“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how the music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance”… In 1972, Don McLean’s lyrical history (“American Pie”) pertaining to the death of rock ‘n’ roll stayed atop the U.S’s pop charts for nearly four months. The song was playing in the background on a rare Valentine’s day when February wasn’t making you shiver. It was cold enough that I had to keep wiping away the watery mucus that was running down my nose. We had all snuck out of the New Paltz Middle School dance and somehow obtained a couple of quart bottles of Miller High Life.
Eric Ackerly was there for sure, as was Scott Taylor, Peter Mancuso, Peter Morrison, and probably Dana Lyons. I am even more sure about the girls gathered– Cherie Kidd, Stacey Krieg, Sheryl Swift, Christine Yeaple, and Polly Diven. We were a band of 12-year-olds whose destination for escape ended up on a circular turn-around at the dead end of Howard Street. Forming our own circle, we passed around the beer taking small sips trying to savor our anticipated buzz. When the alcohol was gone, we looked at each other straining hard to look unaffected. I am not sure who, but somebody had acquired enough liquid courage to suggest a game of Spin the Bottle. Scott Taylor grabbed the empty Miller quart and twisted it into the concrete. As the bottle spun and grinded into the pavement, I felt my first euphoric light-headedness and the butterfly knots in my stomach that coincide with romantic love.
That night in the dimly lit cul-de-sac I had an embraceable moment of infatuation that I never stop trying to recapture. The particular Valentine’s spin with destiny triggered a mirage of pre-pubescence experiences with members of the opposite sex. My junior high school years were filled with a variety of awkward moments with girls. These instances occurred mostly at house parties that were hosted by classmates both male and female at their parents’ home. The attendees had already received a pass to first base and were looking for the sign to steal second. For me, it was a time of innocence and discovery of adolescent love.
The kissing was done with mouths closed and the exploration of another’s body was foiled by a thin barrier of clothing. We were at a clumsy age that the girls were starting to wear bras, but the boys were not ready to utilize jock straps. Despite being a head shorter than my slow dance partners, and having a voice that squeaked it was at this time I had more confidence with the opposite sex than I ever would in the 20 years that followed. We weren’t worried about birth control or our sexual prowess, but instead held on to the wonder of enjoying the scent and nuisances of our novice counterparts. Before we started high school, the Raspberries were urging us to “Go All the Way”, as we tried to grasp on to those innocent “Precious and Few” moments we were sharing.
The fall of 1974 when I left the middle school to enter the high school, I felt like a small time club singer who finally plays a big arena. While my lack of physical stature was definitely hurting me on the athletic fields, it was around my own female classmates and especially the older girls, that my diminutive size caused me the most pain. A 15-year-old freshman, who didn’t shave, had scrawny arms, and stood 5’4’’ in platform shoes, I wasn’t going on many dates. My first year at New Paltz High I listened intently as I my peers whispered stories of how they were rounding the bases. I was a wallflower hearing the tales of the girls who were, and were not, going all the way. Rumors were rampant on the handful of girls that may or may not have had abortions. Those first couple years of high school I was a bench warmer in the game of love and romance. In my mind, I was ready for the big show but physically I could barely make it in the minors. Like most students in that situation I learned to compensate for my shortcomings with a litany of personality adjustments. I worked on other ways to draw attention to myself. I developed a better sense of humor, I read more, and worked on things in my personality that would be beneficial to attracting girls when and if I ever grew taller.
The reality was whatever minor successes with the ladies I enjoyed in my high school years, did not come to be until I added some height. In my junior year I sprouted up a few inches and from my new view at 5′ 7”, I began to test the murky waters of the dating world. I experienced brief, uneventful encounters with Elizabeth Fasolino, Judy Dawson, and Di Di Puelo. All of these dalliances highlighted how inexperienced I was when it came to being physical with females. There were many embarrassing moments for me that year. I was 16, and still not really sure what separated an “ American Kiss” from a “French kiss”. About a week before I had a date scheduled, I was on the bus with Lou Mosconi heading to a soccer game. Even though I was a somewhat introverted underclassmen, I found the courage to ask Lou what the exact difference was. “Hey, Lou,” I blurted, “what’s the big deal about the French and kissing? Do they do something special?” After Lou laughed hard and loud, he dignified my inquiry with an answer. “You both have your mouths open and you move your tongue around with hers.” 
