One, Two, Three, Dip

The Old Man is going to skip the prom this year. Matter of fact, I've skipped quite a few of them. But it's definitely that season. Prom dresses, prom plans, prom limo rentals, prom tuxedo discussions, prom everything permeates the halls. That annual rite of passage is steaming ahead full speed everywhere.

Long before I made it to the prom, I had to survive several other social disasters along the way as I trudged toward that level of "pseudo-sophistication" prevalent in most 15 year old boys. One most memorable one that comes to mind was the 7th grade dance.

There was a girl in our church I'll call Hilda. We were good friends in that friendly but curious sort of way. Friendly because of corporate good times at church and school, but curious about weird feelings. In my time, 7th grade marked the beginning of what my mom called, "The Awkwardness". Pretty well named, Miss Alma.

Rapidly approaching was the major social event....The Seventh Grade Dance. Everyone was expected to attend, so the Park Street Battalion began to "divey up" the possibilities for our 'dates'. Now, most of us were as clueless as a brick about how to date, dance, or even be anything other than be the little snot-noses we all were. Dad exercised his fatherly duty, and took it upon himself to became my 'coach'. He said the first thing I had to do was to ask Hilda if she would like to go to the dance with me. Ok....so I went up to Hilda and said, "Wanna gotathe dance?" With such a smooth line, she could hardly refuse.

Dad coached on. "Now, bud, when I drive you up to Hilda's house, you go up and ring the door bell and walk her out to the car." I asked, "Why? It's a short sidewalk and she walks it every day." Dad had that look on his face like, "I sired THIS?" Moving on, Dad continued, "When you and Hilda get to the car, you open the back door for her and then when she's safely and comfortably in, you come around to the other side and get in." "OK".

The big night arrived. I had on my Sunday best; sport coat, white shirt, clip-on plaid bow tie, and my freshly polished white buck shoes. My crew-cut was freshly pomaded and brushed back as if Elsie the Borden cow had given me a huge lick.

We pulled up in front of Hilda's and I hopped out and bounded up the sidewalk. I rapped on the screen door and then there stood Hilda. I hadn't seen that side of her before. She looked like....like....well.....like a woman. She didn't look like she was up for a ballgame or marathon Monopoly. Gone were the rolled up jeans or the Sunday dresses I was accustomed to. I know I stared. I hope it wasn't the slack-jawed stare of the village idiot, but I can't be sure.

Remembering my 'lessons' from the coach, I dutifully escorted Hilda down the sidewalk to the waiting car. I adroitly opened the back door and stood at attention until Hilda was safely inside. I gently closed the door and then walked around to the other side. I opened the door on the other side and got in.

There was just one problem.....I got in the front seat beside Dad.

He gave me that, "I sired THIS?" look again, but said nothing and drove us to the dance. Me in the front seat, happy as a pig in mud, and Hilda in the back seat, looking like she was being arrested.

When we got to the dance, I scampered out and around to open the door for Hilda. As we were walking away, Dad motioned for me to come around to his side of the car. He said, "For God's sake, son, when I pick you all up, get in the back with your date!" He didn't add, "dumb-ass", but I'm sure he considered it.

As I recall, the dance went as normal. Most of the girls sat on one side of the room, the boys on the other. Hilda and I did manage to wander around the floor in what passed as a weak rendition of dancing and we all had a rollicking, 7th grade good time. I did get a passing grade from Dad when I walked Hilda up to her door. He did offer one last bit of coaching, however.

He said, "Son, when you leave a lady at her door, don't run back to the car."