In 1948 it was another move, another state, and another school. This time my father’s annual transfer was taking us from Nebraska to Connecticut. As a ten-year-old, I had become so accustomed to these yearly moves that when meeting classmates at the new school, I would tell them, “Don’t get too friendly; I won’t be around long.”
During the first days at my new school in Connecticut I discovered my fifth-grade classmates were worldlier than my friends in Nebraska. They knew a lot about professional sports and wanted to know if I was a Yankees fan or a Brooklyn bum.
Our town wasn’t far from Long Island Sound, and a few of my classmates belonged to yacht clubs and others rode horses at some place called a hunt club. It wasn’t the western style riding I knew in Nebraska, but the riders dressed in breeches, helmets, and calf-high polished riding boots, and used English saddles. There were also a couple of kids in my class whose fathers were mechanics and carpenters, but even those less sophisticated boys were focused on a subject I found totally foreign to my previous life. This was quite a shocker. The boys in my class liked girls! I couldn’t believe it. Not only did they have girlfriends, but even went to dances.
This would take a major adjustment in my thinking. School dances were a regular event and obviously, I didn’t know how to dance. Whenever the subject turned to “who’re you going to take,” I hemmed and hawed and avoided the subject.
Bruce and Billy became my first friends. They lived close by and we enjoyed softball and Kick-The-Can games after school. They started working on me about that dance subject. “Come on Jimmy,” they said, “The one on Friday night is just a square dance and the caller tells you what to do. You don’t have to take anybody, just go and pick someone to dance with when you get there.”
OK, I agreed, unenthusiastically.
At the school’s gymnasium, all the boys gathered on one side of the room and the girls on the other. Finally, Mr. Bishop, the gym teacher who would be doing the calling, announced, “OK, get your partners and form some squares.”
All the boys made a mad dash to the opposite side of the room, grabbing their selected dance mates while I stood there paralyzed.
“We need another couple over here,” Mr. Bishop announced. “You,” pointing to me, “and Sheila, fill that spot.” Sheila was a big girl, much taller than me and outweighed me by 50 pounds. But she was in my class and seemed nice. Sheila proved to be an experienced square dancer, and when Mr. Bishop walked us through the dance steps, she pushed and pulled, teaching me about do-si-dos and allemande lefts.
Sheila didn’t have other boys asking her to dance, so we spent the night as partners. As I said, Sheila was a big girl and seemed to enjoy hooking her arm into mine and darn near swinging me off my feet, but I was having a good time.
Late in the dance, just before the 9 p.m. ending, the lights dimmed, and Mr. Bishop announced Birdie in the Cage, and everyone went “Ooooo.” I didn’t know what was going on, but asked Sheila to be my partner.
“Not this one,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Just watch.”
Birdie in the Cage involved each couple in the square taking turns being encircled by the other three couples and once in the center the caller sang, “Take your partner, oh so fair, and steal a kiss, if you dare.”
It was the highlight of the evening, according to Bruce and Billy. Thank heaven Sheila had refused me. Never having kissed a girl, I wasn’t ready to take that step, especially in public with the whole world watching.
The following week at school, Bruce let me know a little brunette by the name of Consty thought I was cute. I wasn’t sure if I liked being called cute, but girls seemed to think it was a good thing. I had noticed Consty. She was about my height and was a terrific athlete. At recess, she could outrun everyone in the class, except Harry Sprandle, who was said to be “slow,” and that’s not referring to his running speed. Harry had been held back twice. He was close to six feet tall and had chin whiskers. Harry sat in the back of our classroom and drew pictures of guns and soldiers with bleeding wounds.
Encouraged by Consty’s smiles, I talked to her at recess and got a seat next to her in Miss Dunhill’s music class. Music was another area in which I had no knowledge. All the Connecticut kids knew scales and whether they were altos or sopranos, and I didn’t have a clue. But I liked music because Miss Dunhill was pretty and young, like somebody’s older sister. I sat beside Consty, mouthing the words to songs and sneaking glances at her out of the corner of my eye while trying to keep my knee from touching her’s. It soon became understood that Consty and I were boyfriend/girlfriend.

It was at one of the school dances that year that it happened. Guys talked about it some, but girls talked about it all the time—the first kiss.
Just how you went about it, whether holding the person by the shoulders or by the waist was uncertain. We’re not talking a quick hello or goodbye “peck” like your dad gives your mom going out the door. We’re talking about a genuine, movie kind of kiss, and of course movies became our “how to” resource. Coincidentally, one of the popular movies that year was called, “The Kissing Bandit” with Frank Sinatra. Frank’s technique was to slowly rock his head from side to side while lip-to-lip with his co-star. We all decided that must be an important part of the kiss.
***
The gym that Friday night had been decorated with bales of hay and lanterns for the Annual Sadie Hawkins Day Dance. The girls were dressed in Daisy Mae outfits with some version of polka dot blouses and cut off-jeans or denim skirts. Boys wore Li’l Abner ensembles, generally just jeans and flannel shirts, but some of the more creative types bought bib overalls, hiding one strap and had their moms sew colorful patches on the knees.
Linda and Consty, as Sadie Hawkins dictated, had invited Bruce and me. Linda’s mom drove us to the dance in their big black Cadillac. After only 30 minutes of dancing, Consty and Linda got their heads together whispering and giggling, and Bruce and I figured out this was going to be our opportunity to try the Sinatra technique.
After several minutes of “I don’t care if you want to. Do you want to? I don’t care. Do you want to? I don’t care,” we finally made a plan. The four of us would pretend to go to the restrooms, slip down the corridor and out the side door that led to the school’s inner courtyard. The courtyard was dimly lit by stray light coming from inside the school.
“You go first, Jimmy,” Bruce dared. “Naw, you go,” I replied. We volleyed that challenge back and forth several times, until Linda, not being shy, grabbed Bruce by the shirt and planted a big one right on his mouth. Bruce just stood there, hands at his sides, eyes wide open. Frank would have been very disappointed.
I was next. Not wanting Consty to have to initiate the action, I put both my hands on her shoulders, turned my head slightly and drew her toward me. I felt the most exciting feeling I’d ever experienced as I became aware of soft warm lips pressed against my own. I actually said “Wow,” when we separated. Consty had a wonderful smile on her face. I had forgotten to rock my head, but I don’t think it mattered. The moment probably hadn’t lasted more than a second or two, but I remember a tingling feeling shooting right through me. Wow was right!
That broke the ice, and for the next five minutes there was no more turn-taking. The four of us really got with it. I even tried that head-rocking thing, but it felt stupid. Just then, the door to the school jerked open and Mr. James, the principal, thrust his head out and said, “What are you kids doing out there?”
“Nothing!” we all sang in unison.
“Come on … back to the gym you four,” he said with a smile.
I’ve thought of that night many times while growing up. That first smooch was a real firecracker. There have been other romantic firsts, of course, but the amazing thing is, years later, I still remember the feel of those soft warm lips.