Mohair & More

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I wish I could say this article was a creation of my active imagination but it actually transpired. The year was 1962 and I was a junior in high school. The article is taken from my writings under the category called Pathetic. I would share something from my writings titled Hero, but you would probably doubt their authenticity. The clock turns back and the story begins . . .

I hated geometry. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it was because of all the formulas we had to memorize. Memorizing wasn't difficult for me, I just wasn't motivated. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I would ever need to know geometry. It is comical how some things turn out. Years later, as I became involved in the construction industry, I would use geometry more than any other math I was exposed to in my education. But I was sixteen at the time and more interested in what was being served at the school lunch cafeteria than memorizing formulas. Who cared how much square area was in a triangle or how many gallons of water would fit in a pyramid?

Just before class started I glanced at my watch and noticed I had fifty seconds before the tardy bell rang. I dashed out of the classroom to get a drink of water before having to endure the next hour of sheer boredom. As I hurriedly stepped into the hallway and turned to my left toward the drinking fountain, I was hit by a midget running down the hall trying to get to his class before the bell rang. He wasn't really a midget; I could have just as easily referred to him as a runt. He was just shorter than I was. In high school it was SOP (standard operating procedure) to use derogatory labels on people. His forehead hit me right in the nose. We both went sprawling to the floor. I was knocked out cold and would later discover at the doctor's office that my nose had been broken.

Needless to say, I missed geometry class and lunch. The next day as I slid into my seat for another day of A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, Judy handed me a copy of the previous day's homework assignment. Judy was the girl who sat next to me in class. As I looked down at the paper she handed me, I noticed that it was all filled out; the geometry problems were already solved.  I looked up at Judy and her smile said, "You're welcome." Without a sound coming from my lips I mouthed the words, "Thank you."

A beautiful friendship developed from Judy's smile and her act of kindness. I say beautiful because from that day on, Judy did my geometry homework. A little chit chat before class each day was all she required in return for her services. It wasn't hard duty. She was easy to talk to and pleasant to be with so this arrangement was made in heaven. Notice I didn't capitalize the word heaven. I knew that cheating on homework wasn't pointing me in the direction of that heaven that you spell with a capital H but what the heck, I was only sixteen and I had plenty of time to make better choices later.

Our homework was kept in a folder that we turned in at the end of each term. There were three terms in each semester. I had earned a B- first term and we were just starting the second term. Before long, Judy was keeping my completed homework assignments and placing them in a folder. Her little smile each day at the beginning of geometry class told me not to worry, my homework folder was in good hands. Having my homework in good hand was important because it constituted one third of my term grade. My actual grade for the first term had been an A- but the teacher took ten points of my total grade because I turned my homework folder in two weeks late. It was two weeks late because it took the teacher a week to convince me that I was going to fail geometry if I didn't turn in a homework folder. How could you turn in something that didn't exist? Well, it existed but it just wasn't very current. I had sixteen missing assignments and she wouldn't accept the folder until it was complete. It took me another week of staying up late at night to get the back assignments completed. But with Judy on my team, this term would be a cake walk. I don't know where that term "cake walk" came from because it doesn't make sense but it made sense to keep smiling back at Judy and asking her those innocent questions like, "What did you do last period?"

Judy would always ask me how my nose was healing. My nose was fine and we both knew it. That was just an easy, safe subject to start our daily conversation. My only regret about our relationship was that I didn't have more classes with Judy. I could sure use her to do my English homework. But that wouldn't have worked out too well because Karen was in my English class. Karen was my steady. In fact she was the only steady I ever had in high school. Karen would have thought it disgraceful for me to let someone do my homework so I did the appropriate thing and promptly asked Judy to stop doing my homework assignments. Just kidding. I did the wise thing and didn't tell Karen about Judy doing my geometry homework.

I know I should have felt guilty letting Judy do my homework and concealing my relationship with her from Karen. But there really wasn't any relationship to conceal. I was just being friendly with the girl who sat next to me in geometry. When the teacher passed out the mimeographed pages of geometry problems for the next homework assignment each day, I would lift the papers to my nose and smell the chemical residue left on the paper before slipping them over to Judy for her to complete that evening.

