Yesterday found us in the spring of 1987. Today we’ll fast forward to May 1988. (I realize now I should’ve taken more than a week for this stuff. I’m not sure we’ll make it out of high school before our anniversary on Thursday.)
In 8th grade I was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society. One of the benefits of membership in the group was the annual trip to Opryland USA.
For our younger readers, and those outside of the southern US, I’ll explain. Opryland was an amusement park in Nashville, Tennessee. It was named after the Grand Ole Opry and featured country music themed rides and live shows. Opry Mills mall now sits on the land once occupied by Opryland.
Opryland was small but memorable. I remember several rides, most of them roller coasters. The Wabash Cannonball was a favorite. It was a steel coaster with a double corkscrew, short but fun. Chaos, an indoor roller coaster, featured a mind-numbingly loud soundtrack of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and included a laser light show complete with “3D” glasses. The Screamin’ Delta Demon was a “bobsled” type roller coaster. The Rock n Roller Coaster was another fun steel coaster. Finally, The Grizzly River Rampage was a white water riverboat ride featuring a “bear cave.” For those who want to get nostalgic or familiarize yourself with the park, here’s a great site with a park map and ride photos.
Each year the school bussed the 8th grade members of the NJHS to Nashville for a day of greasy food, mediocre song & dance, and adequate thrill rides. Most of the allure rested in the fact that we would miss a day of school. Which came as a thrill even to us Honor Society nerds.
The trip to Nashville was uneventful. I can only assume it was uneventful, because I don’t remember it at all. I most likely slept the entire trip.
We arrived at Opryland just before opening. When the gates opened we all darted into the park. Since it was early, in the day and in Opryland’s season, we had the park almost to ourselves. That meant lots of riding!
Our time at Opryland is mostly a blur. I know I rode the Wabash Cannonball more than 10 times. I know I rode the Rock n Roller Coaster a few less times than the Cannonball. The ride I remember most, though is the Screamin’ Delta Demon. The ride itself was not all that memorable, but the experience of riding it that particular day; I’ll never forget it.
We rode the coaster and as we got out of our bobsled style car, we noticed a group of girls up ahead of us. They were girls from our school. One of the guys in our group was a bit enamored with one of the girls in the group so we decided to follow them. They went back to the Demon. So did we.
As we waited, we watched the girls. Watched and whispered and laughed. Our two groups lobbed comments back and forth. Between the looks and the whispers and the laughs and the silly remarks, I noticed one of the girls. Misty Rawdon.
I immediately thought back to the Spring Fling Dance from the year before. “I was supposed to ask her to dance last year, but I was scared. I didn’t do it. I wonder if she knew? I wonder if she remembers? I wonder if she even knows who I am?” I watched her for a while and mentally kicked myself. “She’s beautiful. Why did I not ask her to dance?”
Eventually, the Delta Demon snapped me back to the present. The girls had boarded their bobsled and left the station. Now it was our turn.
We spent most of the afternoon following the girls up and down the Screamin’ Delta Demon. We even talked to them face-to-face a time or two. I still could not bring myself to speak to Misty. Eventually our groups parted ways to seek our own exploits.
Our day at the park ended and we boarded the bus to head for home. I sat with a friend, Jamie. He’d been part of my group in the park. He was, in fact, the afore mentioned “enamored” guy in our group. As we rode home we talked about the park, the rides, the girls. It had been a good day.
Somewhere around Columbia, Tennessee my life took a turn. It was one of those moments that seemed significant at the time, but not nearly as significant as it would turn out to be.
I was looking out the window and noticed a jacked-up, big-wheeled four-wheel drive truck pulling out of a parking lot. A truck like that demanded comments be made.
“That is a bad-ass truck!”
As soon as the words left my mouth, something struck the back of my slightly reclined seat. The violent blow caused my head to bounce off the seat back a couple of times. I sat there in shock for a moment.
Finally I asked without turning around, “What the hell was that?”
