| |
Two understanding girls
Proms Menu
Introduction
Carol
Dianne
Introduction
I had a reclusive social life in high school. I would go to school during the day at one end of Fairview Avenue; walk down after school to practice the organ in our church at the other end of Fairview Avenue; then walk home to study, eat dinner, study some more, and finally go to bed. I did not date any girls or go to any parties. So while my compatriots were no doubt in contact with the ecstatic through sex and alcohol, I was in touch with the sublime through the organ music of Bach. You might say that I had a fair view of life at that time of my existence – but only a fair one.
There were two exceptions to my reclusiveness: I attended two proms while in high school.
Now high school proms in the 1950’s were not the same ultra-lavish affairs that they are today. They were only lavish by 1950’s standards. For one thing, they were held in the high school gymnasium which the prom committee had decorated (mostly with crepe paper draped from basketball hoops.) Food, prepared by the parents, was served in the cafeteria. There were no limousines or the like.
As for the music, there was no such thing then as a ‘live d.j.’ (an oxymoron if I ever heard one.) No – our music was produced by a live band. And I do not mean a rock ensemble of electronic keyboard and guitars! The bands for our proms were throwbacks to the Big Band Era of the 1940’s. There would be the lush caress of the saxophones; the wail of the clarinets; the blaring of the trumpets; and the soft moan of the trombones.
The slow-dance was invented (so I assume) to demonstrate in motion the music of those bands. Or perhaps the reverse. Maybe they were invented together. Whichever it was, I am convinced that Big Band Music existed to throw a sound-aura of seductive timbres and harmonies over a couple.
After all, in many cases we-couples hardly knew one another. (I had literally never touched either of the girls I took to the proms.) The slow-dance was a socially-sanctioned public way of physically getting to know one another. During a dance, you could tell such things about your partner (and she about you) as: How graceful are they? (Are they clumsy and flat-footed? If so, does that matter to me? [Perhaps that makes them more endearing.] Do I like the way this person physically feels to me? How well do they move with me [are we graceful together?])
Have you been to a school dance lately? If so, you have seen how rare the slow dance is these days. It is as if young people were afraid to touch one another. There is a lot of gesticulation, a lot of hopping about – and a great deal of noise. But there are precious few songs that can accompany and sing about a budding relationship.
Back to Proms Menu
1. Carol, or The good Bad Girl
The first prom I went to was the Junior Prom.
The girl I was taking was named Carol Martin, a girl a year younger than me. I had met her on a school bus trip to New York City (possibly to see the original production of West Side Story.) On the way home I happened to sit down next to her. She was sweet and demure, and a great conversationalist – all qualities I had been seeking. By the time we got back to Verona, I pretty much knew that I wanted to ask her to the prom. And she accepted – in a sweet demure voice over the phone.
I had rented a white tuxedo jacket with red plaid trim which also found its way onto a stylish cummerbund.
As I was ready to leave that evening, my mother took me aside and whispered darkly, ‘Remember, two minutes of pleasure can ruin your whole life!’ I had no idea what she was talking about.
I do not remember the prom itself. No doubt Carol and I danced the way we were taught – which included leaving a discrete (and discreet) distance between us. (However, at a climactic moment in the evening, I believe it was permissible for the girl to lay her head on the boy’s shoulder.)
What I recall are three things afterwards. First of all, I remember going home to change my clothes around 1:00 A.M. When I took off the jacket, I found a red lipstick stain on its virginal white fabric. I was horrified that my parents might see this and conclude that we were doing something - unspeakable. (I used that word because I could not imagine what sorts of acts this might betray. Compare that to a fellow in my brother’s class whose mother, while doing the laundry, found lipstick on the bottom of his T-shirt: that was considered prima facie evidence for certain unspeakable acts his parents could imagine very well!) I frantically rubbed the stain with a solution called Kiss-Off! from under the kitchen sink; but that just served to spread it out.
We were going to stay out all night – something that no doubt worried my poor mother (she had come of age in the Roaring 1920’s; but as she lived on a farm, I doubt she partook of the flapper mores of the era.)
We were double-dating with another couple. I recall that we were standing in Carol’s living room chatting, when suddenly her stomach rumbled. She patted it rudely and, in a brazenly earthy voice, said: ‘Shut up in there – nine months to go!’ I was shocked. For a second or two, a curtain had been drawn back from this supposedly-demure girl, and I saw another side of her.
