Carole

                                                 

Gin

When I was in elementary school in Pittsfield in the 1950s, it was very important to have friends. I could tell if someone was my friend. I would ask, "Will you be my friend?"  If she said, “Yes,” that was it.  I had a friend.  It didn't matter if we had anything in common, played together out of school, or even actually liked each other.  All it took were those few words, “Let’s be friends.”  Since I changed schools frequently, I made new friends every school year.  My simplistic ideas about friendship changed when I entered junior high school.  I began to develop friendships based on common interests, someone you sought out on weekends, a relationship that would last for years not months. The concept of best friend, someone you wanted to be with on a regular basis, someone you actually liked, became meaningful.  For me that first best friend was Carole.

Carole and I met in seventh grade.  Most of the North Junior High classes were grouped by the aptitude tests we took in sixth grade, "smartest" in section 7-1, next smart in 7-2, etc., all the way down to 7-13. However, both Carole and I were in a heterogeneously grouped class, an experiment our parents signed us up for, a special program called the Core Curriculum. I often think if we had been grouped by test scores and grades like the rest of the seventh graders,  I might never have met Carole.

While most of the junior high curriculum was based on homerooms and one hour classes with different teachers for each subject, we had  long time blocks in our homeroom class with the same teacher for English and social studies, another teacher who taught both math and science.  We only left our homeroom for gym, music, and special subjects like home economics if you were a girl or shop if you were a boy. The idea behind the core curriculum was not to experience the typical school subjects as distinct topics, but rather to learn them holistically by working on projects so we would understand better how math, science, history, and writing were interconnected.  The heterogeneous nature of the class could also be interpreted as gathering together people of different skills and abilities. 

For some reason, out of all the other kids in that class, Carole and I connected. From the beginning of the school year, we were fast friends. We tried to get onto the same committees where students would work together on projects in groups. Being with Carole on these committees meant I spent more time with her in school than if we were in a regular program.  If one of us were absent, the other would call that night, find out why and explain what the homework was.   If one of us wanted to go uptown on a Saturday, we would see if the other would be able to come as well. We planned excursions to the skating rink, bowling or to the museum only if the other was also able to go too. But that came later. In the fall of seventh grade, when we were just getting to know each other, we spent as much school time together as we could.

I don't know what Carole saw in me, but I found her daring, a trait I did not have in any measure.  I was drawn to her because she did not display the "be a good girl at all times" stance I followed. Even before I met her parents I noticed Carole had a different relationship with them than I did with my mother and father.  Here’s what I mean. Instead of using the 35 cents her mother gave her every day for hot lunch, Carole would  buy three Creamsicles.  That was her lunch.  Three ice creams.  Every day.  I was fascinated by this willfulness.  While I never felt restricted by how my parents wanted me to behave, I would never have spent money my mother gave me for one purpose, a healthy lunch, for such an indulgence.  Three deserts!  Did I mention Carole did this every day? 

A few weeks into the school year I gave in to Carole’s impulsive way of doing things. One day at lunch while she was eating her Creamsicles, Carole said, "Come to my house with me after school.  You can take the same bus I do.  I'll give you a ticket. I get them free." Shockingly, I did this.  It was so unlike me.  Normally I wouldn’t have changed my regular routine without having first talked to my parents. I wonder now what my poor mother must have thought when I didn't arrive home as usual.  The bus ride to Carole's was much longer than the short walk to my house from the school.

I regretted my decision as soon as we got on the bus and it began to move.  I felt trapped by my impulsive action. At every stop as other kids got off, I became more and more anxious.  I kept wondering where Carole’s stop was and how long it would take us to get there. Naturally I didn't want Carole to know how I was feeling, so I kept up the chat about what we did that day in school all the time hoping she would say, “C’mon. This is my stop.” Three more stops.  Carole and I are still on the bus. I'm on the edge of panic. “Why did I agree to do this. Will we ever get there?” On the outside I am still trying to look cool in front of Carole in spite of what’s going on in my head. I realized I didn't even know where Carole lived.  I just wanted to call my mother to tell her where I was.

The bus keeps going.  All the way along North Street it keeps turning up one side street and down another to drop off kids. We are getting close to Pontoosic Lake. I’m familiar with the lake but not with the area on the other side of the lake. Does Carole live on the other side of the lake?  Are we even still in Pittsfield?  I am developing a stomach ache, my signature worry sign.  I look glumly out the window at every stop.  We’re almost at the lake when Carole grabs her books, stands up and says, "Here we are." The bus leaves us off at the bottom of what turns out to be a long and winding road uphill to Carole's house.