For those of you old enough to remember the old duplicating machines before photo copiers, the ink was a faded bluish purple color and the chemicals from the duplicating process remained with the paper for hours after the copies were made. I loved that smell until I volunteered to operate the duplicating machine for my Spanish teacher. Too much of a good thing can spoil the experience. Enjoying the smell of the fumes from the mimeographed homework pages wasn't the only thing about to be spoiled in my life.

It started out like any other day in geometry. Judy wore her usual soft smile as I came down the isle toward her. As I leaned over to slide my books into the shelf below the seat of my desk, Judy turned toward me and said, "How do you like my new sweater?" "It looks great," I said. "It's made of real mohair," Judy said. "What's mohair?" I asked. "I don't know but if feels real smooth against my skin." When Judy said the word skin, my attention was drawn to those two pyramids hidden under her sweater. I couldn't remember the formula for figuring out the volume of a pyramid but there was a lot of volume under that mohair sweater. I don't know how long I stared, maybe only seconds, but suddenly I realized that Judy was looking at me as I stared at her gifts from Heaven. When our eyes met she was still smiling. That was a good sign. I felt my face go red with embarrassment and for some reason I didn't quite understand, I knew our relationship had changed.

Getting caught staring at a girl's pyramids isn't what you do if you just want to remain friends. That boy-girl stuff complicates friendships. What had that mohair sweater done to us? I had certainly seen girls in sweaters before. If a girl's sweater fit tight it drew attention to her parts. It the sweater fit loose it was just another sweater. But Judy's sweater was so tight it could have belonged to her little sister if she had one. I didn't even know if Judy had a little sister. I realized I didn't know anything about Judy except that she smiled a lot, made pleasant conversation in geometry class and she did my homework. I felt strange inside. Like I was in trouble but not certain what I had done wrong. It was like being on a rollercoaster ride and seeing the dip or curve up ahead and not being able to do anything about it: no steering wheel to grab hold of and no brake pedal to press. You had no control . . . you gave up control when you paid your twenty-five cents and strapped yourself into the seat of the rollercoaster. The ticket taker strolled by to make sure your lap belt was secure, took your ticket and said, "Have a great ride." I had a feeling that my friendship with Judy was going to turn into an emotional rollercoaster ride that wasn't going to be so great. I hoped I was just imagining things.

The bell rang and I bolted from my chair and headed for the door as quickly as possible. I didn't look back. As soon as I entered the hallway I was lost in the crowd of students moving to their next class. I wondered if I had blown our homework arrangement but the next day Judy acted as though nothing had happened. When the mimeographed homework assignments were passed back down the rows she made sure that I saw she had taken two copies: one for her and one for me. She had never done that before so this was a good sign that getting caught staring at her pyramids the day before hadn't damaged our friendship. With two copies of the assignment already in her hand we wouldn't have to go through the awkward moment of trying to slip my papers to her without being noticed. All of that worrying yesterday was for nothing. Life was good.   

A week went by and it was evident that our friendship had not been damaged by that boy-girl stuff. At least that was what I thought until Judy showed up in the mohair sweater again. I started to say, "I see you're wearing your real mohair sweater again," but I didn't. Judy didn't mention the sweater either but she did show me the folder that contained my homework assignments. We smiled at each other and she said, "Would you like to take a look at your homework folder after school?" I can't, I work after school," I said. "Maybe you could come over and look at it when you get off work?" she said. "I don't get off work until midnight," I responded. I suggested that she just slip the folder to me as we left the classroom but she didn't think that was a good idea. I'm not totally naive. I had just dodged the big bullet. Judy was hinting in a polite way that she would like for our friendship to extend beyond the classroom. I liked things the way they were and I wanted to keep it that way, tight fitting mohair sweater or not.

