A Letter From The Editor
Here’s To The Messed-up
World of Romance?
M
4
y earliest impressions of romance
came from listening to jazz tunes,
Western music, seeing stage plays (my
parents took me to a Broadway play
when I was 10 months old and yes,
I remember it). I also got an impres-
sion of “real men,” from John Wayne
movies. My father was the ultimate
John Wayne fan, so I grew up on a
steady diet of his movies and waited
for two decades for some guy to tell me
that I’m mighty pretty when I’m mad
— it never happened. At least I never
suffered the blight of buying into the
“Disney Princess, Fairy Tale,” stuff.
Music my parents played in our
home had an important impact on the
way I view romance. I grew up on Bob
Wills’ music, Dixieland jazz and sultry
torch songs from the ‘20s, 30s and ‘40s.
Music was always playing in our house.
If it wasn’t songs about guys navigat-
ing through miles and mile of Texas
(clearly a truly manly endeavor,) it was
about that lonely feeling you get while
wrangling cattle late at night, in the
dark while you’re, er ah, well alone.
The jazzy torch songs would be about
passion, fever, or how the singer can’t
help loving that man, even though he
was something of a scoundrel.
The best impression of romance
came from my parents and my aunt
and her hubby.
My parents would spontaneously
slow dance in our living room when
I was little, most often when the song
played, “Can’t Help Falling in Love
with You.”
They met in St. Louis while they
were each volunteers in preconven-
tion work, preparing for a huge Bible
conference. They had the perfect Meet-
Cute. Mother lived in St. Louis. She was
driving her car on convention errands.
My father was a Texan, assigned to
her car group. After they traveled a
couple of miles he told her, “Pull over.
Let me drive. You’re the most timid
driver I’ve ever seen.” She was insulted,
appalled, and fell completely, totally in
love. They eloped three months later.
My grandmother didn’t approve of my
father, who was a bit of a rowdy ranch
kid, whom she pronounced, “an uncivi-
lized rustic,” adding that the marriage
would never last.
They were crazy about each other
for the 53 years they had together. Up
to the day my father died, there was
nothing they’d rather do than spend
time together. To me, that’s romance.
My Aunt Evelyn was married to
a devastatingly handsome man with
blonde hair and green eyes. She grew
up during the Depression and although
her parents fared better than most fami-
lies of that era, she only had one doll
— it was a very nice doll, but it was an
only child. She had no stuffed animals.
Once she married Bobby, he would
buy pricey, gorgeous dolls for her to
make up for all the dolls she didn’t
have when she was a little girl. I always
thought that was romantic and sweet.
I was in the fourth grade by the time
I had my first big brush with romance.
A big, burly classmate of mine sudden-
ly started following me home and
half way there he began insulting me,
hitting and kicking me. One day he
followed this repertoire up by knocking
my books out of my arms, then kick-
ing me when I went to retrieve them. I
had bruises forming on my legs. It was
upsetting, but I managed to maintain
my dignity by clawing the bejezzers
out of him. I went for his eyes, but I
could only reach his cheeks. He started
whaling and I grabbed my books and
left him crying on the sidewalk.
When I finally made it home, I
told my mother. She worried that she’d
get a call from the boy’s mother, who
outweighed her by 40 pounds and
stood a head taller. Mother wondered
if she should call the boy’s parents and
set up a meeting with them. She decid-
ed against it.
It didn’t worry me, because I was
right and assumed in the scheme of
things everyone would magically know
that. After all, right always wins out,
doesn’t it? Remember, I was only nine.
My father came home and I told
him what happened.
He laughed, “Good! Serves him
right for picking on a girl. You’re twice
the man he is.” I was delighted. Obvi-
ously, my grandmother was correct,
Daddy was something of an uncivilized
rustic and I couldn’t have been more
pleased.
I realized that it was his personality
that I inherited. Excellent!
My mother told me that the whole
kicking, insulting and biting thing —
that was all a part of how little boys
showed their deep admiration for the
girls they found to be attractive. “He’s
behaving that way because he’s in love
with you,” she said. “That’s the way
little boys act when they’re smitten
with a girl.”
“Smitten?” I replied, “Well, then,
he’s an idiot! I never want to see him
again.”
I snubbed him the rest of fourth
grade, all through sixth grade and into
the seventh grade.
When we were in eighth grade, the
burly blonde guy became a different
person. He was suddenly the perfect
gentleman. One day he offered to carry
my books home for me. By then, all the
girls thought he was “cute,” — all the
girls except me.
I still thought of him as a bully and
I reminded him of that day four years
earlier when he hit me, kicked me and
knocked books out of my arms.
His face turned red. “Yeah,” he
said. “I don’t know why I did that. I
had a little crush on you.” He was star-
ing at his oversized, shuffling feet.
For a moment I felt sort of sorry for
him, then I said, “You certainly had a
crappy way of showing it.” Then I let
him carry my books. Somehow, during
that walk home, we became friends.
We still are.
Thanks for Reading,
Marsha Brown,
Editor-in-Chief and Publisher,
Parker County Today Magazine