Carole's mother was outright shocked when the two of us walked in.  "This is a friend of mine from school, Ginny," Carole tells her.   I didn't even say hello to her mother. I simply blurted out, "Can I use your phone to call my mother?"  But Carole had a plan.  Before I called, Carole got her mother to agree to let her ask her father to drive me home as soon as he came in from work.  I realized Carole was making sure I didn't get into too much trouble for going along with her. 

She wanted me to be her partner in crime but was also aware of my timidity. I let my mother know where I was, told her I had a ride home around 5 o'clock, and assured her I wouldn't do this again without talking to her first.  Carole and I went upstairs to her room until her father came home. As he drove up, Carole and I came out to meet him. Carole told him he needed to drive me home. He was so easy going. “Ok!” he said immediately turning back to the car.  I couldn't imagine my father being like that.  He rarely said no to anything but his initial reaction was often negative. He’d ask a lot of questions before eventually agreeing. Carole's father didn't ask anything, how far it was or why I was there or even who I was. Carole and I jumped in the back seat of the car driving along the same route as the bus without all the side streets and stops. The end of my first big adventure with Carole.

Carole's parents liked me because they thought I'd be a good role model for their daughter. I cared about doing well in school while Carole appeared not to. However, as these things usually turn out, it was Carole who served as a role model for me.  She was my "daring" friend. Someone who would argue with her parents (Well, with her mother), someone who would sneak a cigarette, someone who would come to school without her homework done.  She gave me a chance to experiment with my wild side.  Well, what passed as wild for me!

Early that fall when I was just getting to know her, I was at Carole's for a Saturday afternoon.  She disappeared for a while, returning to tell me excitedly she had talked her parents into letting me stay for supper.  Then she asked me if I liked succotash.  I must have looked at bit confused. This wasn't a food I was familiar with. While Carole didn't know it at the time, I was a fussy eater.   Carole said it was made from corn and lima beans.  I knew I liked corn so I figured it would be okay.  I did wonder why she asked me about the vegetable that would be served. It left me to wonder what the main food would be. When we went down for supper, I was surprised to see that succotash was the entire dinner.  A big bowl of it!  I found out later Carole's mother was born in the south and succotash was a family tradition for Saturday night supper.

Where are my usual Saturday night hot dogs, baked beans, and brown bread? I'm worried her parents might be the "You need to clean your plate" types. I'm hoping I can get away with just eating around those lima beans until dinner time is over.  I am glad there's a little ham in it. Maybe her parents wouldn't mind that I left the lima beans at the bottom of the bowl. I wanted to please her parents since Carole was so thrilled to have me stay over.

Carole's family was so different from mine.  She had no sisters or brothers.  The house was usually quiet. Not like mine in which it was pretty typical for me and my three siblings to have friends over. There was no TV in her living room.  That was relegated to a sitting room off to the side, a place no one used. Not only was her household different from mine, but her parents were also different from each other.  Carole’s father was lanky, very tall, an engineer at the GE.  He was so tall he used to leave bus money on the first floor ledges on the buildings in downtown Pittsfield.  I can recall being with Carole and her father one day watching him casually reach up to the ledge and pull down a quarter for our bus tickets. At the time I thought this astounding but now I realize he might have been palming the money all along enjoying the reaction he got from me and Carole.

Carole's mother was short and somewhat stocky.  She and Carole had a cantankerous relationship, so different from the one I had with my mother. I chatted with my mother all the time, telling her everything I did in detail. Carole and her mother fought over everything. What she wore, the kinds of shoes she could buy, what activities she would do after school. It was clear to me this wasn’t your typical teenage rebellion. It was their basic relationship. Any decision there was to be made, they were instantly on different sides.

On the other hand, Carole's father was laid back. I never saw him angry, even that day we went out for a walk and didn’t return on time. Carole's mother was furious with us for "disappearing."  She sent him out as soon as he got home from work to find us. He didn't locate us but by the time he got back to the house, we were there.  We were waiting in Carole's room for him. I was wondering what he would say, how loud he would yell at us.  He walked in kind of grinning, "Well, what have you two buzzards been up to today?"  Carole told him we had gone for a walk around the lake and just lost track of time. It was close to the truth. Except that Carole had told me before we left that morning, "I am not going to worry about rushing home today. Let’s just forget about the time and have fun.”

I remember the day I found out from Carole that she was adopted. She told me this, breathlessly, staring at me, waiting for my reaction.  I just said, matter of factly, “So?" It didn't seem like a big deal to me. What difference does that make was my reaction. I think I underestimated what it might have meant to Carole.  Maybe she needed more from me than what she might have interpreted as indifference. We never mentioned it again.

