I have always fallen in love in the summertime. I first fell in love in the summer of 1969. His name was Ted. He was from Wichita Falls and only in town for the summer. We met at the pool, scantly dressed in our swimsuits, bronze from the sun, smelling of Coppertone and chlorine. Our days were filled with chicken fights, card games, bike rides to 7-eleven for cokes, family barbeques, and homemade ice cream. When the sun went down we would wander onto to the golf course next door, freshly showered, our skin lightly sunburned, in shorts and halter top, jeans and white t-shirt. We kicked off our sandals, the grass cool and damp under our feet, the Texas air still hot without a breath of breeze, only the moon and stars to illuminate our path. Ted held my hand with such a sense of purpose I felt feminine and protected. It wasn't until the third or fourth night he found the courage to kiss me. We talked and talked, and kissed and kissed until the sprinklers on the golf course came on and I had to get in before my curfew. At 14, I was oblivious to the power I wielded over that sweet boy. I only knew everything we were experiencing was new and we were experiencing it together. Ted remained my long distance sweetheart until our junior year. The summer before our senior year we both found new summer romances and willingly set each other free, tucking our love letters in the back of a dresser drawer.
SEH
