PLEASE FORGIVE ME, DONNA C.

When things got rough, economy-wise, in the 30's, my father's pharmacy fell prey to a cut-rate drugstore that had moved into the neighborhood. So, my father went to work for someone else in their pharmacy. This necessitated our moving to another location in Rochester, New York.

Prior to the move and at the beginning of the school year, a young lady by the name of Donna C. joined our class at school. Donna, up to that time, was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. As I look back, she had that Kathryn Grayson beauty. I immediately fell in love with her. Somehow, I found out where she lived, probably by following her home -- talk about stalking. Once I found out where she lived, my dog Pete, a smooth-haired fox terrier, and I would get up extra early and go to her house, at least across the street from her house, and parallel her walking to school. It was obvious what I was doing, to Donna's girlfriend, who kind of razzed me, because she got to walk with Donna and I didn't. Once we got to school, I told Pete to go home, and, smart dog that he was, he did just that.

Near the end of the school year (fifth grade) was when the move took place. I was a bit upset because I had made little headway with Donna, and I was leaving all my friends. However, a new neighborhood brought new opportunities for friends and adventures.

Up to that time, I had a two-wheeled scooter, one that was propelled with one leg on the platform between two wheels, and the other leg pushed against the sidewalk or road. There were handlebars to grip while all this locomotion was taking place.

One weekend day, after we had moved, I had the desire to visit some of my chums in the old neighborhood. So I took my scooter and "scooted" over to where Jimmy Decker lived. Little did I realize that the distance was 2.2 miles. I visited with my friends and then scooted back home. By the time I reached most of the way home, I was so tired of scooting I got off the scooter and walked it the rest of the way -- no more "scooting" any long distances.

Most of the kids in the neighborhood had bicycles and I finally prevailed upon my parents that I needed a bike. Fortunately, the boy upstairs (we lived in a four-apartment house) had reached the age where he could dive a car and was willing to sell his bike. My father bought the bike for five dollars. It was a Rollfast. I did all sorts of things to that bake. I put squirrel tails on the handlebars, bought a horn and a light, hiked the seat way up, as well as the handlebars, and loved my new possession.

By now, I was in sixth grade and the testosterone was making an early appearance. My thoughts somehow drifted to Donna. The testosterone also brought a new bravado. I would bike over to the old neighborhood and ask Donna to go to the movies. A date I thought I could afford. So I biked the 2.2 miles, a lot easier than scootering, and found myself outside Donna and her mother's (a single mom) apartment.

The apartment was located at the back of a house. Gathering my courage, I went up to the back door and knocked. Mrs. C. answered the door and I asked, "Is Donna home?" She called, "Donna, you have a visitor." Donna made her appearance. I wasn't sure how I would be greeted. Donna smiled and said, "Harvey, what are you doing here?" I bravely answered, "I'd like to take you to the movies this Saturday afternoon." (It was Wednesday when all this took place.) Donna looked at her mother and asked, "Would it be all right?" Her mother asked me, "What time would you be calling for Donna?" I said, since the movie started at 2:00pm, "How does 1:30 sound?" Donna said, "That sounds OK to me. Mother?" Her mother said, "That sounds OK to me, too. We'll see you Saturday at 1:30." I said, "Swell -- I'll see you then." I was on Cloud Nine -- I had a date with Donna C.

Saturday morning rolled around and I found myself broke -- not even able to pay the 12 cents apiece for the tickets, much less a nickle to split a candy bar. I stayed at home bemoaning my fate. I never had any more contact with Donna C. I was imagining how she was getting herself ready for the "date" -- how she was feeling and how her mother must have felt. I was miserable. So I finally write this apology in hopes that wherever you are, Donna C., you will forgive me. I'm sorry.