Her father doted on her.  He bought her little pottery animal sculptures. Her bureau top was covered with them, various kinds of horses, panda bears, a couple of kangaroos and several animals whose shapes I didn't recognize.  She told me she could always tell when he had a new one.  He would wink at her as he came in the house so she would know he had found something new for her collection.

Both parents participated in something Carole tried to hide from all her school friends. Square dancing. This was no occasional social activity. Her mother and father participated in serious competitions with regular practices.  Carole's mother would sew their matching outfits, the same material for his shirt and her blouse, usually checked or gingham. His pants matched her full skirt with plenty of western-style decorations: rickrack trim, fringe, lace. The night Carole let me see her parents dressed for square dancing I knew I had won her trust.  Once they left, we made fun of the idea of the matching outfits promising we would never do anything like that when we were adults.

One day Carole called to see if I wanted to share a job with her.  She was teaching a class at the Pittsfield Girls' Club in baton twirling. The class was bigger than they had expected so they asked Carole if she had a friend who could help out.  “I know someone,” Carole said. “Ginny.”

I told Carole I didn't know anything about baton twirling.  In fact I told her I didn't know she did baton twirling.  "I went to dance and baton lessons when I was younger,” she told me. “I gave it up."  I was surprised.  “You could have tried out for a school group, been a cheerleader or on the drill team,” I said in awe.  Carole disgustedly said, "Why would I want to do that?"  This was another example of how different she was from me.  I would have loved to have been in some in-group like cheerleaders or drill team, but I had no skill and didn't dare try out.  Yet here was Carole with this hidden talent (or so I viewed it) and yet she dismissed being part of any school club out of hand. 

Carole brought me back to the question, "Well, will you come with me and do the class or not?" I remind her of what I thought was the conversation stopper. "I don't know how to do baton twirling,” I say emphatically.  Carole answers, "That doesn't matter. They are just little kids. Just repeat what I say.  I'll tell my father to pick you up on the way, about 9:30 Saturday."  Carole made the decision for me.

The next Saturday morning, here I am in a large room at the Girls' Club on East Street.  The room has mirrors along one wall.  It must have been designed as a rehearsal studio for dance. The squeaky voices of about thirty girls five to eight fill the room.  Some are wearing dance outfits with sequins and sparkles, others have shorts and t-shirts.  As Carole takes off her sweater, I note she's wearing  a leotard.  She moves to the front of the room lining up the eager students in six rows facing her.  She has me stand in the middle between the third and fourth rows.

The students have small-scale batons. I am surprised because I didn’t know there were different sizes of batons. But then again since I knew nothing about this activity, why should I be surprised at anything?  Carole has three or four regular sized batons.  One has colored plastic strips hanging from each end.  I am beginning to wonder, given the leotard and the batons, just when had she given this up?  Why did the Girls' Club contact her in the first place? Clearly someone must have recommended Carole as a potential teacher.

Carole taps me on the shoulder handing me a plain baton, no colored plastic strips for me. I am relieved because I can only imagine those plastic strands becoming entangled with my fingers.  Carole gives me instructions. “Repeat everything I say so the kids in the back can hear.  Watch what I do and just copy me.” I have no idea how this is going to work but I stand where Carole wants me.

The class begins.  "Hold the baton between your thumb and middle finger like this." Carole holds her hands up high so everyone can see.  That includes me.  I repeat what Carole says trying to make my hands do to my baton what Carole is doing to hers.  Some of the little kids get it before I do.  "Now move your fingers like this and the baton will roll over them." I repeat this sentence without much confidence.  My baton isn’t rolling the way Carole's is.  The little kids didn't seem to mind.  They were serious about learning baton twirling.  Some must have had other lessons because they began to show each other how it was supposed to work. They all looked up to me as if I were being helpful. Maybe being taller than they were was enough to engender a kind of respect.  As the class progressed, Carole rotated the rows so everyone had a chance to be close to her (and far from me) during the class. For that I was thankful.

We kept this going for the three weeks of the class. No one in authority ever knew I was a fraud. To this day I cannot twirl a baton, but I recall that first step of how to hold it and what you are supposed do to make it roll.

Every spring and fall Carole’s parents would make a regular excursion to Albany for shopping. My parents did all their shopping on North Street in Pittsfield. It would never occur to them to drive an hour just to go to a department store. But Carole’s family did just that.

Carole was so happy when they agreed to let me come along.  I imagine her parents were pleased too, figuring they wouldn't have to deal with Carole complaining she was bored and wanting to go home. Maybe they figured if Carole and I were together, we wouldn't get into trouble. I never did find out what they bought. Clothes for the upcoming season, appliances, furniture?  I had no idea. I didn’t particularly care. Once we arrived at the store, they gave us money for lunch and made a plan to meet back up at a particular time. Then we were on our own.