I knew I was nearing a dangerous curve on this emotional rollercoaster ride with Judy. If I didn't do the right thing, Judy could get hurt. I didn't care so much about the homework. If she didn't want to make a duplicate of her homework assignment and put it in my folder anymore, that was okay with me. I never asked her to do my homework. She just started doing it when I got my nose broken by the guy who ran into me in the hallway. Although I had not asked her to do the work, my quiet acceptance of her efforts signaled that I was in agreement with her actions. But I wasn't stupid. For me to have asked her to stop doing my homework would be like having my mother come into my room and say, "Mack, I've been washing and ironing your clothes but if you would rather do it yourself, I can stop anytime." Now who's going to say, "Oh mother, I've missed a great opportunity by not doing my own laundry." Give me a break! If Judy was willing to do my homework why should I disrupt a good thing? I know what some of you are thinking about now . . . why didn't this guy's mother find something better to do with her time than give birth to this guy? I'm not claiming to be innocent, just content.

The following Friday Judy was wearing that tight mohair sweater again. I kept thinking about what she had said about how smooth and soft if felt against her skin. I was a little uneasy because I already had two uncomfortable experiences when Judy was in that sweater. It was like the sweater made her into a different person. Just before the bell rang for geometry class to be over, Judy slipped me a note and got up and was gone from the room before I had a chance to open the note and read what she had written. This note was not a hastily scribbled "enjoyed talking with you today" kind of note. As I opened the carefully folded paper and began to read her words, my emotional rollercoaster took a sharp curve and steep drop at the same time. My stomach was in my throat and I felt sick all over.

"Would you go to the Girl's Preference dance with me?" the note said. What was she doing to me? She knew I had a steady girlfriend. Besides, the dance was two months away. I hadn't heard of anyone even talking about that stupid dance yet. My weekend was ruined. I now knew why she had left the classroom so quickly. She wanted me to have to think about this all weekend. I couldn't go to the dance with her. And I wasn't about to let my girlfriend Karen know that Judy had even asked me. I could just see her reaction. "What have you been doing or saying that would cause Judy to ask you on a date?" Why is it always the guy's fault? I made classroom conversation, let her do my homework and admired her sweater. How could I have been so stupid to get caught looking at those pyramids? Why did I make "I had to work" excuses when she invited me over to her home? I wouldn't be in this mess if I had told her the truth at that time.

I wanted Monday morning to never come. I wanted to change schools, join the army or fake my own death. Monday did come. In fact it came screaming around the corner and before I knew it, second period was over and I was dragging myself down the hall to geometry class. "Maybe she changed her mind," I thought. Are you dreaming? Wake up, Idiot. I could see the headlines of the school paper. Student strangled with mohair sweater for turning down date to Girl's Preference . . . see page two for the rest of the story. If I didn't already have three unexcused absences I would have skipped class. Avoid, avoid, avoid had been my method of operation and now it would be my downfall. It was time to face the music.

I looked in Judy's direction as I entered the classroom. Yes she was there and she was wearing that blasted tight mohair sweater again. What had she done with the rest of her clothes? The sweater had become a bad omen for me. I confess; I took the chicken-way-out and during my previous class I constructed what I thought was a well written note thanking her for wanting to spend that evening with me but . . . there is always a "but" in this kind of note. After reading the note Judy looked straight ahead and didn't say a word. I thought, "Now that went well. Why was I so worried all weekend? And besides, she has plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance." Toward the end of the class when homework assignments were being passed back down the rows as usual, I was surprised that Judy took two sets of the homework papers. Apparently my emotional rollercoaster ride was over. At least that was what I thought until the bell rang and Judy jumped up and followed me out the door. She stuck right next to me as we left the classroom. I could almost feel her mohair sweater against my back. I'm certain I wasn't just imagining her breath on my neck.

As we entered the hallway Judy tugged at my arm and like an obedient puppy I turned to face her and prepared myself for whatever punishment she had planned for me. Breathing so heavy I could see her chest moving in and out, she stared right into my cowering brown eyes and said, "What does that skinny, toothpick of a figure blond you are dating have that I don't have?" I was taken back by the anger in her voice. It must have been a subconscious reaction. I momentarily glanced down at those pyramids covered by her tight mohair sweater, thought about that skinny blond she was talking about and quietly said, "Plenty." I didn't actually say the word, "Plenty." I just thought it. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Epilogue: I wish the story ended here but fat chance of that. We learn from the things we experience and it was evident I had a lot more to learn about girls.

