Helena Clare Pittman, one of the Center’s most dedicated teachers, has written, painted, and taught her entire life. In her monthly Helena Writes series, she shares a lifetime of wisdom, one pearl at a time.
In her 79th post, Helena remembers two gifts from a childhood crush. Enjoy!
Nonfiction: The Boys
I kept that gold horse for years.
*
That summer, I was twelve, when Ellie Emerman was my best friend, the boys were the center of life.
Ellie and I came to camp best friends, and we came home from camp best friends. At home, we talked on the telephone, me with the cord pulled into the bathroom under the door, the bathroom door closed. Boys were our conversation; there was nothing else I can recall talking about, as if Boys stood for life itself.
Every morning, after we’d cleaned our bunk, and after inspection, we’d wait for the sound of a finger tapping on the microphone of the PA system, the announcement by the head counselor: “Infirmary call! Anyone who needs to see the nurse, please line up at the flagpole!”
Both Ellie and I had warts. Mine was on my thumb, at the cuticle, Ellie’s was on one of her ring fingers. Kids went down the hill to the infirmary for all kinds of things: allergy medicines, sore throats, cuts and bruises. A lot of us found some other reason just to get on the line, the girl’s line and the boy’s line, to talk to each other. We were up to the tops of our heads in flirting, a new experience.
Ellie, who was beautiful, tall, shapely, dark black hair and dark-eyed, up-turned nose, looked 16. She flirted with Richie Wender. Richie was what we girls called “gorgeous.” He was 13, taller than Ellie, blue-eyed, slicked hair, and built like an athlete. He looked like Patrick Swayze, and could have played his role in Dirty Dancing. Richie Wender was a hunk. I can’t remember his excuse for coming to the infirmary every morning. He and Ellie seemed to fit together. Yet we were twelve. We were innocent. Flirting was the revelation. I don’t remember thinking of anything beyond the feeling of pleasure that shot through my body, giggling and talking to the boys. The two nurses certainly were wise to the game. Still, they’d apply bright red mercurochrome to Ellie’s and my warts, every morning, our badge—we’d talked to the boys. My wart disappeared some time after that summer. Whatever it actually was, it had outlived its usefulness.
The culmination of our flirtations were panty raids. The boys would suddenly burst onto Girls’ Campus, at 5 or 6 a.m. and pull our underwear from the clotheslines that hung between our bunks. I don’t remember if they ever returned it to us.
My crush was Lester Smith. Lester didn’t come to the infirmary. We danced together at socials in the rec hall. Lester was a full head shorter than me. But I liked him, just really liked him, and I knew it was mutual. Lester’s eyes lit up when we caught sight of one another, passing on the courts in camp on our way to the next activity. He was nothing like Richie Wender. Lester was still a little boy, standing in my memory with his black curly hair, bright brown eyes, and a sweet, sincere smile. There was some kind of magic between us, but I think now it was an attraction more complex to ponder than romance. Maybe it was an attraction of character, or even of souls. Whatever it was that drew us to one another, we did a lot of smiling, and stepping on each other’s feet when we danced.
On the last night of camp, when boys’ camp and girls’ camp finally got to mingle on the big grassy stretch of Girls’ Campus at dusk, Lester kissed me. It was raining, a light, foggy, summer rain. I see Lester wearing an olive green plastic slicker. I can see beads of moisture clinging to his curls. I must have been wearing a rain slicker, too. And I know my hair had to have been kinked, as it always is, by heavy wet air. Lester has a small white box in his hand. Now he holds it out to me. I open it. Inside, nested in tissue paper, is a beautiful, gold, galloping wild horse, tossing its head, its nostrils flaring. A pin. Lester’s father sold costume jewelry. Lester would have known about my passion for horseback riding. I rode in every competition. I looked at that gold horse stunned, stunned by the moment. Then, as fast as he could. Lester kissed me on the cheek, then was gone. That was the last time I saw Lester Smith.
*
Beside talking about boys, Ellie and I did a lot of laughing that summer. Everything seemed funny at twelve. We remained best friends until Ellie got married, not to Richie, but to a nice guy named Marvin. She got married even before I did and had her first child. Then we just drifted apart. I’ve looked for her, but never found her. Ellie didn’t have a mean bone in her body.
That may have been true of Lester Smith, too. It’s his smile, his innocence, and that beautiful horse I remember. And the place on Girls’ Campus where he stood for a moment in the rain, suddenly empty, pulsing with his ghost.
Do you remember anything significant about your first crush? Have you ever written about it? What did you think of Helena’s latest column? Share with us in the comments.
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