"You'll Have a Gay Old Time"

(Bonus points if you are old enough to remember the title of the television show that comes from)

Today, whilst on the eliptical, I was reading a book entitled The Shepherd.  It was written many years ago by Frederick Forsyth.  It is a most excellent short story - highly recommended.  My first copy of the book was given to me in 1979 by my 6th grade teacher.  My how things have changed.  Then it was a hardback copy.  Now I read it with my Kindle reader across five different devices.  But back to our story.

Reading it again got me thinking about this teacher, let's call him Mr. H.  I realize how lucky I was to have him as my teacher, and mentor, at just the right time in my life.  He was young, he was handsome, he was very late 70s.  He read us books, most of which I have found copies of (at times after very long searches since I struggled to remember the titles) and reread. As much, I think for the wonderful memories and feelings they brought back in my life as for the quality of the books themselves, which was excellent.  Mr. H had very good taste and knew what held kid-type attention. 

We sang songs as he played the guitar - John Denver was a staple.  To this day I think I can sing the lyrics to Grandma's Feather Bed (with its hound dogs and piggies from the shed) and Thank God I'm a Country Boy (I would never sing the "God" part).  He even indulged my dramatic desire to bury the remains of the plant that I kept at my table but which unfortunately slipped the surly bonds of Earth midway through the school year.  With a proper service of course, and in the school yard outside our classroom window.  

An example of how thoughtful he was:  He worried that I enjoyed military history and wanted to be a soldier way too much.  It's true I did.  I was sure I was the next George S. Patton.  He wasn't a peacenik or anything - he liked military history too and in fact put me on to the military book club - but he wanted me to broaden my horizons.  So, having observed my (weird) attachment to my poor, departed "child", he bought me a book on the care and raising of plants.

He made us, and it seems me in particular, a central part of his life.  We had a football team and a basketball team.  I was the manager since I sucked at sports.  He was the photographer for the yearbook.  He organized overnight field trips and strong armed parents into going.  I remember one to the coast to look at tide pools. He spent a month having us color drawings and read about the different forms of life we would encounter. 

Mr. H. was young, newly married and did not yet have a child.  His wife treated us well.  The kids who were the "best" at whatever that month's goal was were invited to his house for pizza and pong.  Sorry folks, there wasn't much more in the way of video games than that. Well except for handheld electronic football with little dashes on a tiny screen that represented players.  But again, back to our story.

My parents told me later that they were slightly suspect of Mr. H. and how much time I was spending with him.  But they invited him and his wife over for dinner (yup that happened back then - we gave him Christmas presents too - it was a different time) and so became comfortable with him.  I think they grew to adore him as much as I did because they saw my confidence and self worth rise as a result of his attention and friendship.  Nothing unseemly - even remotely so - ever occurred.  Mr. H was simply an excellent, caring teacher dedicated to his craft.  Hardly perfect, even then I could see that, but he cared about us, always encouraged us and clearly wanted us to succeed. 

So what does this have to do with "gay old times"?  Well, looking back, I realize that my budding homosexuality really began to present itself around 6th grade.  At the cusp of puberty.  Of course I didn't see myself like that.  In fact, I honestly don't think I had any knowledge one way or another of what a homosexual was or that such a thing existed.  My family didn't use the words homosexual or gay, much less pejoratives such as "queer" or "fag".

But 6th grade was a sweet, very innocent time for me.  I've written about this period in my life before, but I've come to appreciate so much the early, tender, completely nonsexual crushes I developed on a couple of boys.  One in particular was so compelling.  He was such a handsome guy and so nice.  I just wanted to be around him, be with him, at every opportunity.

And the very best part is that it had nothing to do with sex.  I had nary a thought in that regard.  I just knew that I was drawn to him.  I didn't spend energy or time thinking about how I could satisfy myself sexually with him.  I don't even remember worrying that perhaps he didn't feel drawn to me.  In fact I suspect he didn't think about me much at all.  It didn't occur to me that my attraction was in any way "wrong". It just felt natural and comfortable although I remember knowing on some level that I had to be careful about how I expressed it.

Sixth grade was indeed a gay old time for me.  I had a wonderful, caring teacher who knew just how to make me feel important at precisely the point in my life that I needed it.  I was in love with another person - the sweet, tender, innocent kind of love.  So, I now read my books and listen to John Denver and remember a time when it wasn't about guilt, sex, loneliness and cynicism.  Gay old times indeed.