Mohair & More (Part Two)   by Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I keep three journals. The first journal captures the events, feelings, highlights, regrets and things I am grateful for in my daily life. The second journal catches glimpses of my mistakes, my successes, my pathetic choices, and my dreams. The third journal details the secrets buried in the deepest chamber of my heart. Last week I shared with you the first portion of an article taken from the category called pathetic choices. Today's continuation of that article will not make sense unless you have read Mohair & More (Part One).  My purpose in sharing this story with you is two fold.  First, I desire to put a smile on your face as I share my experience and secondly, I hope to unlock your memories and encourage you to reflect upon some of the choices you made in your youth.

To refresh your memory, last week the story ended with me pinned against the wall by Judy's pyramids and her glaring gaze as she took the opportunity to point out a few of my weaknesses. You might as well know from the start that I never saw Judy in that mohair sweater again. So, if your sole purpose in reading this article is to learn more about tight fitting sweaters and pyramids you will be disappointed.  Although Judy never wore the mohair sweater again I did get the courage to ask her what happened to it.  

My story continues . . .

If Judy had been a guy instead of a girl when she said those hateful things about my girlfriend Karen, my response would have been quite different. When she made those accusations it just helped me realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life like Karen. When Judy asked me what Karen had that she didn't have and my answer was, "Plenty," I wasn't referring to how she filled out a sweater. She was skinny. I made the mistake once of calling her a toothpick. For you guys still in the learning curve, that kind of comment won't get you to first base. But this all happened before I understood that dating was like a baseball game; first base, second base, etc. Karen may have been thin but she had plenty to offer. She played varsity volleyball and basketball, rode a horse like she was born on one and won many awards competing in rodeo events on her horse called King, but most important of all, she was willing to spend her high school years wearing my ring around her neck. Well, she wore my ring except for the times she took it off when I did stupid things like allowing Judy to do my geometry homework.

Actually Karen didn't find out about my deal with Judy until much later. After Judy confronted me in the hallway I was certain that my homework arrangement with her was terminated. She probably went home that night and burned my homework folder. But there was several weeks left in the term so I could still make up all those assignments if I had to. The optimum thing would be for Judy to just hand my homework over to me and tell me that she wasn't going to do the assignments anymore. Was I surprised! The next day when the teacher passed out the homework pages, Judy took two sets of homework just like before. She made sure that I saw what she had done. I guess we were going to be friends whether I went to the Girl's Preference dance with her or not. Like I said before, she had plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance. Judy even passed me a note and apologized for what she had said about Karen. This was turning out sweeter than I could have ever imagined. After a couple of weeks I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever get to see her in that mohair sweater again. No one ever went blind or got their fingers broken for just looking.

Things couldn't be better. The school term was ending and it was time to take the geometry final. The teacher's method for computing our class grade was simple. One third of our grade was an average of the midterm and final test scores. Another third of the grade was the average of our pop quizzes. I don't know why the teacher called them pop quizzes. We had a quiz every Monday and Thursday. These quizzes weren't just randomly popping up. The quiz might come at the first of class or toward the end but bet-your bottom-dollar you weren't leaving her class on those two days without being quizzed. Our homework folder constituted the last third of our grade. As I said before, things were looking good. I had a B+ average on my quizzes and I had an A- on my midterm.

As the teacher passed out the papers for our geometry final, Judy slipped me a note. On the front of the note were the words, Read this before you start your test. Opening the note it said, I thought you should know before you take your test that I threw your homework folder away last night.   I looked over at her in hopes of seeing that familiar smile on her lips to let me know that she was just playing a joke on me. Her head was down and she had already begun taking her test. I quickly looked away for fear that the teacher might think I was trying to cheat by looking at her test answers. As I tried to concentrate on my test I kept telling myself that she must be kidding.

I finished my final before Judy did but I stayed at my desk and waited for her to complete her test. I was in hopes that we could talk about the true whereabouts of my homework folder. As she gathered up her books and turned in her test papers along with her homework folder, I followed her out of the classroom. The teacher called after me and asked where my homework folder was. I turned back momentarily and told the teacher that I had an urgent matter to take care of and I continued out the door. Lucky for me the teacher didn't say anything else.

