We met one early Tennessee morning after my cousins had taken us coon hunting. In the dark, cold and tired with no coons to show for our trek, I came face to face with love. She caught my heart right then, standing there in dark blue overalls pockets laden with shells and her shot gun leaning against her leg, her long brown hair tied with a worn out shoelace with frayed ends. That was Millie Gardenia, sexy even before I knew what sexy was, before she knew what sexy meant. I loved her then and thought forever.
She sent a blackberry pie home to me a few days later; crust slightly burned and not enough sugar, yet it was the best pie ever. I figured I'd better give something to Millie so I dug through my cigar box full of treasures and found a brand new leather bootlace. I walked the
half-mile to Millie's with that gift hot in my pocket. With no trucks in the driveway and no answer to my knock, I scooted around the house looking in each window hoping to find Millie's
room. I found her window in back over-looking the garden. There was a young pine tree right by the house almost too close. I tied the bootlace on the top branch so she'd see it flutter. I peered into her room thinking how lucky that cat was, to be curled up in a pool of sunlight on Millie's desk. I ran home whistling, breezed through all my chores thinking of Millie the entire time.
Junior high came and went with Millie and I swapping treasures, coon hunting and stealing an occasional kiss behind the barn. After all, we loved each other but what do thirteen-year-olds know about love.
Passions flared as we entered high school with coon hunting a handy excuse for spending nights in each other's company. Cousins and brothers went along, but I only cared about Millie. We'd begrudge time, little as it was to kill a coon, even though everyone knew that's not why we went hunting any more.
She was my best friend. We always had fun together, dreaming about our futures, listening to our favorite songs. Her hair smelled of Prell Shampoo. I'd undo that bootlace, run my fingers through her hair; rhapsodize my affections, spouting love poems learned in English Lit. My love for her or my hormones went wild; for Millie had a body that any girl would sell her teeth for; long wavy brown hair, dark chocolate brown eyes that always twinkled. Large breasts that overflowed my clumsy hands, a waist small but not twig thin and hips made fit to straddle my teenage lust.
The spring of our senior year we spent idling in fields. Millie was a sight to behold as butterflies flitted and tickled her, wafting on the scent of our love. The scent of flowers, Millie
and sex would linger long after we parted, leaving me full of young passion and pride. She knew I loved her, that I'd do anything. I'd cross tracks in front of an oncoming train just to see her, to touch her. She was my life.
Graduation arrived, caps tossed into the air never to find the right head again. Summer jobs kept us busy but we managed to find a moment to say hey, I love you or an always too short moment to kiss.
Fall fell and Millie along with her friends took a girls night out. Millie donned her sweater and tied her hair up with the leather lace I'd given her years ago. A beauty no doubt. The girls had fun, giggled about their outing, but never told the boyfriends what they did.
The boys and I decided that if the girls could have a night out we could too. We piled into my old Jeep Wagoneer and headed out to the nearest bar. Other friends eventually joined our group and soon we'd taken over the entire place. One particularly drunken fellow bragged about a recent conquest getting louder and cruder as he went. He told stories to any that would listen. After one story too many he pulled an old leather bootlace from his shirt pocket spouting what a sweet piece of ass she'd been.
This news tore my heart out; I saw red and decked the son-of-a-bitch, grabbing for that leather string. Followed by my buddies I headed to the Jeep before a real fight ensued. I was hit so hard with anger I felt my soul leave.
All night I wondered what Millie had done; acting single and all that. Morning came and with the lace once again hot in my pocket I trudged to Millies and tied it on the pine tree that had grown as tall as the house. I marveled at her shame, my loss. I couldn't stand it, couldn't see where to go or what to do. I was smacked with the harsh realities of adult love.
I didn't see Miss Millie Gardenia for months. Pies showed up on the porch but I left them for the dogs. When we did see each other in town, we didn't speak and her looks of puzzlement met a coldness I never knew I had in me.
I couldn't stay, left for college where I learned a lot about life and love and eventually found another girl. We married and took over the home place when my Pop passed away. I went home to Mama's love but also to the hurt that never quite healed. The hurt of loving Millie.
She must have heard I'd come home and left a blackberry pie on our front porch. My wife a loving person had no idea that the pie she served me that night was a slice of torture. All she talked about was what wonderful neighbors we had, how she'd have to get to know them.
All those feelings were difficult to cope with so I called the boys and off we went, back to the bar where my love had been wrenched away. Pals I hadn't seen for ages were there, along with the same old son-of-a-bitch I'd laid out years ago. He spotted me and nodded, put his hand to his chin in mock disbelief, sauntered over and we shook hands warily. Pleasantries aside he got right to the point. He wanted to know why I'd clocked him for a piece of old bootlace that his girl Susan had worn in her hair.
Stunned, I asked him what Susan had looked like. He described a beautiful blonde haired blue eyed girl just the opposite of my ravishing brunet Millie. I apologized, told him he owed me a fist in the jaw for being a jackass and left it at that.
I felt my soul leave once again as I drove home in a shame so deep I thought I'd meet the devil himself.
Sharing my feelings never did come easy to me, writing them down even more difficult. I never went to bed that night; I wrote and erased, wrote and erased until I came up with a pretty lame explanation and a pathetic apology. None of it really an excuse but what else could I do after all this time had passed.
I heard my wife stirring so I made coffee, tried to tuck my shame away and face the woman I now loved. She questioned my nights absence with a loving look, I pulled her into my arms offering nothing but the truth in its own way; I couldn't sleep.
Leaving late I headed to work with a plan to swing by Millie's hopefully after she was gone. Memories assailed me as I pulled up to her house. I hadn't been back to Millie's since leaving that old piece of lace on the pine tree by her window that second time. Climbing the porch stairs with stiff legs I left my feeble note tucked under the welcome mat I'd crossed so many times before.
After an overly long and uneventful day I pulled into my driveway and stopped in horror. Every window in the house was broken. I called to my wife, no answer; I hoped she had gone into town, escaped the madness that I saw. I walked slowly toward the front door, dreading what I'd find inside, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay waiting on the top step.
Two old leather bootlaces.
The End
