Love; What is It?

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By Paul Dugan, Groovy Reflections Team Member

We use the word love a lot but what do we really mean? For example someone says “I love my car” do they mean the same as when someone says “I love my wife”? Would you give up your life for your car? Probably not.

So, I decided to think back on some of my first “loves”.

Of course there was Mom; she was my everything. Dad, he wasn't around so much, you know the working thing, so I think I must have known that I loved him then, but the memory isn't as strong.

My first cat, his name was Flubadub, from the Howdy Doody show. How I loved that big ‘ol slob of a pussy cat. Of course it was easy ‘cause I was so young and Mom had to take care of him; I just got to enjoy him, and of course love him. I don't know what ever happened to Flubadub, I was very young then and can't recall.

My first two wheel bicycle, all shiny red and chrome; oh how that bike could “fly”, plus it had multi-colored streamers on the handle bars! What wasn't to love? At least until it wasn't “cool” to ride a bicycle anymore.

My first crush, I'll never forget her. She was in my class in fifth grade and I had no idea why, but when I even thought about her my heart went pitt-a-pat! I loved her from afar until that fateful day in seventh grade when I finally got up my courage and asked her to the school dance. She shot me down! She just wanted to be friends. We were in the seventh grade; what the heck else were we going to be? Needless to say I was devastated, pretty sure my life was over. But the heart is a resilient thing; I got over her. I think.

My first guitar was an electric one. I was certain I would be the next Paul McCartney or at least Paul Simon. I loved that thing and the sounds that came out of it. I practiced day and night, at least until spring came and I could play baseball!

Did I say baseball? How I loved that game. I’d get up at dawn in the summertime so my friends and I could get to the field first; then if the big kids wanted to play they had to let us too! Growing up south of Boston most everyone was just naturally a Red Sox fan. I used to “watch” all their games on my transistor radio, sometimes under my pillow when I was supposed to be sleeping. Even went to a couple games with the Scouts, but we’re talking the 1960’s Red Sox here, like that was ever gonna last!

Then of course there was my first “real” girlfriend, my first steady. This was of course “true love” not “puppy love” like everyone said! We too drifted apart. Would I ever find that ever elusive “real love?”

I loved my car back then too! A 1966 Ford Fairlane Rag Top, with a four speed and 390 cubic inches under the hood. A state of the art eight-track tape deck made it perfect, but alas, economic times meant we too would be parted.

My first real love finally came along, forty-two years ago (as of 2012) and I finally found the answer to what is true love. Oh we've had our share of tough times but we got through them, together. We have five children and six grandchildren now, and I love them all, and of that I'm certain.

I guess sometimes you have to hurt a little before you know what real love is!

Of course I'd love to have that car back again. And don't get me started on Olivia Newton-John.

Bicycling Around Town

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By Guy Sharwood, Groovy Reflections Team Member

When my folks returned to Fresno in late 1958 after spending a few years in Bakersfield, we rented a house five or six minutes driving distance from my uncle's home. My uncle had encouraged his widowed mother and siblings to move to Fresno from Georgia after World War II had ended. All except one brother relocated out here.

Easter of 1959 we had a family gathering at my uncle's. As I did pretty much anywhere we went, I decided to go for a walk. I loved to just walk, but as I discovered, the neighborhood my uncle and aunt lived in was on the tricky side. It was all curves, squiggles and turns. There were no actual streets or avenues, just "drives." Most anywhere else I'd been the streets were sliced straight and easy to maneuver when walking around the block.

Not so with my uncle's neighborhood. In no time I was lost without even realizing it. A man at this one house inquired if I was "lost." I wasn't sure exactly what to say..."No I'm not, I'm right here." I might have said that but I don't remember.

It was then and there that a familiar car pulled up with the whole family in it. When we got back home, Mom whacked me good. Then  we joined the others to dye eggs.

I was five at the time.

But I never got lost after that. Ever.

As I slowly gained more independence over the years, I got increasingly familiar with Fresno. By age eight I was allowed to walk to the supermarket to get gum or a comic book, and return home.

