Author's Note:
This story is mostly a cute romantic tale. It falls falls into the non-erotic category because the brief sexual part is only implied, not described. If this type of story does not appeal to you, please stop reading it now and move on to another story. However, if you think a story about a childhood romance might be your cup of tea, please read on!
Part One
This is a memoir being penned by an old man. My name is Gregory (Greg) Calhoun. I was born in 1943, so I’m an octogenarian now. Some people don’t like the problems that come with aging, but I always consider the other option. I figure it’s better to be alive at 80 than dead at 50. Both my parents and my older sister all died in their seventies, so I’ve surpassed them in longevity. I’ve had a good, productive, enjoyable life, so I like to reminisce. This is the story about the first love of my life. Her name was Michelle O’Reilly—and I adored her. We met on the first day of kindergarten—the Tuesday after Labor Day in 1948. The date was September 7.
My family was new to the small Canadian city where we now lived. My father had recently been appointed the general manager of the bank in that community, so that required us to move nearly 500 miles westward from the city where I was born. I was a curious kid who liked to learn things. I could read passably by the age of four, which was unusual, I suppose, for someone who hadn’t yet entered the school system. Therefore, I was looking forward to going to school for the first time. I quickly discovered that made me a rarity.
On that first day of kindergarten, my mother escorted me to school and led me into Miss Scott’s class. I was quite content to be there, but most of my peers were upset at this new reality of life. Some appeared to be terrified. Some were sulking. A couple of them were crying and demanding to go home. About 25 feet away, a little brunette girl with curly hair, clad in a blue dress with white polka dots, was one of the criers. I asked my mother why she was upset.
Mom replied, “I suppose she doesn’t want to be here like you do, Greg. I think she’s scared. Maybe she needs a friend. I think we should say hello to her and her mother.” I agreed to the idea and Mom led me to where she was standing.
Mom took the initiative. “Hi,” she said to the woman and her daughter. “I’m Jane Calhoun. My son Greg is starting kindergarten today. I assume your daughter is, too.”
The woman smiled and confirmed that was the case. She introduced herself as Dorothy O’Reilly and said her daughter’s name was Michelle. We learned they lived just two blocks from our house.
I was a precocious child, so I extended my hand for Michelle to shake. “I like your dress; it’s very pretty,” I told her. Then I added, “You are very pretty, too!”
My mother was a bit startled by my statement. “Greg, when did you start noticing pretty girls?” she asked me.
“When I first saw them in movies,” I answered. “I can spot the pretty ones as fast as Dad does.”
The two adult females laughed. Mom jokingly said, “Greg, I must have a talk with your father when he gets home from the bank tonight. I think he’s corrupting you.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I restated that Michelle was “as pretty as any girl I’ve seen in the movies.” My interest in her remarkably stopped her crying.
“Michelle,” her mother kindly said to her, “if you don’t immediately make friends with this nice boy, you are a fool.”
“Okay!” was the first word I ever heard from Michelle—who promptly hugged me. I liked the warm feeling that suddenly ran through my body. Michelle took me by the hand and didn’t seem interested in letting go of it.
“I like this girl, Mom!” I said, stating the obvious. “School hasn’t even started and I’ve already made a new friend.”
That was actually the start of two new friendships: Mom and Mrs. O’Reilly quickly became close friends, too.
That first afternoon of kindergarten was basically to get us used to Miss Scott being in charge and to show us where everything was located in the classroom. She read us a story about a walrus and we sang some silly songs. Then we were dismissed. My mom arrived to escort me home. (It was the last time she ever did that. I informed her I could easily find my way to and from school with no trouble at all.) Mrs. O’Reilly returned to walk home with Michelle. Both our mothers were amused to see Michelle and me happily walking hand-in-hand. We had basically spent the whole afternoon that way. Even though her family lived two blocks further down the street than our house was, I insisted on walking Michelle home. Mom came along, too, to see where her new friend resided. As we got to the front door, I whispered to her, “Do you think it would be alright If I gave Michelle a goodbye hug?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her!” was Mom’s reply. I could tell she was trying to suppress a laugh.
“Michelle,” I began, “my mother says if I want to hug you, I have to ask you first. So, I’m asking you. May I give you a hug to say goodbye for today?”