The third thing I recall was lying in a hammock with Carol on a bright sunny morning in someone’s back yard. We were facing one another asleep, our cheeks chastely touching. I did not kiss Carol in that hammock; indeed, I would not kiss her for the entire weekend. For I had devised a nifty philosophy which held, in essence, that I could not kiss a girl unless I was in love with her. And since I could never be absolutely sure that I was in love with someone, this relieved me of the obligation of worrying about whether I should kiss her or not.
Anyway, that’s all I remember about the Junior Prom. It was not until the next year that I heard some old rumors about Carol. She had dated a fellow in my class long before she and I went to the prom. Even before they broke up, he began bragging about his exploits with her. That jerk had even inscribed in the yearbook: 'Peter wills a bottle of Glamoreen Rug Cleaner to a certain Junior girl'. Effectively, he ruined her reputation amongst the cognoscenti of our class. (I have written more about him in ‘French Lessons.’) Only someone totally out of the social loop would not know these things and thus would ask her out purely on the basis of her positive merits, as I had done. My ignorance had made possible a perfectly delightful date.
And, as well, a realization emerged of how grateful I was to Carol for her behavior toward me that weekend. For she had treated all my foibles, my restraints, with respect and deference. She never forced any behavior on me, no matter how stultified she may have thought my attitudes and experience.
Perhaps she was even grateful to me!
Back to Proms Menu
2. Dianne, or The prom I wish I'd had
The second prom I went to was the Senior Prom.
The name of my date was Dianne Amsterdam. Unlike Carol, I had known Dianne virtually all my life: we had been in the same classes together since kindergarten. Yet strangely, I had never seen her as an object of romantic fascination (she was not one my brother and I rated on a scale from one to ten.) She was vivacious, with curly locks and an infectious smile.
Sadly, my parents were not happy about me dating Dianne: they found out she was Jewish. ‘Mixed marriages between people of different religions seldom work!’ they admonished me, ignoring the fact that I had not proposed to Dianne but rather had just asked her to a prom. (They certainly did not anticipate the role of the Unitarian Church, which unites all sorts of people disaffected with the stultifying religion of their parents.)
The Senior Prom was in the Winter. Now in New Jersey during that era, one could not get one’s permit to drive until one was 17. And so, as my 17th birthday had just occurred the previous month, my father (no doubt smoking his telltale cigar) drove us to the prom and picked us up afterwards.
What do I remember about that prom? I don’t recall dancing with Dianne. What I do recall is her multitudinous friends coming up to her and chatting and laughing with her between dances. She was effectively holding court while I sat there silently. None of my friends were there, for the simple reason that my one friend was a total nerd who would sit contentedly at home and read on such nights.
She had done nothing to ignore or exclude me. Yet I suppose I was a bit envious and even jealous of all her friends.
My father picked us up and drove us to Dianne’s house. He waited in the car while I walked her to her door.
So how does a fellow make sure a girl doesn’t want him to kiss her goodnight? By convincing her that he is merely (barely?) tolerable. And so I said to her by way of nightly farewell:
"Thank you for putting up with me."
I saw her start at this, but she didn't say anything. I turned and walked back down the path to the car and my father drove me home. And that was the end of my Senior Prom.
...unless...
Unless what? Well, unless something had intervened between my bizarre statement and my turning to go.
Suppose, for example, that, startled as she was, Dianne was nevertheless quick witted enough to put out her hand to touch my arm gently and say, "Whoa! Why don't you stay a bit and we can talk about this?" Her father could then walk out to our car and tell my father that he (Dianne's father) would bring me home in about an hour.
The Amsterdams lived in the last house on Grove Avenue, a few steps from Bloomfield Avenue, the main street of downtown Verona. Dianne linked my right arm with her left arm and placed her right-hand reassuringly on my upper arm. We turned left at Bloomfield Avenue and walked slowly through the dense dark night down the two blocks to Verona Park. We passed several stores -- most notoriously, the Five and Dime, which ten years before had cruelly banned me due to my own mendacity.
After a few moments of silence, she began speaking to me in a way that was at once serious and humorous:
Dianne: "So you think you were merely tolerable?"
Ted: "Apparently!"
Dianne: "You think that I had to make an effort to put up with you this evening?"
