Young

1 - National Tragedy

Saturday - November 23 - 1963

The president of the United States was murdered just yesterday.

I watched Annette slouch into an old love seat, legs crossed, wearing a gray blouse and pleated skirt. She directed her gaze upward; a cigarette wedged between slender fingers.

My head rested on the chest of Blake Preston; captain of the college football team and most loving fiancé a girl could ever want. He gently stroked my hair as I lay cradled in his arms.

We'd been discussing the horrific assassination for hours and had nothing more to say. It was a lot for me to take in at twenty-one. For the moment, the harrowing events of the world couldn't touch me. The only thing that mattered was the comforting thump of Blake's heart pulsing against my cheek.

Annette blew a puff of wispy smoke from her full, pouting lips. I followed the haze as my thoughts drifted back to the day we first met.

*

As a child, I really didn't have anyone I could truly call a friend.

Would second grade be any different?

Annette was a new student from Kalamazoo, Michigan. When I noticed her standing over by the swings, alone, I decided to walk over and introduce myself. For many girls this may have been an easy thing to do but for me, running into a pack of wolves would have been just as hard - so intense was my fear of rejection. Her blonde hair was perfect, not one strand out of place.

I froze three steps away as another girl approached her. I lowered my head and turned around, dragging my feet aimlessly. I choked back tears and felt sorry for myself once again.

Had I looked where I was going I'd have noticed that I was trudging through a loosely organized game of baseball.

The players were NOT happy with the disruption.

"Hey stupid, MOVE IT!!"

I jerked my head up just in time to witness an angry, red faced, sixth grade boy barreling towards me, huffing and puffing. My whole body froze! Within the span of a breath he violently tackled me to the ground where pain, asphalt, and the tang of blood swallowed me whole.

I heard the riotous laughter of the bully and others as I struggled to get up. When I witnessed their cruel sneers, I collapsed and covered my face, wishing I could somehow disappear.

Thwaaack!!!

The laughter of the boy turned to a yell of agony. With my blurred vision I could make out the shiny black shoes of a girl standing before me. I gasped as Annette reached down and helped me to my feet. The way she looked at me drove the embarrassment away.

I gazed around to find that she had used a bat to strike at the legs of the bully who was now writhing around on the pavement. She glared at him and shook her head.

"Hasn't anyone told you it's never okay to hit a girl?"

From that moment on we became the inseparable duo, Veronica Morris and Annette Richards.

We grew up together with no siblings in Winona, a mid-sized town in southeastern Minnesota. It was a beautiful place to live with scenic bluffs and a crystal clear lake. I lived in a modest bungalow, and Dad worked for a construction company while Mom ran the home.

Annette's family lived about three miles from us in an upscale part of the city. She wasn't right on the lake but within walking distance to it. Her dad, Ed, owned a hardware store and made a very comfortable living which afforded them a large ranch-style home with a swimming pool in the backyard.

Our families became very close and we'd visit frequently. Both our dads had courageously served in World War II, and we'd often hear them trading stories while we were happily splashing in the pool on the hot days of summer.

I loved and respected Dad like no one else but he wouldn't have known it through my actions. I was shy and timid in social settings but when I came home, changed into a different person, assertive and disobedient.

It didn't get any easier when I reached my teens. While Mom at times would throw her hands up in defeat, Dad would never dream of it. Having served as a Marine he knew something about challenges and adversity. He was a religious and principled man; a devout Catholic who never missed Sunday Mass. There were several occasions where I tried every excuse in the book to stay home from church but Dad never gave in.

Mom loved the performing arts and played the piano beautifully. Dad enjoyed listening but didn't have a passion for music the way she did. We owned a simple upright oak piano, and Mom insisted that I take lessons when I turned five years old. Dad encouraged me as well but more due to his perception that practicing daily at prescribed times contributed to a disciplined lifestyle and less due to his appreciation of music.

At first I loathed my parents for enforcing this routine but as days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years I became grateful that I had been pushed to excel as I started to experience genuine pleasure from playing. Eventually I would motivate myself to learn pieces with higher levels of complexity.

In fifth grade I attended a private Catholic school for boys and girls. Even though money was scarce, my parents thought it was important for my moral development which was more of a concern for them than my academic performance.

Straight "A"s were never a problem for me.

The dress code required us to wear uniforms in class every day, and any fondness I may have had for plaid skirts diminished over the period of seven years. Predictably, Annette switched schools as well and there she was in the very same class. I've lost count as to how many times Sister Margaret called her to the front and rapped her knuckles with a ruler for being disrespectful. Annette didn't seem to mind it and appeared more amused than anything.

She loved the attention.

Annette had her own following. She always said the right things, at the right time, and in the right way. As you well may imagine, Annette did all the interacting while I was part of the background. If she didn't refer to me in her conversation with the other girls, you wouldn't have even known I was there. But, somehow, she always made me feel like I was the most important person alive.

Annette was, without a doubt, my very best friend. I really didn't have any male friends until I met...Paul.