June 2016
John L. Stanizzi
jnc4251@aol.com
jnc4251@aol.com
I was 10 years old. Summer was coming to a close. That sickening feeling of losing my freedom was worsened by hot August days that gave way to cool August nights, a chilly reminder that fall was encroaching, and a new school year. Fourth grade. And I would be facing the cold gaze of Sister Louis Marie, the stern, pock-marked, aquiline, child hater. And….I had fallen in love with Sandra Dee. Years later, when I first read Araby I thought of myself as the young boy in Joyce’s story. “…I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: 'O love! O love!' many times…” Yeah. I was a mess. Things couldn’t possibly be any worse. It was 1959. And I was smitten by the most beautiful woman I had ever seen – Molly Jorgenson. “…Her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood….”
Sandra Dee as Molly Jorgenson
in A Summer Place (1959)
in A Summer Place (1959)
A Summer Place
The summer of 1959 was just about over —
five or six threadbare days
were all we had left,
and the only thing I could do was worry.
I cried myself to sleep
those last nights of summer.
What could I do?
Run away?
Kill myself?
I didn’t know.
I was trapped.
I had seen A Summer Place
and the frail remnant of summer,
that ramshackle lean-to of August
strung together with wisps of sunlight and fantasy,
crumbled in a heap of desperation,
a pile of impossibilities.
In less than a week
I’d be facing Sister Louis Marie,
pock marked Panzer,
whose speech was punctuated
by the constant clatter of her
Rosary bead belt,
and when she spoke her hearing aids,
which looked liked Buick LeSabres
hanging off the sides of her face,
would feed back,
a whirr of electricity
more powerful than the Holy Ghost,
and when she was really pissed
she’d yell so hard
the full bridge of her top teeth
would fly out of her mouth,
and she’d push it back in deftly,
but not quickly enough—
for I had seen
and I stared in disbelief.
I ached, I wept.
I had fallen in love with Sandra Dee,
hopeless, tragic, unattainable.
I formed my lips into the shape of a kiss
and imagining her perfect face,
her unimaginable mouth,
I kissed my pillow with sensual tenderness,
the tears coming and coming.
I wrote on the inside jacket of my books,
Johnnie and Sandra.
I didn’t tell anyone except Mark
who said “You horny motherfucker,”
and then proceeded to tell all the rest of the guys,
so that I had to pretend I thought it was funny too.
Afternoons I’d run the mile home from school,
and with each footfall whisper louder and louder,
Sandra...Sandra…SANDRA!
tears on my October chilled cheeks.
Oh Sandra, I knew it was impossible
but I refused to admit it.
I’m 66 now, and I don’t know a thing about
your life after A Summer Place,
and I don’t want to.
These days, when I’m all-in about my age,
my sore back, my ample belly, my thinning hair
I stare back into the heat of the Summer of ’59,
and in a loving voice, whisper,
I will always love you, Molly Jorgenson.
The summer of 1959 was just about over —
five or six threadbare days
were all we had left,
and the only thing I could do was worry.
I cried myself to sleep
those last nights of summer.
What could I do?
Run away?
Kill myself?
I didn’t know.
I was trapped.
I had seen A Summer Place
and the frail remnant of summer,
that ramshackle lean-to of August
strung together with wisps of sunlight and fantasy,
crumbled in a heap of desperation,
a pile of impossibilities.
In less than a week
I’d be facing Sister Louis Marie,
pock marked Panzer,
whose speech was punctuated
by the constant clatter of her
Rosary bead belt,
and when she spoke her hearing aids,
which looked liked Buick LeSabres
hanging off the sides of her face,
would feed back,
a whirr of electricity
more powerful than the Holy Ghost,
and when she was really pissed
she’d yell so hard
the full bridge of her top teeth
would fly out of her mouth,
and she’d push it back in deftly,
but not quickly enough—
for I had seen
and I stared in disbelief.
I ached, I wept.
I had fallen in love with Sandra Dee,
hopeless, tragic, unattainable.
I formed my lips into the shape of a kiss
and imagining her perfect face,
her unimaginable mouth,
I kissed my pillow with sensual tenderness,
the tears coming and coming.
I wrote on the inside jacket of my books,
Johnnie and Sandra.
I didn’t tell anyone except Mark
who said “You horny motherfucker,”
and then proceeded to tell all the rest of the guys,
so that I had to pretend I thought it was funny too.
Afternoons I’d run the mile home from school,
and with each footfall whisper louder and louder,
Sandra...Sandra…SANDRA!
tears on my October chilled cheeks.
Oh Sandra, I knew it was impossible
but I refused to admit it.
I’m 66 now, and I don’t know a thing about
your life after A Summer Place,
and I don’t want to.
These days, when I’m all-in about my age,
my sore back, my ample belly, my thinning hair
I stare back into the heat of the Summer of ’59,
and in a loving voice, whisper,
I will always love you, Molly Jorgenson.
©2016 John L. Stanizzi