Christ­mas moose smooch

The worst thing that ever hap­pened to me, though, was in the sixth grade when Cordie Mae Poovey, the ugli­est and mean­est girl in my school, drew my name.

The Covington News - - Local news -

I was driv­ing along and lis­ten­ing to Christ­mas car­ols on the ra­dio, and I started think­ing back to those won­der­ful days when I was a kid and we used to draw names for the an­nual class Christ­mas party.

What a blast that was. What fun to share Christ­mas gifts with your class­mates.

A bunch of cheap, un­grate­ful toads, all of them.

In the third grade Alvin Bates got my name. Alvin Bates was the kind of kid who would bring a candy bar for af­ter­noon re­cess and then lick it all over be­fore tak­ing a bite so no­body would ask him to share it.

In the third grade Alvin Bates gave me one of those stupid wooden pad­dles with the balls and the rub­ber strings at­tached. You hit the stupid ball with the stupid pad­dle and the stupid ball, at­tached to the rub­ber string, comes back and you hit it again.

Ter­rific. Fun for any awk­ward child un­der six. For fifty­nine cents, which is ex­actly what Alvin Bates shelled out for the pad­dle and the ball, he could have brought me some­thing use­ful and ed­u­ca­tional, like a copy of Stag mag­a­zine they kept on the back shelf at the drug­store.

Stag was noth­ing com­pared to the mag­a­zines they have to­day, but in 1954, see­ing a pic­ture of a lady in a gir­dle could make your month.

Later I reaped re­venge. I drew Alvin’s name in the fourth grade, and I gave him a sub­scrip­tion to Boy’s Life. Any­body caught read­ing Boy’s Life was ob­vi­ously a com­plete a) mama’s boy, b) nerd, c) sissy, d) wimp, e) fruit, f) sev­eral other things I can’t men­tion here.

“Hey, Four-Eyes,” we used to taunt Alvin on the play- ground, “what’s the cen­ter­fold this month in Boy’s Life? Pic­ture of a pup tent?”

Alvin spent most of his fourth-grade year cry­ing.

In the fifth grade, Frankie Garfield, the school bully, drew my name.

Hav­ing your name drawn by Frankie Garfield was both good and bad. The bad part was Frankie’s usual gift wouldn’t ex­actly fit un­der the class tree.

The good part was Frankie’s gift was a prom­ise he wouldn’t beat you up for at least a week.

“I let you live, Duck-Face,” Frankie would say.

The worst thing that ever hap­pened to me, though, was in the sixth grade when Cordie Mae Poovey, the ugli­est and mean­est girl in my school, drew my name.

Cordie Mae was from a poor fam­ily, and she never had much money to spend on a gift. A pair of socks, I fig­ured. Or a box of peanut brit­tle.

Worse. I opened my gift from Cordie Mae, and all I found was an en­ve­lope with a note in­side that read, “Merry Christ­mas. I give you the gift of love. One (1) kiss and (1) hug. Meet me af­ter school. Cordie Mae.”

I’d kiss a pig first. And Cordie Mae was as strong as she smelled. She could break a cou­ple of ribs.

Af­ter school I ran as fast as I could, but she fi­nally chased me down, ham­mer­locked me, and then planted one right on my mouth. Sm­m­m­m­m­m­mack!

“How’d you like that, big boy,” asked Cordie Mae.

“ Ever smooched with a moose?” I an­swered.

“Ever been run over by a herd of rein­deer?” replied Cordie Mae, who had no sense of hu­mor what­so­ever.

The swelling in my nose went down in a cou­ple of days, but it was a week be­fore my eyes opened again.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.