"Love in Ink: A Story From Childhood"
When Bobby was eight years old and in the third grade at Meadowbrook School he fell in love. He fell in love with Patsy Spraig. He could not help it.
Who can say the why of these things? Love is love. Right!? Maybe it was because Patsy was just the right height. Maybe because she was smart. After all she always raised her hand when the teacher, Miss Mish, asked a question. Others of us, when a question was asked of the class, would hide our heads low, snicker to each other and call Miss Mish, “MISH MISH,” then giggle some more.
Bobby was always getting into trouble for laughing, or talking when one was supposed to be quiet. Miss Mish said he did not know how to whisper. He was born with a loud bass voice and his voice never changed. He got good grades on his studies but always bad grades on “deportment.” Miss Mish would send his report card home, writing on it things like: “Bobby was making noises with his mouth by putting his lips together and blowing to sound like it might when one lets air out of an inflated balloon,” or “Bobby is filling his cheek with air, then thumping the side of his cheek so clicks and animal sounds would come out, ” or “Bobby is making faces and noises at the other children to get them to laugh during class time.”
But he had fallen in love now. Perhaps that would change everything – EVERYTHING! Billy Thomas said Bobby liked Patsy because she had long long blond hair tied in the back in one sesquipedalian hair tail. Billy was Bobby’s intellectual friend. “Sesquipedalian” is a long word for a short word; the word, “long.”
Anyway, Bobby had fallen, was smitten, fell like a ton of bricks, was head over heels; that is to say, Bobby loved Patsy. He wanted to tell her that, but eight-year old boys in the south in that day would never say such a thing. Only sissies talked about “luuuu-ve.”
So what could Bobby do to show his love? Well, let me tell you. In the third grade in Miss Mish’s class each child had one of those old-fashioned desks with the desk part you sat under, with its wooden surface you could raise to put books in, and, at the front of each desk on the top there was an ink well. When you had an ink writing assignment you would dip your pen into the inkwell when it needed ink and write with the pen.
And Patsy had this sesquipedalian pigtail and there was the ink. So convenient, and Bobby had long since managed to get the desk right behind Patsy’s, so what could a smitten boy do to show his affection? Naturally, he took hold of Patsy’s pigtail and carefully, so she would not know it was happening, dipped it well into the ink receptacle. Wonderful! Immediately, a blue-tipped blond hirsutulous (that means hairy) paintbrush-like pigtail.
At this there was no snickering. There was out and out laughter from the boys, embarrassment with Patsy, anger from Miss Mish and the double dog house for Bobby. Well, the ink would wash out, most of it, in time it would. But Bobby had to go see the principal and take a note home; he was moved to a desk in the very front row immediately under Miss Mish’s eye; and Patsy, his love, would not speak to him.
“What is it about women anyway?” He wondered. “What do they want? How could he have let her know he cared?”
These and many more wonderments occupied poor Bobby’s head for quite some time after the hirsute (hair) incident. He was mooning over Patsy and his guilt every day. He even stopped making noises and talking in class. Now Bobby could have found a way to disrupt the class even sitting there as he was in front of Miss Mish when she would go to the blackboard for example. But, no, he had lost the ability to be a cut-up. He must have really been depressed.
Bobby wasn’t depressed. At least he would never admit it. He was trying to think of a way to make it all right with Patsy Spraig. The chance came, he thought, when George Bowden’s older brother, Powell, said George and Bobby might go with him in his rowboat “up the river.” The river was a small tributary that emptied into the big Elizabeth River, actually down river about a mile from where Bobby and George lived in Meadowbrook. And just where the two rivers came together, up behind a stone and concrete bulkhead in a large house on a great lawn lived Patsy Spraig. Maybe Bobby could get Patsy’s attention from the boat and she would forgive him, seeing that he had gone out of his way to some down river to see her.
The boys started out rowing, first Powell who was older and stronger, then the two eight-year olds, one on each side with an oar for each. As they neared Patsy’s house they put up the sail. It was not a sail boat, but Powell had rigged a sheet on some poles and a sort of rudder in the back, and the awkward little rowboat would move along reasonably well with the wind behind it.