My interest was peaked with this new found knowledge, I was not only ready to try my go at it with my weekend date, but I even set my sights on who I would take to the Junior Prom. I had my eye on a cute blonde who had those cheerleader looks. I nervously dialed her number on my parents’ old rotary phone. “Hi Mr. Clinton, this is Rich, could I please speak to Jill?” I thought I heard Mr. Clinton say “don’t bother asking Jill to the prom, there is no way she is going with you.” Of course all he actually did say was “hold on and I will get her.” When Jill came to the phone, I got hit in the stomach with my first kick of love. “Uh, I’m not sure,” she hemmed and hawed, “I have to check with somebody, I will let you know next week.” Click. Jill Clinton ended up at the prom with Will Scott. I ended up with two dates that night– Vicki Wilson and senior, Patti Durkin. I took Vicki to the prom and I took Patti to Minnewaska, where we enjoyed kissing like the French do as the sun rose above the mountains.
At New Paltz High School there were many specific privileges that went along with being a senior. Standing in front of the cafeteria entrance doors between periods was one such traditional rite reserved for 12th grade boys. In the fall of 1977, I spent more time in or around the school’s cafeteria than I did in the classroom. Four times a day, Phil Burke, Robbie Ferrante, Brian Roach, John Schulte, and I were perched in front of the dining den. We hunters were scoping out the young damsels, who unknowingly just found their way into the lions’ lair. After a summer growth spurt my upright stature rose to almost 6’0’’.
As a result, my confidence with the girls soared to new heights as well. Lisa Hoffman was a freshman when I first noticed her pass in the hallway. At 14, she looked her age and resembled a fawn doing her best to stay out of harm’s way. She wore her shoulder-length, straight brown hair perfectly parted down the middle. Lisa was on the verge of womanhood, displaying all the physical attributes that lured me in, her full lips to her big green eyes, she exuded pure joy and innocence, and I instantly smitten. On and off that year, in the midst of my senioritis, Lisa and I took a beginners course in physical relationships. We fumbled and rolled around often that year like two puppies having a wrestling bout. We were each other’s first love the senior and the freshman. A soft spot in my heart remains to this day for Lisa. I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for Lisa. The young girl somehow realized that the cocky, flippant, older guy she had fallen for was more than that. I’m glad someone noticed.
It was finally my turn to spin the bottle. I had already scanned the circle and thought about a technique to get the bottle to stop its rotation in a desired spot. For what turned out to be only a brief moment in time I was on the right side of that old familiar pain associated with romantic acceptance. I put just the right amount of spin on that empty beer bottle. In between Peter Mancuso and Sheryl Swift, my glass arrow pointed to Cherie Kidd. Happy with the end result, I moved in for my first kiss. Amidst one of the many little circles in small town America, my lips and Cherie’s stayed together for several seconds. That night spawned many a junior high party filled with games of Spin the Bottle, Post Office, and Truth or Dare. After that unforgettable night in the cul-de-sac, I pursued romance and teenage love with an idyllic image of the way it was supposed to look. Truth is, my junior high and high school years in New Paltz were intensely disappointing romantically. We can only hope those days of our youth, the moments , the girls, and our home town can take their proper place in our memories. We can only hope those rites of passage of our adolescence did not scar us , but instead helped our growth and self- awareness . Nothing can bring back the feelings we felt in those cul-de-sacs , the Spin the Bottle parties, and proms. In the present I attempt not to dwell on those times but rather find strength in what remains behind.
