Whatever Happened to Patsy Richardson

03/17/2006

This site allows me a unique opportunity to live in the “now” yet still be able to look back and examine the path I traveled to get me where I am today.  I have thought about this off and on for a couple of days.  “This” being a means to really explore my past, write it down for the world to see.  Maybe, just maybe, these words will get someone else to thinking about the path they took?  I do not dwell on the past, and I certainly don’t regret it.  There may be some things I would change, if possible, more that I would want to clean up, for sure, but none that I would not go back in time and relive again, just for the chance to do it.  So, here goes the first one…

One might suppose I would begin my nostalgic adventure from as far back as I can remember.  Early memories of my life are but a few, that is, those that stand out as particularly interesting or cogent.  My sister claims to remember occurrences from the age of one.  I don’t have that many that I can call up, but then, I haven’t tried.  When I pondered what course to take (and I cannot explain what triggered this one) my first thought was of Patsy Richardson.  Patsy, a wide-eyed, auburn-haired knockout in an eight-year old’s body.  Centerfold material, for sure, had I had any idea at age eight what a centerfold was?  My early years can wait a while longer to be recalled, reviewed and examined, if I can draw on the memory of them.  This segment is devoted to this gorgeous specimen of feminine pulchritude. 

My vision of Patsy, at least my recollection of it some fifty-four years after first laying my eyes upon her, is of a face full of very light freckles spread over milk-white skin, green eyes that sparkled as she smiled exposing perfect, bright-white teeth and shoulder-length hair that flipped up as it lay on her shoulders.  She was a third-grade goddess in miniature.  I can envision her still, dressed in a white blouse with lace around the collar, a red and green plaid skirt that showed off a lot of her creamy white legs, white socks that barely covered her ankles and those shiny black shoes that had a narrow strap and buckled on the side.  This was my dream girl.  Eight years old and in love for the first time with a female other than my mother.

The only problem with this story is the one-sidedness of the relationship.  Mine was an unrequited love.  Patsy Richardson had no interest in acknowledging my existence, let alone my undying, unwavering feelings for her.  This was the purest kind of love…it was real and from the depths of my heart.  If you know me, really know me, this will come as no great surprise to you. Patsy spurned my advances, and I didn’t really care, for in my head – and I wrote the lines – she was head-over-heels in love with me and I was her four-foot man.  This undying love lasted about four or five months.  Patsy was in all of my classes from my first day of kindergarten at Gardenville Elementary School in Baltimore, beginning about February 1, 1949 and through the sixth grade.  I am not sure if she went on the Hamilton Junior High in February 1955 or if she moved away from the area.  Nonetheless, she did move out of my life, and now I am left with this memory and thoughts of what may have happened in her life and where she may be now?  I know she probably will never see this or know that I remember her so clearly – wouldn’t it be funny if she had no freckles and black hair – but I wish I could see her again and share a moment with her, perhaps even a hug.  I suppose everyone has a “Patsy” or two in their past.  I am glad I got to share mine with you.

So here I am once again writing the lines, telling my story at my pace, examining memories and times in my life that have not crossed my conscious mind in decades.  With this website I get to create and recreate.  I have kept a journal since 1992 which is most personal and not sharable until I am gone.  Some of my thoughts are not wholesome or acceptable, nothing nefarious, but still, things that for now are for my eyes only.  At first I wrote in it every day.  Now I seem to journal every couple of weeks or so, or whenever I remember I have not made an entry in a while, that is when I add to the near 300 page document.  My goal here is to update this at least once each week, perhaps more often than that.  I sincerely hope you enjoy this and that it sparks something in you to reach back, reflect and bury the past.  Now is now.  Enjoy it. 

PS:  March 5th Nancy and I stopped at a restaurant for a late lunch on the way back from a weekend with grandchildren.  I saw a painting, a watercolor I think, and on it written bottom to top was the statement that follows and I thought this is so relevant to me and the way I view life these days: “I will die young, no matter at what age the experience occurs.” Ponder that for a while?

Another PS:  Here is the Farm in Winter dress.