The first thing we did was make a beeline for the candy counter where we spent most of the lunch money saving what little was left over for the hot nuts wagon.  Sufficiently fortified we’d walk all over the store clutching our paper bags of candy and nuts. One place we spent a lot of time was the kitchen area. Here were salesmen demonstrating knife sharpeners and mixers, showing off the features of vacuum cleaners, and explaining why their mops were better than any others. Each demonstration was like a TV show to us.  We'd wait until there were five or six adults and then join the crowd.  If the salesman waited to  attract a larger group, Carole would become impatient, "Show us how the mop cleans up spilled wine," she’d yell out.  She knew this was part of the demo because we had been there earlier in the day. I loved it.  There was nothing like this on North Street.

We’d make a regular loop to be sure we would catch each demonstration, usually more than once. It was our entertainment. It was especially fun when the vacuum cleaner guy would intentionally dirty a piece of carpet with dog hair or spilled food and then excitedly vacuum it up as if housework was the most wonderful thing in the world. Sometimes a salesman would try to cut a presentation short when there weren't that many people watching. He didn't count on Carole reminding him of a part he had skipped.  "Wait, What about the cleaver? What can you do with that?"  Occasionally a sales person would glare at us, but Carole even had a strategy for that.  She would walk over to stand near an adult as if that person were one of her parents. Even though we must have been irritating, we were never told to leave.

Another must stop was the music area. There were no listening booths as there were at Sammy Vincent's on North Street, but we were already clued in to our favorites, The Everly Brothers, Dion, and Pat Boone.  Yeah, I know, pretty typical. We’d walk though the displays looking at all the 45s, singing the songs to each other.  Sometimes we'd turn the records over to see what the name of the song was on the other side. The so-called B sides.  Rarely did we recognize any of those songs. For us, 45s were one-sided. When we played records at Carole’s, we would play the song we liked over and over and over again. 

We would get into the stories the lyrics were about. They were little plays for us.  We took in their messages as life lessons.  "Wake up Little Susie!" How sad it was this sweet couple might get into trouble when they so innocently fell asleep at the movies. We would be indignant. How like adults to assume teenagers were doing something wrong.  Then we would begin to wonder. Why didn't the usher notice them when they closed the theatre?  Carole and I would brainstorm what we would do in this situation. Not that either of us had a boyfriend that would take us to a movie.

Another favorite was "Silhouettes on the Shade." We empathized with the singer who believed his girlfriend was kissing someone else until he realized he was looking at the wrong window. Eventually our empathy turned to distain as we realized he wasn’t very smart if he didn’t even know where his girlfriend lived.   More understandable was the longing and sadness of "Love Letters in the Sand." We poured our hearts out as we sang along. Before either of us ever had a boyfriend, we had learned what makes love so sad.  It was all in the pop songs. Here was all you needed to know about romance.

Thinking about this music brings me back to the day we stole a 45 at that Albany department store.  I am pretty sure it was the Presley hit, "You Ain't Nothing but a Hound Dog.”  Even though we had the money to pay for it, Carole said, “Let’s just take it.” We looked around to see if anyone was watching before Carole slipped it into her pocketbook. For Carole it was the challenge, a daring thing to do. As for me, I spent the next hour sure someone was going to stop us, arrest us even. As it turns out, we got away with it.

On the way home, we did our usual candy wrapper game. We knelt on the back seat placing our bags, this day containing our secret stolen record, on the ledge by the back window.  No seat belts in those days. Each time we finished a piece of candy, we let the wrapper fly out the window.  If the car behind us ran over the candy wrapper, he was a bad guy. If he didn't, he was a good guy. We kept count of how many of each all the way home.  Just like seat belts, concerns about littering were still in the future.

When we got back to her house, we eagerly ran up to her room to play our new record.  That’s when Carole noticed it was warped. Apparently the sun beating down on the back car window had partially melted it.  We were not going to hear Hound Dog that day. Carole started laughing. “It’s got warped because we stole it,” she said in a way that made me think she expected this to happen.  Maybe it was just irony, but Carole felt it was some kind of fate to teach us a lesson.

While stealing a record was clearly crossing the line, sneaking a smoke felt less so. I grew up believing when you became an adult, you could smoke, drink and wear makeup. These were some of the things that distinguished an adult from a kid. It wasn't a matter of health, those concerns weren't talked about in my house. TV and magazines were full of ads for cigarettes.  Both my parents and older brother smoked. It was just a matter of time before I did too. So sneaking a smoke was more like testing at what age it would be acceptable to smoke in public. By the time we were in tenth grade, Carole and I would indulge about once a month when I came to visit. 

