2016 Nov 6^th

Today calls for another non-political entry. This is a little personal memoir from anther collection of essays, “A Double Dozen and Six,” I wrote some years back.

Embarrassment

Everyone has the occasional awkward moment.  Once you get old enough to forget your friends’ names the potential for social embarrassment increases considerably. Fortunately, as one ages concern about these events decreases. The maximum susceptibility to embarrassment probably peaks in males at about age sixteen.  At that time, many events can produce the red face, upper lip perspiration, sweaty hands, and stammer so abhorrent to the adolescent. It is a positive feedback loop: The more red faced and sweaty the young man becomes, the more embarrassed he gets and the more… you see the predicament.

 I, myself, was once sixteen, and a potentially embarrassing event happened to me. It was during World War 2, a thrilling time to be alive. Many of my slightly older friends were going off to war. The Navy was a very popular haven for those who preferred to be comparatively comfortable until they were killed.  Because of the Navy’s popularity with the local youth, a Sea Scout troop was formed for older boys and was very heavily subscribed. It was just like the Boy Scouts except it concentrated on seamanship instead of woodman-ship. Many of my friends were members.

I was a newcomer to the community. I lived in a hamlet five miles from the high school and took the school bus to and from school.  I was a Boy Scout and the junior assistant scoutmaster of the local troop.  Indeed, I was an Eagle Scout with many, many merit badges. These emblems are sewn onto a sash that is worn over the shoulder of one’s uniform. The Eagle award itself is a very attractive silver eagle dangling from a red, white and blue silk ribbon attached to a silver wreath and pinned above the left breast pocket of the uniform.  An Eagle Scout in full regalia is a dazzling sight.

In due course, the Sea Scout troop decided to have a dance and they were kind enough to invite me. This was the Christmas Dance and was to be a very posh affair indeed.  I accepted at once. Now a problem arose; how do I get there and how do I get home? There was a war on.  Fortunately, another Sea Scout offered to do the driving. His father was the publisher of the local paper and he had little trouble getting the “C” stamps needed for the rationed gasoline. The war not only killed members of the armed services; it greatly inconvenienced many of the civilians left at home.

Now I had to get a date. I was not dating anyone at the time and asking a stranger to this event was daunting.  A girl and boy seen together there would be considered a pair. This was a commitment. I was nervous. I decided to ask Betty. She sat just in front of me in biology class and was a year ahead of me in school. She was seventeen. We chatted quite a lot when we really should have been looking into our microscopes.  Neither of us particularly liked biology. All I could see in my microscope was my own eyelash, and I could not stand the odor of the formaldehyde pickling solution used to preserve the specimens. I decided early on that I would not go to medical school. I did become a doctor but as my sweet sister continually pointed out, “Not a ‘real’ doctor.” Younger sisters are God’s attempt to deflate male hubris.

  

I felt comfortable with Betty, she lived close to the high school, and she was pretty, but not the cheerleader type, so I stuck my neck out and asked her. She agreed to go.  Spectacular! It still amazes me how easily a female can make a male feel like “King of the World.” My wife still does that to me. Don’t tell her I said that!

Stewart, my friend with the car, came out to my house, picked me up, then we picked up his date and finally, Betty, then off to the dance we went. The dance floor was a wondrous sight; the boys all in their sparkling white Sea Scout uniforms and the girls in their best party dresses, and I in my Boy Scout uniform. Just before we left to take the girls home, Stewart told me that he would drop Betty and me off at her house first, and then take his date home. He said that he might be sometime getting back for me. No problem.

Naturally, Betty’s parents were waiting for us, as was her older sister. It was then shortly after midnight. (It was a different time you know.) About ten minutes later came a knock on the door; it cannot yet be my ride home. It wasn’t: Surprise, Surprise! It was Betty’s boyfriend home for two weeks Christmas leave from Great Lakes Naval Training station. He looked quite gallant in his Navy uniform and Betty could not have greeted him any more enthusiastically given that her parents were watching. I am in my Boy Scout suit with my colorful merit badge sash over my shoulder and would very much have preferred to be elsewhere, any elsewhere.

It was suggested that Betty’s sister and I go in the kitchen and scramble some eggs. It is an age-old solution to any embarrassing situation--- offer food. Eventually, my ride home “honks” from the street. I say my good-byes, shaking hands with Betty and the boyfriend I didn’t know she had. I got in Stewart’s car to tell him my hilarious tale. We were both laughing when I finished. It is almost impossible to feel truly embarrassed when you don’t believe the event is your fault. I was just a victim of circumstance. I was, I really was.