aid in those days. Going home at 3pm with a purple mustache and tongue was the norm.
I remember having a girlfriend that year named Laura. I’m not really sure if she knew that she was my girlfriend. But that wasn’t the point. I guess at age 6, the point was whether or not she could color very well. She could. She stayed completely in the lines and wasn’t afraid to use the brights and the darks altogether on the same page. But more importantly, she liked Kiss. Not to kiss, like smoochy smoochy. And not making up kiss, but makeup Kiss. Real Kiss, like Ace Frehley Kiss. Gene Simmons, Kiss. And Paul Stanley, KISS! Eh... whatever.
In 2010, I don't really care for them, but in 1978, I didn’t know what Kiss was. I knew that it was what my big-boobed, 14 year old, hottie of a babysitter used to listen to. (She wasn’t that big-boobed, but she did wear a bra. Which was a big deal in those days.) That was enough for me. A nicely padded A-cup, probably. And the music was loud. Very loud. And with fireworks! I had no earthly idea who or why anyone would want to listen to anything that noisy. I mean really, CCR was about as loud as I could enjoy without really knowing what the words were. “Gimme song a green rib uh.” And if The Eagles didn’t sing it, it probably didn't need to be sung. I was a very smart kid that grew up on southern rock and jukebox country. I could pick out Don Henley lyrics before I even knew what their names were. I recognized Glenn Frey’s voice way before he ever appeared on Miami Vice. Those two went together. They made sense. The words were smooth and the feelings were right. I still don’t know what colitas are. But, putting all that I already knew aside, that particular day, I wanted to know more about Kiss than anything else in the world.
I remember Laura was talking one day to the young, more impressionable 5 year olds about wanting to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom on television that night. I butted my way in and said that I did too. (That was my first lie.) I had no idea why she liked Kiss. I was relatively sure I did not. It was not my style at all. But I remembered that one day, one day, with Kiss music would come the A-cups. Even though these were more of the “training variety”, she said she liked the music so I really wanted to know more about it too. She said that it was gonna be great and that I should really like it. So I said that I would watch. So… that night I went home and told my mother that I wanted to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom.
Our family had a nice, for its day, 13 inch black and white portable Magnavox that we all squinted toward nightly. Ironically, Microvox would’ve been a more suited name. But it was our window to the world, far off lands, love, hate and the agony of defeat; which was what I got next. When I asked my question, my mother immediately gave me her response before even completing her next thought. She said “absolutely not.”
And that was the end of that. There was no negotiation.
Oh my God! I’d already told Laura that I would. Oh well. What do you do? Maybe she’ll forget.
She won’t forget.
Maybe I’ll just wing it.
I’d never be able to wing it.
Maybe she’ll be sick tomorrow and not come to school.
Funny how the mind of a six year old works, right? I’m unintentionally wishing harm to come to someone that in 20 years or so could very well be the mother of my children.
The next day she met me at my coloring table after first break and asked if I had watched it.
I said that I had.
She asked me my favorite part and I stuttered and stammered.
She smelled my lie. Yes she did. Maybe the hesitation in my voice gave it away.
(That was my second lie.)

It was already the second time I ever felt it necessary to lie to a woman (girl) I really cared about. We had a deep emotional bond. I had pushed her on the merry-go-round. Now I’m twice a liar and I’m only 6 years old.
The next thing she did was say that it was ok because her mother had not let her watch it either. There it was. The little life lesson that I’d try again and again for many years to come. That was the very first time a woman (girl) that I really cared about showed me it was ok that I had just lied to her. I got caught. I was cold busted, but it was ok. From that day on, try as I may, it would never ok again.
Laura was ideal. But somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked. Because even more ideal, was her little sister, Holly. I knew that it was doomed, before it ever began. Holly was too young. She was 5 and I was pushing 7. That would never work. What if Laura found out? They were sisters for Goodness sake. Pretty soon I’d be in 1st grade with the big kids doing addition and she’d still be in kindergarten coloring Snoopy. There’d be the occasional rift between her and her big sister because I’d come by on my Big Wheel and ask her to go play kickball. Jealousy would surely ensue. She might not even be able to make it emotionally. It could scar her until 2nd grade. I couldn’t do that to her or to Laura. I should probably just back off before she ever even noticed that I was in the world. So I did. That was a big life lesson there too. I had probably unconsciously heard Billy Preston’s famous quote through the vocals of Stephen Stills, Love the One Your With. But I’d like to think I was able to make my own right decision.
I guess for a guy to think that your girlfriend has a cute little sister has got to be a natural trait that we all have. I’ve talked to lots of guys that have experienced this. One thing rings true every time. No matter how cute they appear to be. Just remember, they are all nuts. Very nuts. Not quirky nuts either. Not cute and I can deal with it nuts. I mean, ape shit crazy nuts. The kind that you can’t shake away. Keep that in mind. Now, most guys never act on this, thank goodness. But I still find it necessary to make the point very clear. It’s not a conscious decision we make to go out and think about how cute her little sister is. It just happens. But it goes away. Usually right about the time we have to listen to her talk about something. And especially when she starts voicing us her opinion. It’s similar to the thoughts we’ve had about our babysitters. Not our kids babysitters. I mean our babysitters when we were the kids. I’m sure that everyone’s got their own variation of that same story. The one where the very first boob they ever groped belonged to their babysitter. Right? I don’t know if we ever really planned to get to second base with our babysitter in between reruns of Three’s Company and The Dukes of Hazzard, but that’s just how it worked out. By accident? Maybe? Speaking of which, a few important things about The Dukes of Hazzard that have stuck with me over the years. First, I still misspell the word “hazard” to this day. Second, I love cut off blue jean shorts. And third, I still dream about ramping over a cow pond in a 1969 Dodge Charger. But back to the more serious note, if you didn’t grope your babysitter, you should have. It’s by far the only time in life you could innocently get away with it.
Then there was my second kindergarten teacher. She was very attractive in a Mary Tyler Moore sort of way. I didn’t have another teacher this cute until Ms. Hardy in 2nd grade. She was a cross between Valerie Bertinelli (of the One Day at a Time era, not the weight loss era) and Jill Whelan (that’s the Love Boat Jill, not the sick girl in Airplane! Jill.) Now that I think about it, I’m not real sure how those two will morph together in your mind. Maybe you should just take my word for it. In 1978, she wore plaid skirts and white shirts with the little rufflies around the choker collar. Those were the days. The height of fashion. I really liked my teacher. Well, I liked looking at her. That’s for certain. We didn’t eat as many cookies here at this school. We did a lot more school work than coloring. And it felt as though I had traded in my coloring books for work books. Therefore it was harder to tell if I really liked a girl or not.
But I knew it would work itself out.
I’d spend the next 30 years or so trying to figure out other ways.
And it’s taken all this time to get right back to the same mindset that felt so good in those early years of my life. Ironically, life is remarkably similar to the life that I had at age 6.
I still don’t have the hanging basket chair in the living room, but I do still eat a lot of instant grits. I have a wonderful wife. She can appreciate The Eagles on a level that pleases me. I still love sugar cookies. Occasionally, I will allow myself to have a purple mustache with my daughter when we’re being silly. I love metal lunchboxes. Today, TV Dinners cook in about 5 minutes, which is nice. I still forget how long to cook the rice, though. I don’t really care that much for Star Trek, but I do enjoy those black and white Superman reruns. And I never really learned to appreciate the lyrics of Kiss as much as CCR. But that’s ok. I still like boobs. And I still like fast cars. And I’ve had my fair share of both. But most importantly, I’ve got a wife that colors very well.