I have no idea where Carole got the two or three cigarettes she always had hidden behind a loose brick in her cellar. Her parents didn’t smoke so there were no cigarettes in the house. Carole had a system.  Her parents used the cellar as cold storage for apples and pears.  Carole would announce we were going down there to have an apple, or a pear.  That’s when she pulled out the brick revealing the individual cigarettes. She'd whisper, "When my parents go out tonight, we'll have these." 

Once they left the house, we'd take the cigarettes outside so there wouldn't be any smell in the house. I don't recall smoking being particularly pleasant or unpleasant. It just became a habit. It was something Carole and I did when I came to visit overnight. For me it felt like I had a secret. Other kids may have thought of me as quiet, unassuming, not daring, but they didn't know I had this secret identity. I was a smoker!  It made me feel like I was a grown-up. When I was in twelfth grade, I started buying cigarettes and smoking openly.  I gave it up in college when I started hanging out with people, like Bill, who didn't smoke.

In the summer between eighth and ninth grade, Carole's family invited me to go with her for a week's visit to an aunt and uncle who lived in New Salem.  I think her parents were attending a square dance retreat or championship someplace else in New England and this visit was to serve two purposes,  some family time for Carole and her relatives but also a chance for her parents to pursue their interest without worrying about Carole.

The ride from Pittsfield to New Salem was a long one. We drove from Pittsfield along Route 9 to Northampton where we stopped for lunch at a burger place. Then we drove across the Connecticut River along 9  through Amherst before we picked up Route 202. 

North New Salem where Carole's relatives lived was in a rural area. Their house was the last of a small group of perhaps eight houses along a stretch of road that extended through woods. The entire area was a forest that surrounded the Quabbin Reservoir built in the 1930s to provide water for Boston. This was the water Bill drank everyday growing up in Hyde Park. 

There was a small store on Route 202 just where you turned to get to Carole’s aunt and uncle’s house. It was about a mile walk but we didn’t care. We’d walk there to get sodas and candy.  My favorites were candy sticks of various flavors and colors. Most days we'd have cereal with her aunt and uncle for breakfast before spending the day outside.  We'd walk to the store and then back along the road past her aunt and uncle’s house before going into the woods. It was always our goal to walk to the reservoir’s edge. Because we could see the water, we thought we could walk to it but it was always out of reach. Another few steps, we said. We never made it. Later we found out the reservoir was actually several miles away. Carole's uncle laughed at us when we told him we expected to be able to walk to it.

Carole spent a week in New Salem every summer for many years. Considering there wasn’t much to do there, she was happy to have my company. Her aunt and uncle were nice enough, but all we did was stay at their house. They seemed old to us, probably all of 50. They spent most of their day on a big front porch with a Readers' Digest in hand.  I liked that because it meant they had a stockpile of the magazine we could read.   

We never looked at any of the featured stories or the condensed books, only scanned through the pages to find the jokes or the funny anecdotes. We'd read these aloud to each other.  I particularly liked a regular feature titled something like "The Most Unbelievable True Story.”  They were usually tear jerkers.  A man’s car breaks down on a deserted road. A stranger pulls up to offer help.  As they chat they find out they are twins who had been separated at birth.  “A brother he never knew he had” would scream the end line.  These sentimental twists of life were always written in the first person, presented as true, and, as the title indicated, hard to believe.  I wondered how often these coincidences occurred and how the editors had enough of these stories to print month after month. How many separated-at-birth stories are there anyway?   

Another way Carole’s aunt and uncle entertained us was to include us in their card games. I remember long games of 500 rummy out on that porch on warm afternoons. While we played rummy with her aunt and uncle, when Carole and I played cards together the game was poker. Carole and I shared a large room at the front of the house with big windows that opened out to the porch.  The bed was enormous, high off the floor. We had to use a step stool to get up on it.   During our card games, we sat cross-legged on the giant bed. Even though we played for bobby pins, we took winning seriously.  If I won a handful of Carole’s pins, I’d keep them for myself. I can recall sitting up on that bed trying to bluff my way to a win with a two pair no picture card hand.   My father who was good at poker had taught me the rules and some strategy, but like most poker rookies I could never follow his advice, "Never draw to a pair."  I did it all the time and as a consequence, Carole had more bobby pins than I did at the end of the week.

One afternoon Carole’s aunt and uncle had an announcement.  They told us we were going to a backyard party at a house across the street. In all the times Carole and I had been walking up and down that street, we had never seen another person. Yet, when we walked over to the backyard of the party house, there must have been 30 to 40 people there. Not just adults. Kids too. On lawn chairs. Sitting at picnic tables.  Who were all these people?  Where had they been hiding? 

