I'm 6 feet 1 inch tall.
And a girl.
Because I'm taller than almost everyone, the playing field for boyfriends is narrowed considerably. Dad leads me to believe otherwise as he sits down with me on the eve of my departure to Kearney State College.
I am a good Catholic girl, he reminds me. I am never ever to forget it, he warns sternly.
"College boys are crazy to have sex," he finally says with difficulty as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Horrified, I wish to be anywhere but in this stifling living room with my red-faced father who can't leave his collar alone.
"Remember who you are and where you come from," he finishes abruptly.
We share an awkward hug.
"Take care of yourself," Dad mutters in a choked voice that is distinctly emotional.
Bless my good dad. As soon as I arrive at Kearney State that fall of 1973, I am carefully alert for boys who will be wanting sex with me. Not a single salivating male seems remotely interested in carnal desires of the flesh. I am vastly relieved and slightly disappointed.
My only serious boyfriend in college is a sophomore who embraces his religion with deep fervor and bears an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He wears a huge wooden cross on a chain around his neck and pauses to pray at inconvenient moments - like at cook outs or drive-in movie theaters. Ten minutes into Young Frankenstein, he bows reverently to thank the Almighty for Junior Mints.
Boyfriends are few and far between over the years. Suddenly, I am 28-years-old. My younger brother Rick marries his beautiful Jan the year after my little sister Deb and Brian tie the knot. Brother Mick and his wife already have two children - Jamie and Bobby - our very first adorable niece and nephew. Joe has a steady girlfriend, and even Dad has an active dating life. I feel exactly like a middle-aged mother whose children have left the nest.
The summer before I begin teaching my sixth year at Central Catholic High School, principal Hugh Brandon calls me into his office.
"Would you look at this?" He flips through an application on his desk and feigns surprise. "Here's a young fellow called John Howard who's applied for the history job. Let's see," Hugh studies the application carefully. "He's 29-years-old, single, and, oh!" He looks up innocently. "He's 6 feet 8." His eyes twinkle. "Should I hire him?"
Hugh and his wife Fran are two of the best friends I have in this world. He's messing with me, pure and simple.
"I don't care if he's a serial killer," I say. "Hire him."
Fortunately, Mr. Howard is not a serial killer. He is, however, a little insane.
He drives up the circle drive at Central Catholic the first day of school in a tiny blue Volkswagen Rabbit which appears to have been constructed by engineers around his body. One long arm hangs lazily out the tiny window with knuckles that nearly graze the street.
Mr. Howard is an immediate school sensation, and not only because of his remarkable stature. He teaches the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses. He pulls rubber chickens out of his desk. And one morning, late for class, he tries to scare his students by leaping explosively through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap explosively through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocks himself out.
We observe each other shyly those first few months, but my little sister Terri, a student in Mr. Howard's history class, decides to propel things along.
"You should ask my sister out," she tells him point blank. "You're both tall, you like to read, and your hair's the same color." She shrugs. "What else do you need?"
Four nights before Christmas, Nebraska endures one of the worst blizzards of the decade. School's been canceled for the following day, and I sit in my small living room wrapped in an old comforter listening to the wind howl. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I'm astonished to see Mr. Howard towering over my front door.
"What are you doing?" I gasp and pull him inside.
He stamps the snow off his feet. "Thought you might like to see a movie," he suggests casually.
I gape at the blowing snow. "You're kidding, right?"
He shrugs. "Why not?"
Against my better judgment, I slide into my coat and gloves, and the two of us, hunched low against the wind, fight our way to his little Volkswagen.
"I don't know," I hesitate. "Are you sure you can drive in this?" From inside the car, I peer out at the fading visibility.
"I can drive in anything," he says with a cocksure attitude as he backs out the driveway and promptly slides into the huge Buick parked across the street. The Buick is unharmed, fortunately, but Mr. Howard's car sports a deep half-moon dent.
We inch along to the theater to see Terms of Endearment, and, I'm ashamed to say, talk and laugh through the whole thing - even the death scene. But it doesn't matter since we're the only two people in attendance. Afterwards, we crawl along in his little car to a nearly empty bar and grill. Barely in the act of shedding our heavy coats and gloves, Mr. Howard leaps up.
"We have to go," he says. "I don't have any money."
"I have money," I protest.
But he won't hear of it. So out into the blizzard we go - this time to find a nearby ATM. ATM's, however, are relatively new, and I ask him if he's ever used one.
He stares at me in mock horror. "The audacity! I use 'em all the time!"
Apparently, he's never used this particular ATM. Sitting in the car, I watch him fight his way through the snow into the enclosed cubicle of the bank to do battle with the ATM. His card is returned not once, but three times, and he scratches his head in obvious bewilderment.
I laugh, and in a moment of crystal clear awareness, it hits me. One day I will marry that sweet, crazy man who now fumbles with the mysterious automated teller machine.
And I do - not quite a year later. Every kid in the school is invited.
