Arrested Development
Caught in the Act
It's hard to believe it was just 60 years ago that I went with my friends to a popular hideaway where couples parked in cars to snuggle and smooch. There, I put my viola (the larger, deeper, and more soothing cousin of the violin) to my chin and played "The Anniversary Waltz. I'm sure a few of those young lovers still remember. Perhaps not fondly.
Having recently reconnected with a few old (I mean that literally) schoolmates back in the Midwest, I was suddenly visited by a vivid memory of how my theatrical mates and I spent some weekend nights of our senior year demonstrating our talents and immaturity.
From the distance of time, I can understand our behavior. We were high school performers – actors, orchestra and band members, stars of the Speech Club, and so full of ourselves. We bonded around competition for roles and attention and performances that somehow proved we were important. A few of us (not me) were also high academic achievers and scholarship recipients.
Living in a small city on the banks of the Mississippi, recreational activities were limited. Unless you count riding a public bus or ice skating in the gutters. As a creative clan of seniors (I mean the first time around, not our current status), it was often up to us to invent our own weekend activities. One boy had access to a family car and a driver's license (a rarity in those days). That vehicle entrusted to the son of a prominent resident was our key to nighttime adventure.
After dark, we'd drive around parking lots at Lake Winona – a puddle compared to lakes I'd later see outside our sheltered town. We'd next drive up the only real hill in town to look at the city lights and holler out over the edge of a cliff where we'd certainly die should we slip. Both locations served as dark parking lots for couples dabbling in love, and that gave one of us an idea (It could have been me). I doubt the son of a high school teacher, or daughter of a dentist, or son of a business owner would have produced a plan so naughty and, in my mind, hilarious.
Let me describe the scene as I remember it before we wished our teachers and parents would forget. Garvin Heights was no more than a modest hilltop flattened out and paved to offer visitors a grand view of the valley with the rushing Mississippi winding through town and, eventually, to the Gulf of Mexico. On the far side of the view, Wisconsin's rolling bluffs framed the Mississippi Delta. It was lovely in the light of day when we could imagine floating down that mighty river to adventures in cities with more than a half dozen stoplights and a downtown shopping district over four blocks long.
At night, Garvin Heights offered other attractions, namely dark sanctuaries and distance from home. One tall street lamp cast a circular glow on the pavement. The rest of the hilltop was inky black, with only moonlight to hint at groves of tall oak trees. But once your eyes adjusted, it was easy to see a few cars parked a polite distance from one another. Our gang of five would park as far away from the street lamp as possible. We'd watch and wait – wait for the couples in the cars to feel safe and anonymous and wait for their car windows to steam up. That was the signal for the curtain to rise.
All car lights off, we silently opened all four doors. On cat feet, we spread out, with each of my friends carrying a roll of bright white toilet paper. In my hand was a German-made viola – a copy of Antonio Stradivarius himself - and a horse-hair bow.
With the enamored couple aware of nothing but their mutual attraction, my playmates quietly and artfully began wrapping the couple's car with toilet paper. I remember being very impressed with Don Burleigh's style. Tall, thin, and lithe, he danced around the target vehicle and delicately placed long trails of TP, dropping them like flower petals. That was the signal for my performance.
I lifted my viola to my chin and began to play. The deep resonance of the low G-string and crisp high pitch of the A-string broadcast the right song for the perfect moment:
"Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed,
We vowed our true love, though a word wasn't said.
The world was in bloom, there were stars in the skies
Except for the few that were there in your eyes."
Of course, we soon got a reaction from the startled and confused young couple. A signal for our ensemble to dash stage-left to our car into the shadows. We laughed all the way down the dark and winding road. Until the night we were caught. One of our targets followed us down, stopped at a gas station pay phone, and called the police. They arrived with sirens blaring and took us back to the station downtown. We sat together in a cold room with a bright, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, waiting for our parents and possibly the gas chamber. After apologies (and useless pleading), we were hauled home by angry and confused parents to face the music (as if the concert hadn't been enough).
Punishments were swift – detention for me (not my first) and for the first offenders as well. But Don, the dear and sensitive parking lot dancer, was dealt the cruelest of blows. The high school vice principal revoked his privilege to deliver the commencement speech at our upcoming graduation. Don cried. We hugged him. Apologized. He cried some more. He went back and begged to the principal himself. A straight 'A' student should get a break! He'd never ever do anything like that again. He was so sorry. He cried in front of the principal, who, to his credit, took mercy and restored Don's speaking privilege.
And Don kept his promise of a turnaround. I learned later that he'd devoted his life to others – signing up for the Peace Corps and spending many years in Africa and elsewhere helping others. I'd like to think his one brush with the law nudged him in that virtuous direction.
And the rest of us? We all reformed, though I still pick up a fiddle, play a few bars of The Anniversary Waltz, and occasionally enjoy being a prankster. Some people never learn.
Those were the days, my friends …. (Someone should write a song about that). Thanks as always for spending time with me. I’m astounded it’s already March, but I’m thrilled to still have you here with me. Please share my work with someone you feel might enjoy it, and remember, I have a very highly-rated mystery novel available HERE. A few comments from readers about The Song of Jackass Creek. And, send me your thoughts - darby@darbypatterson.com .
From Recent Reviews: “A fast and fun read without all the violence” /“Great characters, I feel like I know them” / “Please tell me it’s the start of a series” / “Please, Ms.Darby, write me another” / I hope this is the first of many more to come by this talented author.
