Tuesday, April 14, 2015
L is for LEROY, my first boyfriend
Now don’t get too excited about this and think I’m about to reveal deep, dark secrets about Leroy and me. We didn’t go parking and make mad love in the dark. No, no . . . I was three, and I think my first true love was about five.
My mother, daddy, and I moved from Baton Rouge, LA (a home that I don’t remember at all), to Mobile, AL, when I was three. I do have memories of our home in Mobile, an apartment house that looked just like all the other apartment houses. Each one had four apartments, and we lived on the first floor on the right if you were at the front of the building. I think one memory is one that I have because my mother laughed about it so much. Actually, she was really embarrassed.
Not long after we moved into the apartment at 401 Crenshaw St., Apartment A (how can I remember this seventy-two years later?), a new family moved into an apartment in the next building. The story that my mother told is that I was sitting on my tricycle on our screened in porch when a child asked if I could go out to play. My response? “My mother said not to have anything to do with you until we got to know your family!” I didn’t see anything wrong with my answer, but my mother did.
That child turned out to be Leroy, my first boyfriend. I guess Mother must have gotten to know his mother and have been satisfied that we could play together. And play we did! We played outside in our backyards, but we played more in our apartment. I had just the neatest playroom. I think it must have been meant for a storm shelter, but it served me well as a place to keep my toys. The room (closet?) was sort of cornucopia in shape . . . wide at the front and narrowing to almost nothing at the back. Leroy and I had so much fun in that room.
I’m sure you’re wondering what Leroy looked like. I believe I have a photo somewhere but not here right now. He had sandy blond hair and freckles. My mother said that he looked like a Studebaker going down the street with its doors open. You get the picture.
Leroy was my good friend, probably the first that I remember; however, he had one fault: he liked to tear up my toys. Dolls’ heads came off; doll strollers were wrecked. He was my friend, so I let him do these things. The mentality of an only child, like me, was that if I didn’t let him do things to my toys, he wouldn’t play with me. Sad, isn’t it?