From my perspective as an adult, I would love to be able to chat with all these people to find out about their lives in this rural place.  However, as teenagers, Carole and I adopted the kind of smug, superior attitude that city folk displayed to their country cousins. (After all, we were from Pittsfield!) We kept to ourselves responding to any attempted conversation by an adult with monosyllables. I did take part in a few games of badminton, something my family played frequently in our own backyard. And we didn’t ignore the picnic fare that had been set out. But that was the extent of connecting with the neighbors.  After that afternoon, we never saw anyone playing outside again. It reminded me of Brigadoon.

Woods were not just for walks. One time Carole reached into her pocket pulling out two cigarettes.  "I brought these for us."   Being basically city kids, we lit up tossing the match carelessly aside only to have it start a small fire in the tall grass.  First we laughed, then started to stomp on it to put it out.  This tactic didn’t work.  The fire continued to spread. It didn't take long for us to realize we were out of our element with no idea how to contain the fire or put it out.  We became concerned when a fairly large area was burning  Even Carole was  shaken up at the trouble we might be in.  Running back to the house, we told her uncle that as we were walking we smelled smoke and noticed "what seemed to be a grass fire."   He called his neighbor who, like Carole’s uncle, was a volunteer fireman.  They must have known what they were doing because soon the fire was out. 

We waited anxiously all day expecting to have to confess we were responsible for the blaze.  Later that day, we overheard her uncle telling her aunt the fire was man-made.  "Looks like some kids just causing trouble.  But we got it under control. No big issue."  Carole and I glanced at each other with relief.  No one ever suspected that we were the kids causing trouble.

Once eighth grade was over Carole and I did not interact in school. Carole refused to consider the college prep course.  It would have pleased her mother, so naturally she wouldn't do it.  I was in all college prep classes, so we no longer saw each other in school.  Even though I was developing new friends among my classmates, Carole and I continued to see each other outside of school.

For a short time we did what many sixteen and seventeen year-old drivers did in downtown Pittsfield. Drive the North Street loop.  Car after car, filled with teenagers, would drive around Park Square, down North Street, past all the stores, make a left on Bradford, another left on Center, another left on tiny Union Street, then a final right turn back onto North.  Cruise south on North Street this time along the England Brothers' side of the street until you hit Park Square. Repeat. Over and over again. Thursday nights, Pittsfield teens would drive their cars in this loop, pausing to wave at each other as they passed, even yelling something from one car to another. 

I thought this was what all the cool kids did and was excited the two times Carole and I participated. Yup, two times!  Our loop driving would have continued except for one thing. Carole’s parents were planning to buy a new car. Carole did not like one of the cars they were considering. "If you buy that one, I'll never drive it.” Well, they did. And she didn't.  That was the way she was.  You might say she was her own worst enemy.  Her stubbornness pulled us out of the Thursday night North Street loop, but maybe you do have to admire her integrity.

After graduation, Carole continued to live at home working at a local bank. I went to the University of Massachusetts to become a math teacher. I had decided at an early age I wanted to be a teacher focusing on math after enjoying ninth grade algebra.

Writing to Carole during my first year at college, I shared tales of life in a dorm, my roommate, and some of the other non-academic parts of college life. I knew she wouldn't care about my classes or assignments, but she’d be curious about daily life, meals at the dining halls, on campus movies and football games.

When I was home on a break, I’d tell her about my experiences at places we first drove by on our way to New Salem. One was a restaurant between Northampton and Amherst called the Aqua Vitae. When I told Carole it was an Italian place with pizza and pasta dishes, she got angry.  "My parents always wanted to stop there instead of the burger place, but I wouldn't let them,” she told me.  “I knew Aqua meant water and that Vitae meant life. I thought it was a seafood place. I hate fish. Now you’re telling me it had pizza and spaghetti. I wish I had known that."  Thinking back over this story I’m reminded of the expression, "A little learning is a dangerous thing."  Carole knew enough Latin to recognize the words, but didn't pay attention to the more subtle things like declension.  Aqua Vitae can be translated as The Water of Life but it was a reference to the red wine served with every meal. The name wasn't identifying it as a seafood restaurant, rather as a place to enjoy a glass of red wine with your Italian meal.

Even though our lives were diverging, we did keep in touch over my freshman year in college.  My summer job between freshman and sophomore year was as an operator at the telephone company in Pittsfield. I suppose since we both had jobs during the summer months, the similarities in our daily lives rose to the foreground and the differences between our paths, my plan to become a math teacher, hers to continue the life she had now, faded to the background. In any case, we spent time together that summer but with a new wrinkle.

Carole had a steady boyfriend, Bob, who also worked at the same bank. Just before I came home for summer vacation, Carole wrote to me about him.  She was clearly quite happy having him as a boyfriend. One dilemma.  Bob's best friend, also named Bob, didn't have a girlfriend. Carole was tired of having dates with the two Bobs but her boyfriend didn't want to leave his buddy alone every time he went out with Carole. She concluded her letter with a request.  Could I join them as a companion for Bob so that Carole and her Bob would have some time together?