Ted: "I guess so."
Dianne: "Suppose I told you that you were very easy to put up with? Suppose, in fact, I told you that I genuinely liked being with you this evening, that I had a very good time with you. Would you believe me?"
Ted: "I don't know if I would or wouldn't..."
Dianne: "Why do you feel that way? Is it something that I did, or didn't do?"
Ted: "No -- at least nothing you could help. You seem to have a lot of friends..."
Dianne: "Oh dear -- my multitudinous acquaintances! Now that I think of it, I didn't really introduce you to most of them, did I. That was negligent of me, Ted, and I apologize for it." (Teasing a bit): "Were you very jealous?"
Ted: "I must confess: a little bit, yes."
Dianne: "You needn't be, you know -- very few of those people are real friends of mine. In fact, to tell the truth, I had even forgotten some of their names!"
Ted: "I guess that I was envious of the obvious -- close-knittedness of you and your acquaintances, the fact that you are a true group that cares for one another. That's something that I like that I don't really have."
Dianne (puzzled for a bit, then getting it): "Aha -- you must mean the fact that we are all Jewish."
Ted: "I guess so."
We had crossed Bloomfield Avenue and had entered the park.
Verona Park was a lovely verdant spot in the middle of Verona. It had a large variety of trees and shrubs. There was a cinder path running around its perimeter, with hills and valleys and benches on which to rest. A brook ran through it, and there was a pond in the center of the park. A quaint boathouse sat by the pond. There was boating there in the summer; and (as had probably been the case just a few short hours before on this chilly night) skating in the winter.
We sat down on one of the benches inside the park. Dianne was silent for a bit. Then:
Dianne: "So it's my Jewishness that you envy?"
Ted: "Well, just a little. As I said, your cohesiveness as a group..."
Dianne: "I suppose that's true: in its relative smallness, the set of people who are Jewish is compact and intimate. And that's nice -- up to a point. Because there come times when that very compactness, that intimacy can seem confining, even stultifying. Being Jewish can be very insular."
Ted: "Really?"
Dianne: "Sure. For example, my family only socializes with other people who are Jewish. That can be very limiting."
Ted (ruefully): "I could say the same sort of thing about my family, except that we hardly socialize with anyone at all!"
Dianne (laughs): "That's what is known as Extreme Insularity!"
Ted (laughing with her): "I suppose so."
Dianne: "Seriously though, would you like to know one of the really good things that have happened to me? It was you asking me to the prom."
Ted: "You're kidding!"
Dianne: "You see, that one act validated me as a person who is desirable to the wider world. That was a great thing you did, Ted; and so you must understand how ironic your statement was thanking me for putting up with you: I didn't merely tolerate you; I took -- and continue to take -- great pleasure in being with you!"
Ted (blushing): "Thank you. You should know, though, that I didn't even think or care about you being Jewish when I asked you to the prom. I asked you because I liked you and wanted to dance with you."
Dianne: "That's very sweet of you, Ted. I hope I've vanquished your feelings of inferiority!"
Ted (laughs bitterly): "I'm afraid you have your work cut out for you: I think that my inferiority complex is due to my inherent inferiority!"
It was a bitterly cold night. Both of us seemed to realize that we needed to keep moving, for we stood up together. This time she took my hand as we started to walk back out of the park, squeezing it tightly through my glove.
Dianne: "If you only knew how much that differs from the way I look at you! For a start, you are a very good musician."
Ted: "Pshaw! I'm not one-tenth as good as Richard!"
(Richard Schlaf was the other keyboard musician in our class. Unlike me, he was self-assured to the point of arrogance as a pianist and organist -- and in most other aspects of his life. His father was a piano teacher, and there were two concert grands in their living room. Richard could play jazz with the same expertise as classical; he even played trumpet in a dance band on weekends. He was organist at the Methodist Church in Verona, and the next year he would go to Juilliard as an organ major.)
Dianne: "I think you underestimate your talents."
Ted: "I don't think so. Richard learned the solo part of von Weber's Koncertstucke -- a sort of one movement piano Concerto. His part was a bear to play; yet he seemed to toss it off almost nonchalantly with an effortless ease. I could never have done that!"
Dianne: "Well, my parents and I went to that concert. My father, who knows quite a bit about music, said that that piece was 'all flash and glitter with no substance.' Doesn't that sort of sum up Richard in a nutshell?"
