Twiggy
Miss Bombardier
(pronounced Bomb-bar-dee-yaa), the girl recently from Quebec, and expected to
return, sat next to me in seventh grade art class at Carsten’s Elementary
school in Detroit, 1969.
Both of us enviously
mature at the age of thirteen. Well, at least she seemed so mature. Her natural
height exceded mine and then she also wore heels, most usual, and also she was
accompanied by peerless self-confidence and vocabulary that could intimidate a
classical novelist.
I respectfully addressed
her as Miss Bombardier taking care to not presume familiarity with which to
even speak her first name, as it seemed a gentlemanly manner to observe. She
donned hair style similar of the famed model Twiggy, though brunette rather than
blond, and clothing style, also similar, yet more elegant than Twiggy’s, and
yet more impressive was her intellectual capacity; all of this left me
perplexed as to why she seemed so infatuated with me. But I was smart enough to
not ask questions.
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| Boblo Island Boat |
As we approached
completion of seventh grade we discussed attending the class-trip to Boblo
Island, an amusement park on the Ontario side of the Detroit River. It was our
agreement that we would attend together, as an adventurous duo, me, originally
from the State of Tennessee, and she, from Quebec. We both giggled when she
described it as an international diplomacy summit, and then quickly caught our
serious selves and regained our studious composures.
My grandmother, by whom I
was raised, provided me with spending cash for our rides and other amusements
and sufficient money with which an aspiring gentleman could entertain a date
with an impressive meal and a proper tip.
It turned out that, like
me, Miss Bombardier was not amused with rides and games of the popular
amusement park, though we did appreciate the zoo. But what impelled her
emotional interest was the dance pavilion.
We danced together many
tunes played by a Dixie band, she, waiving her arms and bouncing off the floor
with enlivened grace, her bulbous earrings swaying pendulum-like with each
landing and succeeding jump, smiling at me the whole time, her giggles interrupted
only briefly to babble something in Quebec French, which I did not understand,
nor did I ask questions regarding. If she was happy and entertained, I felt
accomplished.
 |
| The dance pavilion |
Later, after dinner,
sitting on a bench awaiting the boat for the return home, Miss Bombardier,
wearing t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, thrust her left leg over my right leg
and, lifting my ever-present ink pen from my shirt pocket and wagging it back
and forth before me, enthusiastically instructed me to “Draw a flower on my
knee, Charles”. I immediately and with great care obliged with a daisy.
The ride back on the
boat, evening to night, found us on the top deck looking at a navy-blue night
sky bespeckled with stars and a cool breeze to evaporate the heat of the day.
We listened to the lapping of waves against the hull of the boat while the bands
played on a deck below us.
Miss Bombardier, full of
smile and quite impulsively, kissed me affectionately on my right cheek and
then whispered something in Quebec French, which I did not understand, except,
of course, my name “Charles” which she spoke with such a fetching accent.
But I did not wish to
ruin an ephemeral seventh-grade affectionate moment under such majestic
conditions by asking questions.
I’m sure her memory of
the event had evaporated as quickly as steam from the surface of coffee by the
time she and her family had returned to Quebec.
But still, I wonder how
long she allowed that flower to reside on her knee.