So a couple of times a week, the four of us would get together. Usually we'd go to a drive-in snack bar to eat, play miniature golf, or go bowling.  Not so bad even though I didn’t particularly like my Bob.  I thought of this as more of a social thing than anything else. Besides summer was only a couple of months long so I continued the arrangement for Carole’s sake  As the weeks went by, I realized there were limits even to my generosity toward Carole’s feelings. Some of what they liked to do just wasn’t a good fit for me.

For instance, even though I wasn't particularly interested in cars or racing, when the idea first came up of going to a car track in Lebanon, New York, I thought it might be an interesting event. I remember my parents describing the horse racing at Saratoga.  A lot of pomp, women in summer dresses, and a parade of the horses before each race. While they were not that interested in horses or the racing, for my mother and father it was a fun activity.  My parents would make small bets to insure they’d watch the race with a stake in the outcome. They talked about the fun of observing other people predicting how they’d react with a win or a loss. Anticipating something similar but with cars instead of horses, I agreed to go with them to the car track.  When we got there, I discovered it wasn't anything like I had expected. There was no pomp. As for the crowds, mostly guys in t-shirts.

It was a demolition derby. A car race with a twist.  The drivers intentionally tried to bang into each other, to do enough damage to knock the other cars out of commission. The track was shaped like a figure eight.  As cars crossed that area where the four paths intersected, they would position themselves to hit each other, trying to disable other cars without damaging their own car too much. The last car left running was the winner. 

Though noisy and ridiculous to me, I kept that to myself as Carole and the two Bobs were cheering excitedly. They even knew the names of some of the drivers.  I suppose it took some skill to smash into a car at just the right angle to impair its ability to continue racing while protecting the integrity of your own vehicle. Still, the appeal of this whole spectacle was lost on me. I found myself wondering, “What am I doing here?  I could be home in my quiet back yard reading a book.”  I went only that one time.  Every other time it came up I lied about my work schedule suggesting the three of them go without me. I could have been more honest telling them I just didn't enjoy the noise, the damage and the worry that someone might get hurt. I made excuses thinking there was no reason for me to spoil their fun. Besides, summer was almost over. I'd be back at college soon.

Then there was that night at the drive-in movie late in the summer.  I was in the front seat with my third wheel Bob and Carole was in the back seat with her boyfriend Bob.  After I while we realized they weren't watching the movie any more. They were making out. Since both of them lived with their parents this was probably the only venue for sneaking in a little sex. They got noisier. I got more uncomfortable. I looked over at Bob. He just shrugged his shoulders, kept staring at the screen pretending he couldn't hear them. I noticed he averted his eyes from the back seat so he wouldn't really see what was going on there.  

As the noises from the back seat continued, I began to wonder if my Bob was expecting something from me. He was not my boyfriend. We hadn’t even held hands which was fine with me. We struggled through the rest of that night trying to act as if we were both totally engaged in the movie. Eventually Bob and Carole started talking to us like nothing had happened. Right then, I determined to limit my time as part of this foursome  I'd be back in school soon. This would be in the past.  If Carole and Bob wanted to be together, they would just have to leave the other Bob home alone.

Perhaps Bob began to pick up on my hesitation. He knew I wanted to learn how to drive. Once he called me suggesting I practice driving with his car.  Even though I didn’t particularly want to go out with him, I gave in to the temptation.  But just that one time.  After that I was even more convinced he and I had nothing in common.

A few days later, Bob called to invite me to what he called a special dinner. Since I was going back to UMass  the next week, I figured it was a farewell meal.  I felt it would be a nice gesture to say yes.  When he picked me up that evening, I was surprised that Carole and her Bob were not in the car. Hadn’t they been invited, I thought?   "Oh no,” Bob said, "this is just for us."  Warning bells should have sounded. The surprises continued. We didn't go upstreet to any restaurants or out of town to any snack bars.  Instead he pulled into the driveway of the two-story house where he lived with his family.  I had been there only once before.  We had stopped in one night after dropping off Bob and Carole. At that visit I met his parents and younger sisters.  We watched a little TV including The Miss America Pageant. Then he took me home.

This time I noticed the kitchen table was not set for a family dinner.  Instead, in a small room off the side of the kitchen, there was a table set for two. Fancy, with candles. "Come on in,” Bob said.  I began to wonder what this evening was going to bring. As I walked into the room, I got a glimpse of  Bob's sisters who waved at me and giggled.  They were in the adjoining living room eating dinner in front of the TV. 