“Sure!” Michelle exclaimed. She opened her arms widely and I gave my new friend—my girlfriend—the best hug a five-year-old could muster. Michelle hugged me just as enthusiastically. It must have lasted longer than a typical hug because Mrs. O’Reilly said, “Okay, Romeo and Juliet, break it up!” I sort of understood the allusion. I don’t think Michelle did, though.
“I can’t wait for kindergarten tomorrow!” Michelle said.
“Oh, so no more crying about it, then?” Mrs. O’Reilly asked her.
“No, that was silly,” Michelle said. “I like school because I really like Greg. Can I walk to school with him tomorrow afternoon?”
Mom gave Mrs. O’Reilly our address. It was arranged that she would walk Michelle to my house, and then Michelle and I would walk the remaining distance to school together by ourselves. Once Michelle became familiar with where I lived, she walked on her own to my house and I always walked her back to hers.
The evening after my first kindergarten class, Dad asked me how the experience was. “It was great!” I excitedly informed him. “I already have a girlfriend named Michelle O’Reilly, she’s really pretty, we’ve hugged twice, and she’s coming here tomorrow so we can hold hands while we walk to school together.”
Dad laughed as he said, “Greg, I thought you were going to tell me what you did at school today. You know...what you learned from your teacher. I didn’t think I get a recap about your romantic adventures. How old are you again?” He turned to Mom and declared, “He’s a chip off the old block, though. When I started school, I had seven or eight girlfriends within the first week.”
The next day, Dad surprised mom by coming home for lunch, which was abnormal for him. “I have to meet this sweetheart of yours, Greg,” he told me. “I want to see if she’s as pretty as you say she is.”
I was literally pacing in anticipation after lunch until Michelle arrived on foot with her mother. When I saw them approaching our house, I stepped onto our front lawn to greet them. Michelle noticed me from a distance. She recklessly ran toward me and gave me something akin to a flying tackle as she accidentally knocked me down with an overenthusiastic hug. We ended up in a tight embrace rolling around on the grass. I thought that was great fun!
My father was in hysterics at the sight. He was doubled over and laughing loudly. He saw Mrs. O’Reilly, introduced himself, shook her hand, and said sarcastically, “It’s a shame our children don’t get along, isn’t it?”
Michelle eventually released me from her clutches. I helped her brush a few blades of grass from her clothing. She was wearing a light-yellow blouse with a red skirt. “See dad!” I said proudly. “I told you Michelle was a pretty girl! She’s even prettier than she was yesterday!”
Mom reminded us to walk to the corner, turn left, and proceed in a straight line for six blocks. “I know the way to school, Mom!” I assured her. “And I know how to find Miss Scott’s class once we get there.”
Michelle immediately took my hand and away we went. I didn’t tell my parents that we were nearly late because we slowed our gait considerably to extend our walk as long as possible. Michelle abruptly stopped when we were about 10 yards from the school property. I asked her why.
“Yesterday I told my Mom I really want to kiss you. Mom said that might be against the school’s rules. I’m not sure. Just to be safe, Greg, I’m going to kiss you here and now.”
Before I could even think of reacting, Michelle stood on her toes—I was a bit taller than she was—and gave me a terrific kiss on the lips. It was like the ones I had seen in the movies, but it was the first one like that I had ever gotten from any girl. I really enjoyed it.
“Let’s do it again!” I said. We did. We disengaged about a minute before the school bell rang.
We raced to the kindergarten room where Miss Scott reminded us to always be punctual. That was a word I didn’t know. By chance, the first items on the agenda that day were Miss Scott giving us nametags and reading us a list of class rules while we sat on the floor in front of her. When she was done, she asked if anyone had questions about them. I raised my hand and asked, “Is there any rule against kissing?”
“Kissing?” Miss Scott repeated my inquiry as a question while she gave me an odd look. “Well, no. Not specifically,” she stated.
“Good!” I said. Then I embraced Michelle who was sitting beside me and kissed her with the same level of enthusiasm we had a few feet from the school. Most of our classmates gasped in horror.
“Greg and Michelle,” Miss Scott addressed us sternly. “Just because something is not against the rules...that doesn’t mean you should do it.”
We weren’t about to make that distinction. Michelle and I kissed at least ten times before class was dismissed and at least that many times during our walk home that took us twice as long as it should have. It was the greatest day thus far in the 5½ years I had been alive. Unfortunately, the following afternoon Miss Scott announced that she had added a new “Greg and Michelle Rule” to the list. It prohibited students from kissing or even engaging in excessive hugging.
