A Story without an Ending (Volume 1)

It's been a long and difficult road.

Hundreds of people gathered at this 125 acre public park to celebrate America's 211th birthday.   I was there for one reason.  It wasn't the fireworks.  Or a slice of Americana.  It wasn't about the volleyball, the ducks, the matching red, white and blue shirts by middle aged parents, or the traditional barbecuing.   

As I wandered this park with a purpose as Lee Greenwood's overplayed song loudly resonated in the background, I was determined to find her.  This was the summer of love and I would not be denied.

The beautiful thing about love at fifteen is everything.  It's intense.  Genuine.  Slightly myopic.  Moderately grandiose.  Extremely idealistic.   Fifteen is when romantics are born.  

Earlier that morning at church, she reassured me she would be there.  Sometimes, crushes are secrets.  This was the day to reveal it. 

God, I was nervous.  I was about to tell my future wife how I can't stop thinking about her.  I wrote a note to hand to her.  I talk a lot.  I talk fast.  I dominate conversations.  But I'm never quite good at saying what I mean to say.  I speak better on paper.  I'm less awkward on paper.  More honest.  Somewhere between corny and romantic.   That's okay.  I was fifteen.


Fourth grade, first kid who befriended me at my new school, Jason Knaup, died of leukemia.  They named the soccer field after him.  Jason field. 
I don't want to grow up and fall for the woman who only wants a man with a dick and a wallet.
Why don't I ever like upbeat, celebratory, happy music even when I'm in a good mood?
First two bucket items added:  Learn to skateboard and play the drums.

My mind wandered.  Tangents, to calm me.

As the sun began to set and she, nowhere to be found, I circled the lake repeatedly; getting lost in the sea of red, white and blue patriotic souls.  It wasn't meant to be, I guess.

We had a large blanket laid out on the slope of a grassy hill.  Everyone stared up at the fireworks and applauded.  I looked straight ahead.  Just hoping she would appear.

It was the best fourth of July of my life.
It was the worst fourth of July of my life.

That summer, I discovered who I am.  Thirty years later and I'm still that same kid.

As for her, she had a secret, too. 

At fifteen, secrets often go untold.  We learn to endure unrequited love and suffer in silence as insecurity mutes our lips. 

At fifteen, stories often don't have endings.


"You know, when you're little, you have more endurance than God is ever to grant you again. Children are man at his strongest. They abide."