Ted (confused): "I don't know..."
Dianne: "Have you ever learned any big piece like a concerto?
Ted: "Well, last year I sort of learned the first movement of the Tchaikovsky..."
Dianne: "There, you see? That's a first-rate piece. Quality, not quantity!"
Ted (scoffs): "I'm afraid that the word 'quality' shouldn't be extended to my playing: I mangled it up quite a bit. No, sadly, I just don't have Richard's technique!"
Dianne: "I can't speak about musical technique; but as a person, Ted, you are far superior. You have at least one quality that he will never have."
Ted: "What's that?"
Dianne: "Modesty."
Ted (laughing): "That's because my attainments are modest. Richard doesn't need to be modest -- he's too good!"
Dianne: "Maybe. But it doesn't leave any room for another person -- he talks about himself nonstop."
I was beginning to suspect that Dianne had dated Richard at some point and had learned these things from bitter experience. But I didn't dare ask her about it.
Ted: "He has a lot to talk about!"
Dianne: "I think he is a budding egomaniac."
Ted: "He certainly is precocious. He seems to be on the cutting edge of all sorts of things that I have little inkling of. For example, he drives an old Oldsmobile convertible, whereas I don't even have my license yet; and he smokes, whereas I've never smoked in my life. One day he arrived late at an HMS Pinafore rehearsal with the humorous excuse, 'I had to drive around the block and smoke a weed -- I was having a nicotine fit!' That certainly seemed cool and grown up to me."
Dianne: "I think he's a little bit too grown up for his own good. As for the fact that you don't smoke or drive, Ted, that doesn't bother me one bit!"
Ted (persisting): "He is really a fine actor too. Did you happen to see our performance of HMS Pinafore?"
Dianne: "No -- our family was away that weekend."
Ted: "Richard played the part of the villain Dick Deadeye. In that role he became a crouching menacing one-eyed evil -- something he obviously relished and played to the hilt."
Dianne: "Yes, that's perfect -- the Mephistophelean part!"
It was hard to defend Richard when Dianne seemed to know so much more about him!
We had reached Grove Avenue, but Dianne seemed to be in no hurry to go home. So we continued on up Bloomfield Avenue.
Ted (undaunted): "Richard has his own organ job, which is more than I can say for myself!"
Dianne: "But I've heard some strange things about it..."
Ted: "Strange indeed! The organ in the Methodist Church occupied a central place in the sanctuary; in fact, it was the main focal point, lending the space harmony and balance. But Richard persuaded the church to purchase a 'new' organ (actually a newer used one) and give him the old one. He then turned his detached garage into a concert hall complete with Oriental rugs and ornate armchairs, and installed the organ there."
Dianne: "What -- chutzpah!"
Ted: "Yes, that was bizarre. The 'new' organ is electro- pneumatic; so he could put the console up in the balcony (where, frankly, there really isn't any room for it.)"
Dianne: "Why did he do that?"
Ted (sheepishly): "I guess he wanted to be able to read the Sunday paper during the sermon."
Dianne: "You see? He is a man without scruples. He will sweet talk a church into giving him their organ (no doubt magnanimously assuring them that he would cart it away for free), thereby ruining the sanctuary, just so he can have his own private instrument; and then further talk them into buying an old used organ just so he could indulge himself on Sunday mornings. He's unbelievable!"
Ted: "That's not all -- then he took some of the smaller pipes, made them into ivy wall planters, and sold them for $25 each."
Dianne: "I rest my case. By contrast, Ted, you're the kind of guy that I know would never do any of those sorts of things."
Ted: "I wouldn't have the nerve!"
Dianne: "The nerve? It would never occur to you."
Ted: "I suppose not."
Dianne: "By the way, the fact that you have been defending Richard all this time from my onslaught has just made you more endearing!"
Ted: "You know something?"
Dianne: "What?"
Ted: "With all this talk about Richard Schlaf, I'm afraid that we may be conjuring up the so-called 'Don Giovanni syndrome'..."
Dianne: "I haven't heard of that."
Ted: "That is where a group of people criticize the moral behavior of a heartless rake. But when he is gone, they realize that he was by far the most brilliant and interesting person amongst them, and that life without him is far duller than it was before."
Dianne (laughing): "I think I could handle the boredom!"
