Memories
If it is okay with you, I have two.
The first is July 19, 1956. Then I was nearly nine and attended my first ever funeral of my grandfather. As he lay in the casket, I pulled and tugged at his arm closest to me. It pained me at the time he wouldn’t wake up and talk to me, tell me stories, make me laugh. When it finally sunk in that he would never wake up again, I ran out of the church where the viewing was held and cried. It wasn’t until later my mother found me and explained what death is and why even good people have to die. That day, I lost the best friend I ever had. On that day, I learned grief, sorrow, and pain.
Sometime in June, the Summer of 1961, I had my first ever real date with a girl named Sandy. We were both fourteen. This may be hard to imagine but we had a Sunday picnic. Rather odd since we both lived in the city, but we made do by having the picnic in her backyard.
Long story short; when the picnic was over and time for me to get back home, I went to kiss her goodbye. She backed up and shook her head no, saying, “A picnic doesn’t mean you take liberties with my virginity.” (Honest, they were her words.) When I came home, my mother asked me how things went, and then that’s when I asked her what virginity was. When she asked why, I told her what Sandy said. My mother laughed out loud but then proceeded to sit me down and explain virginity and a few other Bird and Bee tales. So yeah, it was my mother, not father, who gave me my basic sex education.