Looking down the hall both ways I spotted Judy. I ran and caught up with her. "I need my homework folder," I said. The moment she opened her mouth I knew I was dead. Well, not actually dead dead but when mom got my geometry report card I might as well be dead. I would be grounded for life: no car privileges, no dates, and no life for me except school, church and chores. I never did anything bad enough to get grounded from church. I wonder how bad I would have to be for mom to say, "Mack, you can't attend church for three months." Mom and I once had a discussion about that very subject. She informed me that the only way I would get out of my church meetings was to be dead. Well, I wasn't going to kill myself over a bad grade in geometry.

I won't bore you with the details of what Judy shared with me there in the hallway about my shortcomings as a human being but her words are still etched on the wall of my brain like an ancient pictograph. Suffice it to say she made it abundantly clear that I would never see that homework folder much less use it to obtain a grade I did not earn and did not deserve. Her choice of words, earn or deserve, were puzzling to me. If I had agreed to go to the Girl's Preference dance with her, would I have earned and deserved my homework folder? If I had gone to her home after school and checked out my folder, would I have earned and deserved my folder?

Shake it off, let it go, get on with finding a solution to my problem, I thought. The solution certainly wasn't going to come from Judy. I went back to the teacher and told her I had misplaced my folder and would need some time to find it. She said I had one day to get that folder on her desk or I would fail the term. I failed the term. It was the first "F" of my school career. I couldn't imagine all the changes that were going to occur in my life over this one tiny "F". Why is it that something so unimportant to one person can be so catastrophic to another? Maybe mother was faking and pretending to be more upset about my past grades than she really was in hopes of motivating me to do better. No, her face got too red for her to be faking.    

Our grades came out on three by five cards printed by the school. The front of the card was divided into the three terms of the semester and this is where the teacher recorded our term grades. The back of the card was for a parent's signature indicating that the grade had been reviewed. We had three days to return the report cards to the teachers. I tucked my report cards in my shirt pocked and headed home dreading the look on mom's face when she saw that "F". I had to do something. Mother didn't deserve the unhappiness my geometry grade was going to cause.

A beautiful thought entered my mind. I pulled the cards back out of my pocket and studied how the teacher had formed the letter "F" in the grade column. Sure enough, I could take a black pen and by just adding one line to that letter "F" it would transform into an "A". My problem was solved. You know the saying: what mom doesn't know won't hurt me. Mother signed the back of my report card and I promptly threw it away and told the teacher that I lost it. Lucky for me the teacher didn't call mom to verify that she had seen my report card.

I knew from a previous experience when I really did loose a report card that the teacher would not take the time to re-write all the information of previous term grades. With a B+ for the first term and an F for second term, I figured I could still pass the semester. There wasn't anything to get too excited about. Lying to the teacher and lying to mom by changing my grade was painful but not as painful as the truth would have been. If mom wasn't so strict I could afford to be more honest. My plan worked like an accomplished musician playing a precision instrument. Mom was happy. I was happy.

Epilogue: Happy endings are sometimes not an ending at all but just a momentary euphoria. I didn't realize it at the time but I had merely postponed a battle that could have easily escalated into my personal Armageddon, that final battle spoken of in the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Mom had an unbelievable memory. At the end of the semester she wanted to know how I could end up with a "C" in geometry when my three term grades had been B+, A and A. I decided enough time had passed that it wouldn't be a big deal for her to know what I had done so I told the truth. Boy, was that a mistake. I thought she would be proud of the way I buckled down and saved my geometry grade. Talk about a big deal! You would have thought I carved my initials in my little sister's arm the way mother acted. I have forgotten now how many things I was grounded from but I do remember that church wasn't one of them.   

I continued to sit next to Judy and in time we became friends again. I once asked her why she never wore the mohair sweater anymore. "Are you stupid? It's hot out side. Besides, mother said it was too small and made me give it to my little sister." I missed that mohair sweater but I never mentioned it to Karen. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you are trying to get to second base.

No Talking Allowed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Peering down from my hiding place I see far below a gentle surf lapping against the white sandy beach. The receding waves act like the tongues of thirsty dogs licking at the sand. As each wave releases its energy and slides back into the sea it carries with it part of this beach that is the front door to my view of the world.