We were within sight of my church on Fairview Avenue, and I pointed it out to her: "That's where I practice the organ."
Dianne: "I'd love it if you could play for me some time."
Ted (impulsively): "Would you like to hear me now? I have a key for the church."
Dianne: "Are you sure it will be alright?"
Ted (with false bravado): "Of course -- I can play there any time I want. Besides, everyone is asleep at this hour!"
We entered by the side door on the parsonage side of the church. I couldn't find any lights above the organ itself; so I finally turned on all the lights in the sanctuary. I slid onto the organ bench, and Dianne stood next to me.
I played her the C-Minor Prelude of Bach. This work has no fireworks such as fancy footwork or the like. Rather, over a steady pedal tone of low C (the lowest, the most profound note on the organ), the two hands begin to spin the most wondrous fantasies. What the right hand does, the left hand does in imitation, so that the hands move at times near one another, at other times further away, in a long series of achingly sweet dissonances that never quite resolve. And, as I was playing, I came to the realization that this weaving of an exquisite tonal tapestry was an illustration of Dianne’s and my relationship on this lovely night, where the steady pedal tone took the part of the social order against which all our actions were measured. (The analogy becomes all the more interesting when the pedal notes themselves begin to move in solemn imitation of what the hands are doing.) Bach then introduces a phrased 'sighing' motive which ripples forth in hands and pedals (and leading to more interesting analogous speculation on my part.)
Suddenly we heard the side door slammed open and a voice boom, ‘What in the devil is going on here?!’
It was the Reverend Walter M. Moore, our minister. He was attired in pajamas, robe, and carpet slippers.
“What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”
This man was always severe, with rimless glasses and a glacial air. I never would have dared to joke with him – and certainly not in a situation like this.
But I am weaving fantasy here. And so in this narrative I find I could not help myself:
“I would hope that no hour in this church is ungodly!”
The Right Reverend was not amused by my attempt at wit. “Are you being fresh with me, Ted?”
“No sir. I was just trying to lighten things up a bit.”
“You cannot lighten things up Ted! You are here at one o’clock in the morning, and I have been awakened out of a sound sleep!”
I told him that I was very sorry, that I had not meant to awaken him.
Rev. Moore: "You turn on all the lights in the church sanctuary, which in turn floods my bedroom with light, and you say you did not mean to awaken me?"
Ted: "I guess I didn't know which side of the house your bedroom was on."
Then he saw Dianne. He gestured toward her without looking at her: “Who is this?”
“This is my friend Dianne Amsterdam." [She nodded at the Minister but he pointedly ignored her.] "We went to the Senior Prom together this evening, and…”
“Have you forgotten that you’re expressly forbidden to bring anyone in here with you when you’re practicing the organ?”
"I wasn't practicing exactly -- I was performing for her."
"You know what I mean, Ted -- she shouldn't ever be in here with you!"
"Well, sir, I know that; but we were having such a wonderful evening together that I felt this would be a perfect way to end it. And, after all, I think that you would agree that it is a shame for me to learn all this gorgeous music and then not share it with someone!"
"The time to share it, Ted, is on Sunday mornings in our worship services -- not at one o'clock in the morning with someone who shouldn't even be here!"
Ted (trying a different tack): "But Bach brought a girl into the organ loft to play for her -- oh wait, he got in trouble for that too!"
Rev. Moore: "With good reason!"
Ted (trying yet a different tack): "Sir, Dianne is a member of Rabbi Kriegel's temple. Isn't it true that you exchange pulpits with Rabbi Kriegel every year?"
Rev. Moore: "Yes -- so what?"
Ted: "So all I was doing here was emulating you and being ecumenical."
Rev. Moore (exasperated): "You can't be ecumenical at one o'clock in the god-blasted morning!"
Ted (shocked): "Reverend Moore!"
Rev. Moore (unrepentant): "Do you see how upset you've gotten me? And you still haven't given me a good reason for being here!"
Ted (reluctantly playing his trump card): "Sir, this church promotes morality, doesn't it?"
Rev. Moore: "I would certainly hope so! That is one of the prime purposes of a church."
Ted: "Well then, let me ask you this: what kind of after-the-prom activities do you think most of the prom couples are engaged in, perhaps right at this very moment?"
Rev. Moore: "I haven't the foggiest idea. Perhaps you can enlighten me Ted -- what sorts of activities might those be?"