"Now don't you girls bother Bob and Ginny,” said his mother.  "They're having a special dinner."  I sat down where Bob indicated. After a few minutes, his mother served us dinner and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Instead of enjoying the food, I became more and more uncomfortable but I kept reminding myself, “I will go home after this is over. Next week I’ll be back at UMass. All of this will be behind me.”

Bob started talking about how amazing I was. “I’ve never met a girl like you. You're so agreeable. So easy to be with.  You didn't get mad even when I was looking at those other girls on the Miss America Pageant.” There was a pause. I just looked at him. I had nothing to say in response. Then he astonished me. “I think we should get married.” I just stared at him incredulously. I never realized until that moment he had thought of me as a girlfriend.  My first thought was we haven't even kissed.

   

I had to say something. ”You know I am going back to college next week. I have three more years before I am a teacher."  Now it was his turn to be surprised.  "Yes, but I figured once we were engaged, you'd stay here. Maybe continue working at the phone company as we plan the wedding." 

I repeated, "But I am going back to college next week."  He repeated, "I thought you would stay in Pittsfield instead."  We kept tossing the same thoughts back and forth.  Me: expressing surprise that he thought I’d give up college. Him: shocked that I didn't think being married was more important.

We sat there for a while locked tightly in this awkward situation. I continued to be surprised that he would think I would give up becoming a teacher. He continued to be surprised that a girl would rather go to college than get married.   Almost at the same moment, we both became aware of our surroundings. Sitting in his house with his mother and sisters in the next room. I became embarrassed for him. For me.  How was he going to explain this to his mother?  His sisters? How was this standoff going to end? It suddenly dawned upon me I needed him to drive me home.  As much as I may have wanted to, I couldn't just get up and leave.

As soon as we got in the car, he started back in trying to convince me that it would be good for me to stay in Pittsfield, to get married. It was all about the planning, the logistics. “You can continue working at the phone company and me at the bank so we can save enough money for a place to live once we’re married. I can keep taking you out for driving lessons. We’ll be able to go out without Carole and Bob.” I looked at him. At no time did he talk about having feelings for me. It was remarkable to me how dispassionate he was.

Now that we were alone, without his family in earshot, I gave up the "I want to be a teacher" angle and pointed out what I thought was an indicator of the lack of depth in our relationship. No physical contact. No intimacy. “We have never even kissed,” I told him.

“Yes,” he said.  "I am proud of that. You are proper."  In my mind, I am screaming. I am not proper! I am just not interested! There is no impulse to fight against anything physical. I don’t want to be physical with you.  I knew all this was too mean to say, so I didn't say anything.  I just sat there in silence as he drove. 

  

A new thought occurred to me.  "Did Carole know what you were planning?" 

“Yes” 

"Didn't she tell you I'd be going back to college next week?”

 “She told me I should ask you and see what happens." 

So now I was angry, angrier than I had ever been. Why didn't she warn me? What kind of a person lets a friend walk into such a situation unaware?

We finally made it back to my house.  As I left the car, Bob said quietly, "I'll call you tomorrow."   I looked at him, giving up trying to be kind, just needing to be extricated from this.  My anger at Carole fueled my emotions.  That energy gave me the strength to be honest.  “No, Bob, do not call. I do not want to talk about this any more.  I do not want to talk to you. We are not together. We are not a couple. We never have been." 

I felt so mean saying these things. Even as I write this now from a distance of years, I feel sad about that summer.  I never wanted to hurt him.  I was completely wrapped up in my own interpretation of our relationship and just assumed he shared my sensibilities.

Once home I told my mother what had happened and how badly I felt.  "I have to call Carole. I am so mad at her."  I got Carole on the phone. Without any preliminaries I stated,  "You knew what Bob was going to ask me.  Why didn't you tell me?"  Her answer stunned me.  "I didn't want to spoil his surprise." Now my anger was mixed with incredulity.  "Did you actually think I would go along with this? I am going back to college next week."  I was like a broken record, but to me that sentence explained it all.

"I wasn't sure what you would do,” was her surprising reply.  My confusion at this response blunted some of the anger.  After all these years together, I’m realizing, she doesn't know me at all.  “Well,” I replied somewhat lamely, “you should have told me. It was embarrassing to be there with his family. I didn't know what to say.  I feel bad for him.  I'm upset to be in this position."  I didn’t wait to hear what she said back. I just couldn’t talk anymore.  I hung up the phone.

I didn't call her the night before I returned to college although I considered it.  Nor did I try to get in touch with her the next time I was home.  We never talked again. We never saw each other again. Our relationship just ended.  All the moments we shared together growing up as teenagers weren't enough to bridge the differences between us as we became young adults.