But it isn’t just sand being drawn into the ocean that alters the view from my front door. Everything around me is in constant change if I just stand still long enough to notice. Maybe the fact that I have to stay very still and I am not allowed to speak to anyone gives me more time to watch the events taking place before me. Sometimes I feel like a spy looking down on the lives of people way down there on the beach. I can see them but they have no idea my eyes are upon them so they do things that they otherwise might not do.

As the sun was breaking over the distant horizon this morning I strained to bring into focus a jogger coming down the beach. Running alongside of him was a large black dog. The dog wasn’t on a leash although this beach had a strict leash-law. Occasionally the jogger would stop, pick up a piece of drift wood and toss it into the surf for the dog to chase after. The jogger and his dog were having a great time.

Almost right down in front of my hiding place the dog stopped and eliminated the remains of what must have been a large meal from the previous evening. What the dog did was perfectly normal behavior for a dog. The jogger stood patiently by as the dog finished his business. I saw that the man had a plastic bag tucked inside the waist band of his jogging shorts. That plastic bag was for the purpose of complying with another beach law, “scoop it up and pack it out” so the beach can remain clean and beautiful for other visitors to the sand of the seashore.

The dog completed his task and returned to his playful manner, coaxing his master to chase and play in the surf once more. The jogger looked down at the soiled beach but instead of retrieving his dog’s “beach present,” I noticed that he looked one way and then the next, searching for what I could only guess was to see if someone else on the beach might have seen what transpired. I can’t judge what was in his mind; I can only observe his actions. I looked both ways down the beach also and saw that it was deserted all except for me hiding way up above out of the jogger’s view. When he side-stepped the mess his dog left on the beach I wanted to shout down and tell him to clean up after his dog but I remained silent. I remembered one of the rules of my hiding place, no talking allowed. No one asked or wanted me to be the “Beach Gestapo” or “Poop Patrol.” I was only allowed to silently observe and there were many things to notice.

That huge orange ball we call the sun quickly pulled itself free of the horizon and began its steady climb into the sky, bringing with it the warmth of another beautiful summer day at the beach. I wondered what visitors would come to my front door of the world today. I had been so intent upon watching the jogger with his dog I had forgotten to turn off my lamp. I had left my light burning all night because I love to watch the light chase away the darkness. Some would call leaving my light on a waste of energy but I don’t tell others what to do with their light just like I didn’t remind the jogger of the “scoop-it-up and pack-it-out” rule of the beach.

I was anxious to see more visitors to the beach but I knew I would have to be patient. They didn’t come to entertain me; they didn’t even notice me. But not noticing me was okay. If visitors to the beach didn’t notice me, they would be themselves, acting just like the jogger who didn’t clean up after his dog because no one was looking.

My next visitors were two women taking a morning stroll. I imagined them to be vacationers who had grown tired of the novels they were reading back at their beach house and the sound of the surf had invited them to take a leisure walk. They looked happy and were enjoying one another’s company. They carried their sandals in their hands and walked barefoot in the wet sand letting the dying energy of the waves wash over their feet. I could see their lips moving and I strained to hear what they were saying but the sound of the surf muffled their voices. I knew I was too far away to hear what was being said so I just made up pleasant words and placed them on their lips.

The lady closest to the water was wearing a white swimsuit with blue markings. She had on a white blouse unbuttoned down the front that shielded her shoulders from the morning sun. Her shirttails flapped in the coastal breeze like the wings of a seagull taking flight. She had blonde hair and a smile that would melt your heart. She looked familiar but I was sure I had not seen her pass this way before or I would have remembered her. Her figure was filling out in places she would probably rather ignore but that didn’t matter to me. I am old enough to understand that a soft glance and a gentle touch are remembered by the senses long after the footprints in the sand are washed away by the incoming tide. And as long as I have been watching this beach, the tide has ebbed and flowed, washing away any evidence of trespassers on nature. I decided to name this lady Soft & Gentle for how she made me feel as I touched her with my eyes.

