May 31, 2017
Just Saying…
By Q.C. Jones
Sin, Suffering and Sorrow – True Confessions about June
As a kid growing up at the family gas station, I was exposed to many things which were probably age inappropriate. Or at least judged inappropriate by morals and community standards of the day. One of these excursions down the twisted path of debauchery came by way of a publication called “True Confessions” which was chronicled in a book called “True Confessions, Sixty years of Sin, Suffering and Sorrow.” What you are about to read is a personal account, my very own set of True Confessions. Along the way, we’ll take a voyeuristic look at my sins, shed a tear as I recount my suffering and feel the remorse of my sorrow. All that and more in a mere 850 some words.
True Confession: I have survived 63 Junes of the calendar variety. Sometimes it’s hard to fathom, but this puts me squarely in the “long in the tooth” category. In spite of all the 60 is the new 40 headlines and articles attesting to the 60 year olds being in the prime of middle age, I have come to the realization the only way 63 is middle age is if you happen to be an Artic Bowhead whale and expect to live to 200 years. Ironically, if I didn’t manage my diet and limit my beer consumption, I would probably resemble said whale.
True Confession: Over the past 63 seasons, June has always held a special place in my heart. More about this later, but in my psyche June signifies freedom. Those days when the summer sun illuminates my world well past eight o’clock each evening. In my childhood, these were the days we could roam the neighborhood for a couple of hours after dinner. No homework worries, mom and dad too tired to assign any new chores, late evenings at the local park and likeminded playmates ready for yet another game of kick the can or a few dozen rides down our park’s giant slide.
True Confession: I like baseball. I played in Little League. I hit my first homerun in June of 1965, but I also struck out dozens of times. As you might expect, I barely remember the strikeouts but I can cut through time like a knife to that warm night in June when the bat met the ball at just the right moment and sailed over the right field fence. I remember the cheers of joy coming from a comely seventh grader of the female persuasion. Turns out I liked girls more than baseball.
True Confession: 1965 must have been a significant year because I struck it rich in June of 65. At the ripe old age of 11 I had my first opportunity to make money, big money. I was recruited to my dad’s gas station because the “normal” car wash kid quit. It was in the middle of road oil season and everybody wanted the sticky, black mass of petroleum removed from their Oldsmobile, Mercury or Studebaker. And, I was the young man for the job. In those days, this service was performed by hand out behind the station and involved a special blend of kerosene, soap and elbow grease. My dad provided the kerosene and soap, I provided the elbows. They charged $2.50 for the service and I pocketed a buck. In the short time leading up to the Fourth of July, I amassed over fifty bucks. I was the envy of every kid in town and played my new prosperity to the hilt.
True Confession: I asked my first girl on a date in June. By then I had the reputation as a cool kid about town; money, a neat bicycle and the advantage of hanging out on the busiest corner in our little town. Plus, during off moments at the gas station, I had access to a private phone. After days of working up my nerve, I made the big phone call. After the normal idle chit chat, I sprang my well-rehearsed question. Would you like to meet down at the local soda fountain/candy store for an ice cream? And, demonstrating that small town girls of the era were naïve, she said yes. The date didn’t go that well. I think she wasn’t all that impressed with my Texaco shirt and the grease accumulated on my hands from removing road oil from cars, but as Merle Haggard said, “Hey I’m a working man.”
True Confession: Besides Junes of the calendar type, I was massively influenced by Junes of the feminine variety. June was the mother of Theodore and Wally and wife of Ward Cleaver on TV’s “Leave it to Beaver” program. I can attest to watching every single episode of the show at least 27 times and still hit the recorder when I see it flashing across the screen. Her flair for fashion and classy way of dealing with the kids was, for a short while, my vision of the perfect woman.
Sin, suffering and sorrow? Well, maybe not. But I am sorry that every year doesn’t contain two Junes, and I suffer through life with most people believing Leave it to Beaver’s Eddy Haskell was my role model. Is there any sin in being a smart-alecky punk of 63? Maybe… Just Saying….