Once, not too long ago, my grandmother tells me just before she dies that I will meet and marry somebody exactly like John Boy Walton. I hate John Boy Walton. Thankfully, Mr. Howard is not remotely like John Boy Walton.
But I love Mr. Howard. With all my heart, as a matter of fact. Even if I do call him John Boy.
And I know Grandma would love him, too.
And a girl.
Because I'm taller than almost everyone, the playing field for boyfriends is narrowed considerably. Dad leads me to believe otherwise as he sits down with me on the eve of my departure to Kearney State College.
I am a good Catholic girl, he reminds me. I am never ever to forget it, he warns sternly.
"College boys are crazy to have sex," he finally says with difficulty as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Horrified, I wish to be anywhere but in this stifling living room with my red-faced father who can't leave his collar alone.
"Remember who you are and where you come from," he finishes abruptly.
We share an awkward hug.
"Take care of yourself," Dad mutters in a choked voice that is distinctly emotional.
Bless my good dad. As soon as I arrive at Kearney State that fall of 1973, I am carefully alert for boys who will be wanting sex with me. Not a single salivating male seems remotely interested in carnal desires of the flesh. I am vastly relieved and slightly disappointed.
 |
| Jamie |
Boyfriends are few and far between over the years. Suddenly, I am 28-years-old. My younger brother Rick marries his beautiful Jan the year after my little sister Deb and Brian tie the knot. Brother Mick and his wife already have two children - Jamie and Bobby - our very first adorable niece and nephew. Joe has a steady girlfriend, and even Dad has an active dating life. I feel exactly like a middle-aged mother whose children have left the nest.
 |
| My little brother Rick and his gorgeous wife Jan, 1983. |
 |
| Bobby |
"Would you look at this?" He flips through an application on his desk and feigns surprise. "Here's a young fellow called John Howard who's applied for the history job. Let's see," Hugh studies the application carefully. "He's 29-years-old, single, and, oh!" He looks up innocently. "He's 6 feet 8." His eyes twinkle. "Should I hire him?"
Hugh and his wife Fran are two of the best friends I have in this world. He's messing with me, pure and simple.
"I don't care if he's a serial killer," I say. "Hire him."
Fortunately, Mr. Howard is not a serial killer. He is, however, a little insane.
He drives up the circle drive at Central Catholic the first day of school in a tiny blue Volkswagen Rabbit which appears to have been constructed by engineers around his body. One long arm hangs lazily out the tiny window with knuckles that nearly graze the street.
Mr. Howard is an immediate school sensation, and not only because of his remarkable stature. He teaches the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses. He pulls rubber chickens out of his desk. And one morning, late for class, he tries to scare his students by leaping explosively through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap explosively through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocks himself out.
We observe each other shyly those first few months, but my little sister Terri, a student in Mr. Howard's history class, decides to propel things along.
"You should ask my sister out," she tells him point blank. "You're both tall, you like to read, and your hair's the same color." She shrugs. "What else do you need?"
Four nights before Christmas, Nebraska endures one of the worst blizzards of the decade. School's been canceled for the following day, and I sit in my small living room wrapped in an old comforter listening to the wind howl. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I'm astonished to see Mr. Howard towering over my front door.
"What are you doing?" I gasp and pull him inside.
He stamps the snow off his feet. "Thought you might like to see a movie," he suggests casually.
I gape at the blowing snow. "You're kidding, right?"
He shrugs. "Why not?"
Against my better judgment, I slide into my coat and gloves, and the two of us, hunched low against the wind, fight our way to his little Volkswagen.
"I don't know," I hesitate. "Are you sure you can drive in this?" From inside the car, I peer out at the fading visibility.
"I can drive in anything," he says with a cocksure attitude as he backs out the driveway and promptly slides into the huge Buick parked across the street. The Buick is unharmed, fortunately, but Mr. Howard's car sports a deep half-moon dent.
We inch along to the theater to see Terms of Endearment, and, I'm ashamed to say, talk and laugh through the whole thing - even the death scene. But it doesn't matter since we're the only two people in attendance. Afterwards, we crawl along in his little car to a nearly empty bar and grill. Barely in the act of shedding our heavy coats and gloves, Mr. Howard leaps up.
"We have to go," he says. "I don't have any money."
"I have money," I protest.
But he won't hear of it. So out into the blizzard we go - this time to find a nearby ATM. ATM's, however, are relatively new, and I ask him if he's ever used one.
He stares at me in mock horror. "The audacity! I use 'em all the time!"
 |
| Mr. Howard and me - 1984, a few months before our wedding. |
I laugh, and in a moment of crystal clear awareness, it hits me. One day I will marry that sweet, crazy man who now fumbles with the mysterious automated teller machine.
And I do - not quite a year later. Every kid in the school is invited.
Once, not too long ago, my grandmother tells me just before she dies that I will meet and marry somebody exactly like John Boy Walton. I hate John Boy Walton. Thankfully, Mr. Howard is not remotely like John Boy Walton.
But I love Mr. Howard. With all my heart, as a matter of fact. Even if I do call him John Boy.
And I know Grandma would love him, too.
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