Rules be damned. Michelle and I didn’t stop. We just kissed and hugged stealthily in class from that point onward. We discovered a section of the classroom where the art supplies were stored was difficult for Miss Scott to monitor, so we did most of our smooching there. One day Kim Albertson, another pretty classmate, caught us. She understood how extortion worked: She threatened to report us to Miss Scott unless she could kiss me too! Apparently, I had no say in the matter as Michelle replied, “Okay, Kim, but just this once. If you try to kiss Greg a second time, I’ll bop you on the nose!” Kim was a superb kisser—better at it than Michelle was. Kim never did kiss me again that year, but we often waved and smiled at one another when we were certain that Michelle couldn’t see us.
When Valentine’s Day 1949 came around, I was prepared to empty my piggy bank to buy Michelle an appropriate present. I discovered that a dozen long-stemmed roses were beyond my budget, but Mom took me to a greenhouse where I bought a plant. The proprietor was so impressed that I had a girlfriend at age six that he greatly reduced the price of a pretty, flowering plant called succulent love. I spent the rest of my dimes, nickels and pennies on a gigantic chocolate heart for Michelle. I penned her a love letter saying that I wanted to spend “the next thousand years” with her.
Instead of waiting for her to come to my house on Monday, February 14, I got up very early, walked the two blocks to Michelle’s home, and surprised her with my gifts when she was barely awake and still in her pajamas. I told her she looked beautiful in her frilly nightclothes. She was delighted by both the present and the compliment—and gave me a huge bar of imported Swiss chocolate that she was going to deliver to me that morning. She had also created a homemade valentine for me in which she had printed “I love Greg” a dozen times. Of course we kissed! Later that night, my dad quickly reimbursed me for all my expenses. “If my son loves a girl that much at his age, I’m going to cover the cost, ” he told Mom.
Part Two
Michelle remained my girlfriend through the eighth grade. Then, just before school ended in June 1957, disaster struck. Michelle’s father and his younger brother decided to enter business together doing upgrades to homes. With only three weeks’ notice, Michelle and her family would be moving 600 miles away to where her uncle lived and worked. They were waiting for school to end for Michelle before departing. When I got the news via my grim-faced parents, I openly wept. I was 14, mature beyond my years in many ways, but not old enough to escape devastating heartbreak. My mom learned from Mrs. O’Reilly that Michelle was coping even worse than I was.
The next morning, when Michelle met me at my house to walk to school (for approximately the 1800th time) we fell into each other’s arms and sobbed together. We had been talking about getting married someday since kindergarten. We still discussed it as being inevitable as 14-year-olds. Neither one of us felt like going to school that day. Mom made a quick telephone call to Mrs. O’Reilly. They both agreed we needed something akin to what is now called a “personal day” to absorb the news. Our mothers phoned the school to report that we would be absent that day. Mom, who was also in tears, kindly said to us, “You two need to do a lot of talking today. I have some errands to run this morning. I’ll be back around noon to make lunch for you.” Then she got into her car and departed.
Michelle and I literally spent the next 30 minutes bawling. When we finally pulled ourselves together, we decided we had to ponder our options. We quickly concluded that we had none and started crying again. Then a creative idea came to Michelle.
“Greg, maybe we do have one option. It’s extreme, though...”
“What is it?” I asked. “Hey, I’m willing to listen to any idea.”
“What if I were to become pregnant by you?” she suggested. “Then we’d have to stay together. I’d move in with you instead of going away. What do you think, Greg?”
I was a typical 14-year-old in 1957. Premarital sex was basically taboo in polite society at the time, especially among minors. Michelle and I, despite sharing a zillion passionate kisses, had never had a sexual encounter. Even in 1955, when 12-year-old Michelle began to blossom and subtly suggested we could be “more intimate than usual”, I told her it was morally wrong and we should save ourselves for marriage. (Boy, was I a major fool!) However, the circumstances of our relationship had dramatically changed overnight.
With only a moment’s hesitation, I blurted, “Great idea, Michelle! Since we’re intent on creating a family, let’s screw in the family room!” I took her by the hand to the stairs and we descended one floor.