It was a couple of years later that I thought it would be cool to just hop on my bicycle and just travel anywhere in town.

Where I'm writing this from.

Mom was all for it. In the summer of 1964, if I wasn't eating a meal, reading a comic, swimming or watching TV, I was on my bike. And I went all over Fresno--the airport, the Santa Fe Depot downtown and the Fresno State Campus (where I'm typing this). Ironically I loved to cycle through my uncle's neighborhood--the very place where I had gotten lost. Eventually with my brother, we would conquer Roeding Park and Millerton Lake.

Looking back, I am convinced that a chief reason my Mom approved so much of this activity was it got me out of her hair. Mom was an obsessive housekeeper. While gardening was her favorite hobby, she felt obligated to always have a neat, clean house. She wouldn't even have time to look at my drawings or stories, as linens and vacuuming took on a greater priority. Plus it didn't cost her anything if I was out riding.

So if I wasn't around to create additional messes, so much the better. I could make like Lewis and Clark, conquering "uncharted territory." And Mom could enjoy relative peace and quiet while scrubbing the floor or doing laundry.

Another reason I'm glad I grew up when I did. Such an innocent period back then. Mom didn't have to worry about assorted crazies lurking about, the way it is now. They just weren't around back then. They certainly weren't that day I had wandered off from my uncle's house back in 1959.

My Bike is Blue.

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By Gerry Wendel, Groovy Reflections Founder and Team Member

Standing on the edge of the country club grounds, I took a quick look around. No one was in sight. Slinking towards a grouping of bushes near a small patch of woods, looking down, I found my prize. Well, prizes. Lots of them. Seven slightly used golf balls, lost by their original owner. Bending down quickly, I picked them up in one fell swoop. Yeah! Ran back to my bike, tossed those orbs into the front basket, and sped off with the Paul Mauriat instrument “Love is Blue” buzzing in my head.

I was temporarily living 800 miles away from home at the time. (the “why” is perhaps another story to be told at a later date), in a part of the country where my accent made me different, so much so that some of the other kids were inclined to call me “Yankee”. A part of the country where a mere “yes” in response to a question was unacceptable. “Yes ma’am” soon became the mandatory phrase I learned to say when answering to and respecting an adult.

And those golf balls? They served as tools in Entrepreneurship 101 for me as I attempted to sell them to locals frequenting a nearby park. That initial enterprise netted me about $2.40 until one day two teenage boys grabbed big handfuls of my inventory from my bicycle basket and ran off with them.

That bicycle provided brisk transportation for exploring a whole new area, in a whole new state; quite different to anything I was used to. Given to me by my newly minted Step-Uncle, my set of wheels was nothing to rave about; it was a basic bicycle in good working order, suitably adjusted for my height and faded navy in color. The area around my home was mostly flat, with lots of quiet suburban streets plus a few roads that ventured out towards more desolate areas. My explorations were constricted by just one rule; I wasn’t allowed to cross the busy road that was a short two minutes away via pedaling. It sure was tempting, with the ocean just three blocks beyond it. Drat.

No matter. Still plenty of terrain to explore on the safer side of the street. I especially enjoyed one area that had homes spread father out, fields all around, and few trees. "Love is Blue" played loudest in my mind as I stood up on my bike for that extra leverage of thrust required to conquer a gentle hill towards where the more wide-open landscape started.

Wasn’t aware of it at the time, but, amazingly enough, there are lyrics to that song. It’s a sad tale of lost love sprinkled with various hues. Each color symbolizes various feelings associated with the end of the relationship. So in order not to shatter my memories, I’m going to apply those colors to those spring days from so long ago.

Blue, blue, my bike was blue (navy, remember?). Gray for the color of the skies in the cool mornings before the sun popped out. Red was the color of my favorite corduroy jacket. Green for the grass at the golf course where I accumulated inventory for resale. Green also brings to mind the smell of the pine trees that overpowered any other scents in the air. Black for how I sometimes felt in a strange new place, missing my friends while being made gentle fun of by new pals. But hey, who needs the lyrics anyway? Doesn’t really matter to me, when the memories remain clear.

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Listen to "Love is Blue" here