It is not unusual to recount your vague experiences when you were young at that point when you are very far past being so. As of late little persistent tidbits surface at various times of small, but in hindsight, ironic events. Wherein their impact once being discounted nearer to the time of their occurrence seems prescient of what was my ultimate destiny. Had it not been for that left turn at that early crossroads then perhaps sorts of things. And in that vein I can recall one, next to forgotten, incident more by it’s lingering visual content than the outlay of its linear narrative. The outcome of the same having been carried along ever since. One in which I at some tender age between seven to eight years old, our family unit having once again been pulled along once to a new and foreign community, found myself alone and receptive to contact with those of my old age. The setting being some older suburb of a mix of older residential prewar housing and small blocks of postwar apartment buildings. Unfamiliar with neighborhood and encountering two little girls of approximately my own age and enticed along several door down from my own new home to the second story loft of a garage. An unfinished raw wooden rafter ridden space that in the way of children was rest with old forgotten sticks of furniture intermingled with the latest hoard of play set artifacts assembled over a few Christmases and birthdays.
The strange of the setup of all those rigorously placed toy cups and saucers approximating the sort of fantasies of the future that little girls of the postwar era still tended to embody. And I tugged up the stairs by each arm out of the combined excitement of the two in capturing an avatar to stand in for their model for some undisclosed future spouse. And they unaccustomed to finding what seemed so willing a victim unlike that all too familiar recalcitrant older brother or cousin, now bubbling over with undisguised excitement to have a playmate to enact their ceremony of conjuring those fantasies known wholly to precocious little female minds. Something about its mystery to one only comfortably familiar without those rigid conventions of playground ‘bang bang shoot-em up‘ war games, now being increasingly unsettling as its agenda was unfolding. A virtual tea ceremony of sorts where all the savories upon paper plate platters and cheap plastic tea cozies were imagined in the minds of thsee hostesses. What was I expected to do so as not offend? The outlay of conversation soon turning a tad contentious as it became evident that such expected familiarity with these customs were far outside the conventions of my own family cuisine. My enthusiasm for the same so evidently totally absent. Feeling what I interpreted as a growing frustrated ambivalence from the two, I hastily departed. The palpable deflation of the moment a stroke upon my head.
“What had I missed?“, I still muse to this day if I had summoned the temerity to stay even risking appearing a junior Philistine? My first innocent session of, “I will show you mine if show me yours?” The opportunity to define the measure of the feminine mystique at the source of its waters upstream? Perhaps the flowering of a lifelong bond with one of them coming from an initial attraction starting from my own preadolescence? But sitting here some six decades later wondering about the magnitude of the loss of such usefully intimate fraternization with the psyche’s of young girls that might have provided a key to much more pleasant relations later on. Something that would have bridge they strangeness of that gap between the sexes that defied my understanding even in late adolescence. That silly little dinner party conjured by those two little witches that I left running for my life. Perhaps, sanely? Perhaps not? The flip flop narrative of life ever since a result of that reluctance? Something that intrigues but supplies no answer even to this day.