Boyhood Dreams

As a boy child of perhaps six or seven,

I remember falling madly in love with

one of my summer camp counselors,

Mary Jane was her name as I recall.

She had quite a few kids my age under

her watchful eye, so it was no surprise

that I was never paid any special attention.

But then, she never really knew who I was,

and more importantly who I longed to be.

Howdy, Ma'am, I’m Roy Rogers, Hopalong

Cassidy—someone famous from TV one day

and someone else more famous the next.

Every heard of G.I. Joe, a decorated hero

hero from the D-day Invasion of World

War Two? That would be me, or who I

am pretending to be. And I have a genuine

Steel helmet at home to prove it. No use,

Mary Jane was older and had no use for

a little kid like me. I wished I was fifteen

or sixteen, about 7-feet tall and then she

might notice me. One day, though, and I’ll

come riding up to her on my silver stallion or

roaring back proudly in my Sherman tank.

A year later, and summer camp again. This

time it was Emmy Lou I would pursue.

Howdy, Ma’am, pleased to meet you. My

name is Stan the Man Musial, batting

average .313. Christopher, she told me,

you go out there and play right field. Right

field! I insisted, no one will notice me way

out there. It took me some sixty-five years
and two marriages later to realize that “Howdy,

Ma’am” was a pretty hokey line for me.

I tried it numerous times in my life. No

one falls in love with a kid born and raised

in the city who talks like that.

Chris Hanch 5-8-19