My mother had numbered each of my classmates and then-on the back of the picture-recorded each student's name next to his or her corresponding number.
I found it amazing, even before I turned the picture over, that I could remember some of the names after some 50-plus years.
During parts of 1956 and '57, I went to Macy School in Whittier, Calif., and was in Mrs. Noriega's 4th-grade class. Perusing the photos of my classmates, I was instantly able to pick out three friends: Terry Schofield, the class jock; Jeff Travis, the swim team manager later in high school; and Stan Bovee who, as a high school freshman, learned to surf with me at Doheny.
The face that stopped me, though, was the image of Susan Rogers.
Valentine's Day that year was celebrated with a class party-though only after a couple of the mothers had been coerced into baking pink, gooey cakes and providing ice cream.
I had made a trip to the local dime store to purchase a box of penny-valentines, and I'd spent about 15 minutes the night before signing them. Other than the ice cream and cake, Valentine's Day didn't seem to be a very big deal at all.
Each of the students hung a paper bag to the back of our chair, and as we got up to get our food we made a lap of the classroom, distributing our stack of valentines. In order to prevent any hurt feelings, Mrs. Noriega made it a rule that all of us had to give a valentine to every student in the classroom. We each ended up with a sack full.
As I sat eating my cake, I went through my bag and began opening cards. They were pretty much all the same-except one that had a note on it.
The note said: "I like you... you're funny. Sue Rogers."
Once a week our class put on a simulated TV news broadcast. We'd concocted a fake TV camera from a cardboard box that rode on a pedestal with wheels. For a boom microphone, we used another small box suspended from a big fishing pole.
I can't remember who announced the news, but Terry was the sportscaster, somebody else did the weather, and another kid and I wrote and performed fake television ads.
If you can imagine two kids trying to sell new cars or breakfast cereal, you might get an idea why Sue thought I was funny. I remember one spot we did that had me dressed in a grass skirt with a hat loaded with fruit as I played a Carmen Miranda-type who was pushing Chiquita bananas.
Sue and I walked home from school together that day, since she only lived a few blocks from my house. Even though we were only in the 4th grade, I was beginning to feel tingles of attraction. When we got to her house, she asked me in for a Coke.
"You ever go skating at SkateLand?" she asked as I fumbled my way through an attempted conversation with her mom, who had poured the two of us a couple of soft drinks. SkateLand was the roller-skating rink downtown and, although I knew how to skate in my driveway, I'd never been to a rink before.
"We go every Saturday afternoon," she continued. "It's fun-you should give it a try."
I knew my mother wasn't close to allowing me to go on anything that might be considered an actual date, so I talked my buddy Ted into going along with me; we'd meet Sue and her friend there.
At noon that Saturday, my father dropped Ted and me off in front of SkateLand. Neither of us was sure what we were getting ourselves into. The shoes were included in the entrance fee, similar to a bowling alley-I'd never worn anything but metal-wheeled clamp-ons. I laced up my skates and began to feel like I was ready, almost, for a roller derby.
Ted and I made our way over to the rink entrance and stepped out into the surging flow of skaters circling the rink. In only about two laps we began to get the hang of dodging our way through the crowd. We began looking for the girls. After about half an hour we finally spotted them just walking through the door, and we skated over.
"Hi," I said. "We got my father to drop us off. These skates on this smooth wooden floor are really neat-you can really go."ue and her friend were dressed in short skating skirts-each had her own pair of skates-and weren't the least impressed. We watched as they quickly put on their skates and then glided effortlessly out onto the floor.
The rink featured a real organist at the Wurlitzer, and about every half an hour they'd announce a "couple's only" skate. Sue and I would take hold of each other's hand and circle the floor. Other couples, grasping each other by the waist, moved together in a beautiful, flowing dance. When Sue and I tried it, however, our legs became horribly tangled and we crashed spectacularly. Thankfully, we didn't do any real damage to anything other than our egos.
The highpoint of the afternoon was when the music stopped and the deejay asked the skaters to form a big ring out on the floor, after which they began a contest to give away free admission tickets along with other skating paraphernalia.
Have you ever done the "Hokie-Pokie" on roller skates? Can you even imagine doing the "Hokie-Pokie" on roller skates?
Needless to say, we didn't win anything, though I did get a quick peck on the cheek when it was time for us to leave.
I lost track of Sue when, at the beginning of junior high, her family moved away. I wonder where she is now, and if she ever thinks about penny-valentines?
I'm sure she's tried to forget about our post-Valentine's Day skating date.
Magnolia resident Gary McDaniel is a regular contributor to the News.[[In-content Ad]]