It was springtime. Luckily, Patsy was outside around the gardens helping her mother when the guys hove into view. “Patsy! Patsy! The younger kids yelled, trying to get her attention.
“It’s Bobby and George. Come see the boat.”
Patsy’s father had a real sailboat along the dock from their bulkhead. Why would she come over to see an old rowboat with a sheet for a sail?
They had to do something. Powell asked, “You want to show her what we can do? Huh?”
“Yes,” said Bobby.
Patsy wasn’t even looking. Well, it seemed as though she was not. Powell pushed the rudder and started to tack across the water towards Patsy’s dock. The wind was pretty strong now, gusting considerably. They were heeling over and sailing up a storm and Bobby called Patsy, “Patsy! Patsy!”
No response. Patsy’s mother had gone in the house now but Patsy Spraig was still outside with her gardening – or that is what she wanted the boys to think. She would not look at them … barely stealing a glance anyway.
“Patsy, look at this!” shouted Bobby, as he stood up in the boat, he held onto one of the lines and leaned over far out over the side of their healing vessel.
“Bobby, get down!” demanded Powell, “DOWN!”
But it was too late. A strong gust of wind came, the boat tipped wildly and threw a surprised Bobby into the “drink.” The water was cold. He had all his clothes on, shoes, too. He was swimming, after a fashion, but drinking in gulps of river water, too. “Glug … help … glug … hulp me!
Powell’s boat had sailed off on another tack as he attempted to bring it around to pick up Bobby. Meanwhile Bobby was trying to get to the Spraig’s dock, sputtering, flailing, paddling, kicking, bubbling, sinking, and rising all the way.
Then out of the garden and down the great lawn came Patricia to the rescue, flying she was. You never saw an eight-year old girl run so fast … ZOOM! Out onto the dock she plummeted bending to scoop the lifesaver and its line from the nail on one of the pilings.
“Bobby! Oh!” she called. “Grab the lifesaver. See the lifesaver?”
She threw the ringed buoy with its line like she was a mighty discus thrower. It sailed out over the river – out to the water a few feet from Bobby.
“Grab it,” she screamed by now, “grab it!” And as he was sinking beneath the surface, Bobby managed to sputter and paddle his way just far enough to reach out and seize the ring! Wow! Now Patsy started to pull, to haul his leaden weight into the dock … and she did it, too, all by herself!
Bobby lay on the dock coughing and spitting water from his lungs, looking up with bleary eyes upon this angel … seemed like an angel to him, an angel named Patricia Morton Spraig. Oh, yes, he knew her whole name. He had tired to learn everything about her.
Bobby looked up and said, “Pat … Patsy, I am sorry I put your hair in the inkwell. I … I …”
“Never do that again,” insisted Patsy, looking down at him.
But she was smiling so sweetly he thought he was going to turn into treacle. (Ever since he had seen that word, meaning ‘molasses’ in a book of British stories he enjoyed using the word, “treacle.” He thought it sounded naughty, which is why he liked it, but it was not.) He did not say “treacle” to Patsy. He just said “I love ink. I mean I love hair. Inking hair … is lovely … you are … I mean, Patsy, you know …”
Now what do you expect already? That an eight-year old boy would be able to tell an eight-year old girl how much he truly loved her? In Norfolk, Virginia? Back there in … must have been the Victorian Age?
Doesn’t matter. They both knew. And Bobby walked home after waving to George and Powell – walked all the way home, squishing in his wet shoes into the kitchen, smiling all the way.
“What on earth happened, Bobby?” asked his mother.
“I just slipped, at the edge of the river, you know … but somebody pulled me out right away. Gets slippery down by the river."
His mother sent him packing to take a bath and dry off. She did not quiz him any more. She had four boys and the tales they told and the adventures they had were a bit much to keep up with.
But one thing teased at Bobby’s mama. She could not imagine why he was grinning ear to ear … was still grinning at suppertime, went to bed with a smile. And when she looked in on him later – when he was sound asleep – he had a look of bliss upon his happy countenance that could only have been put there, she thought, by an angel.
hummerlady wrote
jamoore wrote
A great love story!
Posted on Fri, Sep 05, 2008
Fantastic!
Posted on Thu, May 08, 2008