By June 1957, Michelle O’Reilly was extremely attractive. She was a well-built young gal who was pretty from head to toe. I may have been biased, but I figured Michelle had to be among the top three girls at school in the beauty department. From the age of 11 when I learned about basic human anatomy and a few biological facts, I had fantasized about having sex with my beloved, longtime girlfriend—but it was only a pleasant fantasy. I figured it would be a very romantic activity. However, it now seemed to be more of an urgent bodily function rather than a romantic adventure. Whatever the case, this would be a new experience for both of us.
After we completed the deed, we embraced and kissed passionately. Between busses, Michelle suggested we needed to do this every day before her family moved until she became verifiably pregnant. I was looking forward to our new shared hobby.
That night when I was in my bedroom, I overheard a conversation my parents were having in the kitchen about Michelle and me. They dwelled on how awful it was that we would be separated after nine years of lovingly romancing each other starting at age five. I could tell that both of them were in tears over our misfortune. Mom told Dad that she and Mrs. O’Reilly had decided that we needed an unplanned absence from school that day. It took a second before the paternal alarm bell sounded in Dad’s brain.
“Were you always here with them or were Greg and Michelle left alone for any length of time?” he urgently asked Mom.
“I ran a few errands this morning. I was out of the house for about two hours. What are you driving at, dear?”
Dad created a picture for mom using just words. “Honey, pretend we were in the same situation as those two unlucky kids are. What would we have done after nine years of waiting and just three weeks to do something about it?”
Mom got the picture. “Oh, my God!” she declared.
They both stormed into my bedroom. I confessed without even being asked a question. “Yes, when Mom was out of the house this morning on her errands, Michelle and I had sex for the first time in our lives. Yes, I deliberately tried to impregnate her. That was the whole idea. If she is pregnant, we can’t be separated. It was wonderful, by the way.”
I didn’t know how they would react to my words. Mom said, “You shouldn’t have done that, Greg—but I guess I can’t blame you.”
Dad concurred. “I would have done exactly the same thing under these circumstances—consequences be damned!”
I was relieved at their liberal attitudes about what had happened. However, both Michelle and I were grounded to stop us from any further sexual activity. We weren’t allowed to visit each other—even to the point where Michelle and I were forbidden to walk to and from school together for the last three weeks. Instead, Mom drove me the short distance to school and picked me up afterwards. We did manage to sneak a few kisses at school—as we had been doing since September 1948—but that was it. Michelle visited her family physician. My sperm gusher had failed; Michelle was not pregnant.
“Thank heavens for that!” Mom said upon learning that news. Dad agreed. When Mom was out of earshot he said, “Greg, I’m glad you’re not going to be a father at your young age, but you have to tell me the juicy details sometime.” I should have laughed, but I was too disappointed. Michelle becoming a mother was our only chance for us to remain together. Now, with us under such tight scrutiny, that opportunity was lost.
School ended. The O’Reillys moved away just one day into summer recess. The joint suspension Michelle and I shared was lifted only for a short goodbye a few hours before the moving van arrived. It didn’t go well. Michelle was on the verge of hysterics and I was crying buckets. I refused to talk to Mr. O’Reilly, whom I had always liked. To me he had become a villain overnight for taking my beloved Michelle from me to some distant place. (I later learned from my parents he wasn’t especially interested in having a friendly chat with me after I had “violated” his virgin daughter.) Michelle and I were permitted one last kiss and embrace. We made it last for five minutes. When we separated, Michelle ran into her house, sobbing harder than ever. For some reason I ran the full two blocks to my home. I was thoroughly heartbroken.
For a while, Michelle and I exchanged letters. Their volume quickly dropped from three or four per month to just one or two per year. When one of her infrequent missives to me, written in 1960 when she was 17, had a reference about a new boyfriend, I decided to terminate what little was left of our relationship. I wrote a stern and brief reply to her saying I could not abide the thought of her being romantic with anyone but me, “therefore this is my last letter to you, Michelle. Goodbye. Have a good life.”
I never heard from Michelle again. I don’t know what became of her.
My mother kept in touch with Mrs. O’Reilly for a time. When one of Mom’s letters was returned to her in 1962 marked “not known at this address, ” Mom ceased trying to contact her.
To this day, however, I still get occasional reminders about Michelle O’Reilly from my wife. I married my old kindergarten classmate, Kim Albertson, in 1965 when I was 22. We’ve been happily wed for 60 years now. Whenever she wants to be playful, she’ll kiss me and say, “I hope your old girlfriend doesn’t bop me on the nose for doing that.”