The Ginger Flames of Youthful Love
A Shy Teenager Blows His Chance at Romance (And Thirty Years Later Gets it Right)
When you finish reading this light-hearted autobiographical account, I would be deeply grateful if you would:
So We must meet apart —
You there — I — here —
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are...
(Emily Dickinson)When I was a teenager, I joined my Catholic church’s youth group. Newly formed, the club was a rare attempt to reach out to the congregation’s younger members. Joining was a courageous thing for me to do because I was very shy and also because in my life the modeling for gregariousness was wanting; my parents had few friends, no social groups outside of family, and seldom indulged in extracurricular activities. There were eight of us children and I think my mother was too stressed out to think about anything beyond housework, food shopping, and chaos control. She complained about her kids’ laziness but offered few suggestions besides her oft-repeated complaint that her sons didn’t play sports “like those smart Lamb boys at church.” (Mr. Lamb was a deacon at our parish, and his sons had the looks, the brains, and the physical prowess.)
The leader of the youth group, Father Byington, organized a bicycle trip to Martha’s Vineyard. Now, bicycling, I could do. Bicycling was one sport I was good at! So I joined a dozen other teens for a three-day adventure. It was a fifty-mile bike ride to the ferry terminal in Woods Hole, a cozy little village on the tip of a remote Cape Cod peninsula, and then an exciting forty-five-minute ocean journey to Oak Bluffs, a historic and quaint settlement on the island. We fed French fries to the hungry seagulls that soared alongside the ship, snatching the scraps right out of our fingers, then swooping away. Our bicycles were stored below decks along with dozens of cars and trucks.
Oak Bluffs is home to a couple of National Historic Landmarks: the Flying Horses Carousel, which, along with its twin in Rhode Island, is the oldest carousel in the United States, and Wesleyan Grove, a Christian camp meeting ground that is home to hundreds of multi-colored gingerbread cottages. The town itself has been, according to Wikipedia, “a historically important center of African American culture since the eighteenth century.” It also happens to be the place where I first discovered New York bagels smeared with cream cheese. Who knew?
There were more boys than girls in our coterie, and likely all were in the midst of the confusing impulses of puberty, so it’s no wonder that although I don’t remember where we slept (boys well separated from girls, I’m sure, else I think my memory would be clearer), I certainly remember this one redheaded beauty who captured all the boys’ hearts. She was tall, with long flowing hair. She was that kind of affable, intelligent, self-assured woman who puts on no airs and doesn’t need to. It’s strange that I say “woman” instead of girl—she couldn’t have been more than sixteen. But to us boys, or at least to me, she was a woman.
I remember a group of us were sauntering down one of the narrow cottage-lined side streets in Oak Bluffs, heading toward the town center, likely to ride the carousel or get some ice cream. She could have been the pied piper, or Julie Andrew’s Maria with her seven singing sycophants, the way the boys swarmed her as we walked. I was embarrassed and self-conscious. Of course, I wanted to be near her, too, but I didn’t want her to think I was just another dog sniffing around, interested in one thing only. So, I detached myself from that throng of zealous pups, and walked a few paces to the side. Silly boy. Self-consciousness is a romance killer, I know that. I surely know that!
If this were a teen film script, I would find myself unexpectedly sitting near her at the ice cream shop later, as all the other boys made fools of themselves in the street, or we would be the only two who skipped riding the carousel. We’d sit on a steel park bench overlooking the harbor—quietly at first, while calliope music and laughter floated faintly on the salty air, then exchanging some awkward observations; we’d accidentally discover we both liked Emily Dickinson, or S. E. Hinton; and then we’d open up to each other; we’d talk for hours while the moon reflected on the shimmering black sea. Finally, we’d part, both wanting to kiss but each inwardly conceding to wait until next time. We’d agree to sit together on the ferry ride home in the morning.
I don’t even remember her name now. She didn’t go to my school, and the youth group kind of dissipated after that one trip. I never saw her again.
But I did end up marrying a girl with long red hair. And when that didn’t work out, I went off and found myself, grew stronger and more self-confident. And then I married another woman with long red hair. We’re married still, and she—Jennifer—is smart, dynamic, creative, and my best friend.
Last year we took the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard and rode the Flying Horses Carousel. And had some ice cream!
BOOK RECOMMENDATION
I recently began reading Where Are You? A Beginner’s Guide to Advanced Spirituality by
. This book has captured me so completely that I have put all other books aside for it. I had no idea that one of our own Substack writers had already contributed such profoundly fresh insights to the canon of “spiritual” literature. Dan’s book helps me to break through the sometimes painful veil of individuality toward a more balanced “unity consciousness.” Dan writes about life and spirituality in his Substack newsletter Not So Random Thoughts.https://bookshop.org/a/103929/9798985808100
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As the third redhead ( your present wife) in the story I have to say I’m glad you finally got it right, with me👩🦰💕. Wonderful story and writing as always. I listened to the audio.
"Self-consciousness is a romance killer." I don't know about that. If you did it right, the girls who liked the Woody Allen films from the '70s might have fallen for you. Of course there's no guarantee they would all be gingers.