The other lady, the one closest to me, was much thinner and walked as though she wanted someone to notice her. She looked like she could go the distance . . . like a runner or an aerobics instructor. Her swimsuit was color coordinated in cream and copper to match a perfectly tanned body. I instantly nicknamed her Tanned & Toned. Here I was watching Soft & Gentle walking with Tanned & Toned as they strolled along the beach of life. I felt somewhat guilty tucked away in my hiding place and observing their every move. I wasn’t trying to deprive these two ladies of their privacy, I just enjoyed watching them as they leisurely strolled along the beach in what I called the front door to my world. I knew the pleasure of their company wouldn’t last long. They would soon be out of sight and I could only hope that they would pass by me on their return to their beach house. I wanted to run down to the beach before they came by again and remove the dropping left by the jogger’s dog but I couldn’t. I wasn’t on beach patrol; besides I wasn’t allowed to leave my hiding place.

I loose track of the days here in the cliff above the beach below. Today is either a holiday or the weekend because people began to show up just after lunch and stake out their own private spot of beach. They plopped down coolers, lawn chairs, towels and food baskets of all shapes and sizes. A volleyball net was set up for afternoon entertainment. This was turning into a wonderful way to pass the hours that can be sheer boredom when the beach is deserted. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the private solitude that a quiet beach can invite. I’m just suggesting that there can be a healthy balance between solitude and life-in-motion. With the erection of that volleyball net I knew instantly that there would be a lot of life in motion today. There would be young women in smaller than practical bikinis revealing enough of their assets to distract their male counterparts in the volleyball game. I wasn’t disappointed as the afternoon crowd gathered and the flirtation games began. Remember, disappointment comes from unmet expectations. Although the scenery was pleasant I felt a little saddened that so much emphasis is placed on physical appearance. But looking beyond the physical appearance is easier for an older generation where there have been too many cookies and milkshakes to tuck into a bikini or a Speedo.

I didn’t learn too much from this festive party because they were too busy worrying about how they looked to their friends. If you want to discover who someone really is, watch them when they think no one is looking. Like the little boy looking to make sure his mother wasn’t watching before he picked his nose. The only person who would chastise him was his mother, consequently; she was the only person who counted as he turned his back to her and performed his nasal ritual. Ten years from now when he would be one of the young men playing sand volleyball, wearing his Speedo and flexing his budding muscles, he wouldn’t dare put his finger anywhere near his nose for fear someone would have the slightest suspicion he was digging in that direction. Oh, the things we do when we think no one is looking. But today I was looking from my hiding place high up in the rocks above this happy crowd.

As afternoon burned into evening and most of the beach goers had retreated to their cars and headed for home, some lingered and built a campfire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs. From high up in my hiding place above the beach they became dancing shadows against the flames of the fire. I could still see their faces in the flickering light. One couple in particular stood out to me as I watched their eyes meet and lock on one another for long moments. I played a game in my mind and chose them to be the last hangers-on. In other words, no matter how long it took or how late it got these two would be the last ones to leave so that they could enjoy the quiet peaceful darkness together. I did not know what would happen once they were alone but I did know that there would be an expression of their feelings for one another.

I was right about the couple, not because I am smart but because I have observed visitors to the beach on other occasions. The pattern is the same. Once they are alone, they begin to explore each other physically or mentally or both. Tonight it was physical. The couple first sat by the dying fire and held each other close. Gradually as the fire turned to nothing more than glowing embers, they slid off the log they were sitting on and laid next to one another in the damp sand. It was only by a sliver of moon that I was able to see that things were taking place down on that beach that were meant for their eyes only. I know that a better one than I would have turned away and given them their privacy but instead, I turned on my light and let it shine down upon them. You see, I am a lighthouse and I am not allowed to talk. But I can turn on my light and chase away the darkness.

That is what I do each evening as I try to help others find their way on the darkest of nights. Some are caught in the unsuspected light, surprised and possibly embarrassed like the couple lying in the sand below. Others are grateful for that beacon that can guide them safely home. I could not leave the light off to accommodate the couple on the beach for fear that someone else was lost and floundering in a dark unfriendly sea. I started to name this article “If Lighthouses Could Talk,” but then it would have given away my hiding place. If a lighthouse could talk, think of the stories it would have to tell. If it could write, think of the pages of journals that a lighthouse could fill. If a lighthouse had a heart, imagine all the romantic sunsets it would experience.