|
CHAPTER 1
There is a certain time in your life when the intervention of fate or the choice of options dictates how your remaining days
will ultimately play out.
For me, it was the year of 1959.
Over time, I have often tried to steer a different course. But the winds of destiny always blew me back to where they
wanted me or, perhaps, where I've always been.
As I entered Pennsylvania from the south, driving northeast along Interstate 81, the events of that most memorable year
played over and over in my mind.
Forty-two years was a long time to hold onto a memory.
Would her diary still be there?
The time capsule that held the final words of my teenage love was buried beneath stone in the hills ahead. Until now,
I didn't have the courage to dig up the past. But if I was serious about writing a book about that year, I would need Cathy's
diary for inspiration.
The exit for Barryton appeared in my headlights.
Should I turn around and go back to Florida?
No ... fate had already predetermined my course.
The miles ticked by, and my mind returned to that fateful year.
I can still remember that May when I turned seventeen. I was a tall, lanky kid with too many freckles for someone entering
manhood, and, being void of all self-esteem, I opted to impress my peers with wackiness rather than by any feats of intelligence,
strength, or daring. I discovered early on that girls liked guys with a sense of humor; so I used my one and only talent on
them whenever I had the opportunity.
However, attending an all-boy preparatory school run by the Jesuits left me little chance to ply my chosen trade. The
nearest females were the uniformed chaste girls of St. Martha's, a Catholic school directly across the street from Barryton
Preparatory. In desperation, on several occasions, I scaled the wire fence surrounding my eminent complex and made loud mating
calls, hoping one of the giddy girls marching in somber procession from church to school would look my way. But the holy nuns
had all the virgins in check, and when the pious "penguins" alerted Father "Tank" Clifford, the austere
Prefect of Discipline, it was detention for me ... once more.
"Killian!" Tank shouted. "Three days jug."
That's what it was called because the good Jesuits thought only a jughead would end up in detention. I thought it was
worth it though if it gave my peers a laugh, and helped me to put another crack in the armor of the establishment. Back then
I fancied myself as James Dean, a rebel without a cause; but, in reality, with my corduroy jacket and skinny tie and penny
loafers, I was just another preppy nerd.
But how I craved to go biking with Marlon Brando and his wild pals!
After I had served three years of solitary male confinement, I wanted out from that life of chastity and obedience. I
craved freedom. And, more importantly, I needed to experience what sex was all about.
That's when I met my first true love.
Her name was Cathy Thomas, a tall, lithe, long-legged lass with auburn hair and hazel eyes that seemed to say "Yes!"
even when her puckered lips murmured "No, no way." She was more coy than shy, and I reveled in the challenge to
capture her heart, and, of course, her body. She went to Holy Mary High School on the west side of town, which was where I
lived with my family; in fact, I attended Holy Mary's grade school before being accepted at Barryton Prep, a prestigious institution
situated smack-dab in the center of town. My older brother, Edward, graduated from Prep with high honors four years before
I started my freshman year.
As for me, I gave up any hope of equaling his achievement by the end of my sophomore year when the grueling hours of study
had ultimately turned my brain into mush.
I guess I should mention, earlier that year, I also murdered my senile grandmother--a dastardly act that didn't help my
emotional state, I'm sure.
For more details on 1959, CLICK HERE!
Check out "Searching For Eldorado." A completely new revised edition.
|
