Spring always reminds me of him. The minute I would see Mr. Peters digging his garden to start his plantings. Yes, Mr. Peters watched his Almanac as if it was the Holy Bible itself. There were other signs of course. Bobby Glazer in his tight white T-shirt washing his car in too-cold weather, cigarettes neatly tucked in rolled-up sleeves. Miss Wilkerson setting her birds out on the front porch for the annual choir of constant chirping that would drive my father crazy.
Most of all, I can remember hearing the sound, or should I say the “rumble” of Jimmy’s black 56 Chevy rounding the corner on Highridge Avenue beginning its decent down Chelsea Avenue hill to pick me up. Me in my slick hip-hugger bell-bottoms and favorite white shirt (which I would tie midriff when safely out of Dad’s eye), and Jimmy with that black slicked back hair looking every bit like Marlon Brando.
I can remember how once in that car this 16 year old didn’t know if it was spring, summer, winter, or fall. All I could do was keep my eyes pealed on Jimmy. We’d proudly ride through all the drive-in fast food joints very slowly, that engine just rumbling louder than thunder itself; Jimmy in that black leather jacket looking straight ahead like he didn’t care much about anything – and me with my arm wrapped around his neck knowing that he damn well did.
Those were the springs of new love, drive in movies, on the hood of that car, leaning back on the windshield. Yes, I think it was during Psycho he first planted that big juicy kiss of his upon my lips right there under the stars of the Belmont Drive In Theater and under the watchful eye of crazy Norman and his evil Mother. I knew right then Jimmy and I would be together until the day we passed into the great beyond.
But, as first loves usually come and go, ours lasted through three beautiful springs then faded into that great beyond to become the new reality called life.
© DiAnne Ebejer