A comment came from the seat behind, “You shouldn’t say that.”
“What, ass?” I turned as I asked the question. I looked to the seat behind mine. I saw the face I’d hoped to see again. The face I tried to talk to for the better part of the afternoon. There was Misty.
He answered my question, “No, truck.”
We spent the next 15 or 20 minutes of the bus-ride repeating the same pattern. I would say truck. She would kick my seat. Junior High flirting at its best. Eventually I ended up sitting backward in my seat, talking face-to-face.
There was an empty seat across the aisle from Jamie and me. Misty’s seatmate (the object of Jamie’s fondness) went to that seat. She wanted a seat to herself so she could stretch out and sleep. A while later Jamie mentioned that he would like a seat to himself also. Upon hearing this, Misty suggested that I sit with her to accommodate Jamie’s request. I gladly moved one seat back.
I’m not sure how long we shared that seat. It could have been minutes or hours. It didn’t matter to me. I was oblivious to time. We talked and laughed. She showed me where her grandparents lived as we passed their road. Other than that, I have no idea what we talked about. It didn’t matter.
Misty and I continued our playful conversation, flirting session (I was flirting, I can’t speak for her). Somewhere south of Lawrenceburg tragedy struck. We were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from the row in front of us. The scream was followed by one sharp, angry word. “JAMIE!”
We rose to determine the cause of the commotion. There in the seat in front of us we saw Jamie holding a Spork and suppressing a laugh. Across the aisle the object of his affection sat staring at him red-faced with steam coming from her ears. She stood and asked me to move back to my seat. I did.
I moved to my old seat next to Jamie. I heard a muffled angry voice coming from the seat behind us as Misty’s seatmate described the horror she’d endured. I dropped my body into the seat. I hoped the thud sufficiently expressed my anger and disappointment. Jamie sat next to me trying not too successfully to suppress his laughter.
Finally, I asked him what happened. I heard the same, now unmuffled, angry voice from behind me, “He poked me in the butt with a spoon!”
Jamie grinned and held up the offending utensil, “It’s a Spork.”
Though I was thoroughly disappointed, I too had to laugh. Jamie explained that he had been eating a fruit cup. He looked across the aisle and saw his quarry with her rear in the air. I asked why he poked her with a Spork.
His reply echoed the sentiments of Sir Edmund Hillary. “Because it was there.”
I spent the last half-hour or so of the trip in silent reflection. I thought about the time I’d spent talking to Misty. I thought about the time I could be spending and grew angry with Jamie all over again.
Soon we arrived back at the school. We disembarked from the bus and looked for our parents. Most of the parents were there waiting when we arrived. I looked through the parking lot. Mine were not there. We’d returned a few minutes early, so I expected them to be there soon. I turned from the parking lot to wait on the sidewalk.
My heart jumped. My spirits lifted. There sat on the log fence Misty waiting for her ride. She smiled and waved. I walked over and sat next her on the fence. Soon we were the last remaining kids.
As we sat together on the fence time, again, seemed to stand still. As we watched the sun set on an almost perfect day, we laughed about trucks and butts and bus seats and Sporks. We talked about roller coasters and greasy food. We talked about our upcoming venture into high school.
I’m not one to believe in love at first sight. Or even love at first meet. But I do know that something clicked. Sitting and talking and laughing with her seemed right. Very right. As we talked I tried franticly to find a way to ask her out. (Well, as out as 8th graders can get anyway.) My shyness and insecurity won out over all other impulses. Soon her mom arrived to pick her up. I remember that car as the most horrible thing I’d ever seen. It meant the end of my perfect day.
We said goodbye. “See you next year.” And that was that. I sat on the fence alone watching the sky turn from orange to violet to navy blue. I realized what an appropriate color it was for the moment. Blue.
Fate tried again to bring us together. Once again, I’d derailed her best efforts. 1988 ended Scott 2, Fate 0. (Don’t worry. The story has a happy ending.)
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