Ted (blushing, stammering): "I - I'm not sure, but I can imagine..."
Rev. Moore: "Really Ted, what can you imagine?"
Ted (confused, in over his head): "Nothing really."
Rev. Moore: "How very interesting -- you're imagining things you cannot really imagine!"
Ted: "I just know what they probably are doing."
Rev. Moore: "Have you done those sorts of things Ted?"
Ted (flushing deeply): "No sir, of course not!"
Rev. Moore: "Then how do you know about them?"
Ted: "Oh, I hear rumors, innuendos, hints, suggestions, braggadocio -- that sort of thing."
Rev. Moore: "And do you believe such rumors and innuendos?"
Ted: "I suppose I do."
Rev. Moore (weary of playing with this mouse): "So what moral argument are you trying to make here Ted?"
Ted: "Well, I think the fact that I brought Dianne to a church in order to play lofty and uplifting organ music for her should count as a moral act on our part. In fact, don't you think that it ranks us as perhaps the most moral prom couple in terms of post-prom activities?"
Rev. Moore: "So you think that being alone with a girl in a church at one o'clock in the morning constitutes a moral act?"
Ted (smiles): "Well, yes, if the lights are on and my hands are engaged on the organ manuals!"
Rev. Moore (in a conspiratorial undertone): "Ted, do you ever fantasize about Doing It in front of the altar late at night?"
Ted (has an inkling about what the words he had just heard mean, but can't quite believe the minister had said them): "I -- I don't know what you're talking about."
Rev. Moore (still conspiratorial): "I'll bet!" (Suddenly roaring): "Okay, out you go, the two of you -- I have a sermon to deliver in a few short hours!
Dianne and I escaped quickly out the side door. We ran together across the frozen grass in front of the church away from the parsonage. Only when we got near Bloomfield Avenue did we stop, short of breath. We looked at one another and burst into laughter.
Dianne (catching her breath): "Well -- he wasn't very happy, was he!"
Ted: "No. And I don't think there was anything I could have said to cheer him up."
Dianne: "He was inconsolable. But you were very good in there! I loved your ecumenical reasoning; and your moral argument was very clever, undeserving of his crude response. Oh yes -- your playing was wonderful too: sublimely beautiful with no hint of flashy show."
She paused, then said: "I really like you, Ted -- a lot." She regarded me closely; then she leaned in and softly placed her lips on mine for one brief moment.
We turned to go. Spontaneously we put our arms about one another. And then we silently walked the two blocks back to her house through the calm clear night.
Postscript:
Walter M. Moore remained the minister at our church for many years after I graduated. If I ever saw him again, it would've been at church services during my college vacations; but those were few and far between.
Then, a few short years later, there was a strange coincidence: the Moores' elder daughter was a senior at Muskingum College the year I taught there. (Both the Reverend and his wife had gone to that Presbyterian enclave; and they ranked it right up there with Heaven.) And, of course, that was the job from which I was dismissed due to "moral turpitude". No doubt word of my peccadilloes found its way back to the parsonage, and I can just imagine the ranting and raving as the Reverend intoned, "I always knew that boy was no good!"
Tragically, Richard Schlaf died at the still-young age of 46, probably of a cocaine overdose. In the end, he was a little too precocious for his own good.
I did not date Dianne Amsterdam again. We both graduated and went our separate ways to college.
And then a bizarre thing happened: Dianne's family bought the house next door to our family house in Verona. Our two yards were proximate and were not separated by so much as a shrub, never mind a fence. Once or twice I saw Dianne sitting out in her yard, reading or painting her toenails.
But I never ventured over that thin divide to greet her and to chat -- why not? I think probably because of the reasons alluded to in the above conversation: my feelings of insecurity, of inadequacy. She appeared to be worldly, and I did not think that there was anything that I could say which would make her want to talk with me. (It would be decades before I would feel self-confident enough that I could find pleasure in drawing the other person out.) In fact, we never exchanged another word with one another.
So is there any evidence whatsoever to suggest that Dianne cared for me enough to make the above fictional conversation a mere extrapolation of demonstrable fact? Actually, there is. In my high school yearbook, she wrote by her picture:
"Dear Ted,
You were about the nicest guy I knew in our class.
Fondly, Dianne"
(8 April 2008)
Back to Proms Menu
|
|
|
|
