When I turned 15, I discovered boys and forgot all about my desire to own a horse. To make it even worse, I fell for the president of the sophomore boys in my high school class. And surprise of all surprises, he fell for me. Wow! He was without a doubt the most popular boy in our class. He was also very nice. Though my parents weren’t thrilled about my going steady, they really liked him. Everyone did.
I spent a lot of solo time in my bedroom writing romantic dribble. It was ghastly; but at the time, I was pouring out the heart of a girl who was experiencing love for the first time. It was a love I can still feel today. I guess you never get over that very first love.
Our house was at the bottom of a hill, one house from the St. Johns River, where the street ended in a small circle so cars could turn around. My bedroom was on the upstairs corner of the house looking up the hill. Seated on my bed, I could watch everything going on in our one-block neighborhood. And I wrote about it. Even today, I could write a whole book about life on Mallory Street, believe me.
I mentioned that the street ended at the river’s edge, which is just another definition for lovers’ lane. Teenagers who were old enough to drive quite often parked there. Some of the kids on my block and I would sneak down to take a peek. I was shocked and titillated by what was going on in those cars. Remember, my teenage years fell just a few years short of the sexual revolution. Having a solid respect, combined with a little bit of fear, for my father, I knew I would never be parked at the end of my street…or anywhere, for that matter.
But was it ever fun to conjure up the possibilities on paper! The very thought of some of the things I wrote still makes me blush, which by today’s standards, would hardly merit mention. Writing was my answer to some heady emotions that would eventually play themselves out.