Jackie Needham - A Long Search for the Right Kiss

A LONG SEARCH FOR THE RIGHT KISS

CHAPTER 1 STARTING WITH A PREFACE

I n this tale, we are all flies on the wall so to speak. It is a past perfect account that generates a future narrative, a thoughtful analysis of the necessity for change. The chronicle focuses on an unusual soul of a boy as he grows to adulthood. To this end, we can all witness resistance to progress, while at the same time, the forward movement would have been beneficial, healthy, logical, and preserved precious happiness. The examination is but a microcosm of the problems we all have in common, inasmuch as the whole human race has some sort of imperfection to a varying degree. Moreover, the majority of our society doesnt know what a fault is from a hole in the wall and place far too much importance on the wrong flaws when they look in the mirror. Disproportionate to them are an inspiring few among us who roll with whom, what they are, and do not care two wits what anybody else thinks. Generally, they garner our respect, as well they should. However, as compared to the first group who dont see themselves as having any faults to speak of, is a strong but smaller segment that has low self-esteem. They too are divided into groups of degree. Some do not have to look in a mirror, and even refuse the confirmation because the self-righteous or the pious among us make them believe and accept they have an abnormality. The rest is left to the mercy of one or more bullies or abuser who figuratively or literally beat them into being an introvert. These tormentors have no moral compass at all. Imagine, if you will, their handicraft having to go through life sheltering secrets and relegated to maintaining damage control from the ill effects? This leads us to the story and search within it as it centers on one such person, his friend, and family. It would be a lie not to say there is a considerable amount of truth in it. The thread of change ties them to a place and a particularly wonderful time of year.

T his account began as a small six-year-old freckled faced boy with cotton candy cowlick light-brown hair, stood in quiet contemplation alone by the shoreline of a spring-fed pond. He stared down into the slightly rust-colored, but clear water of Nadley Family Pond Camping Area a foot in front of him. It was an early Friday afternoon heralding the start of Memorial Day weekend, the beginning of summer. The Ferguson family managed to beat all the holiday traffic because George and Margaret, Staceys mother and father, took the day off. It was a pre-thought out strategy to hit the road at eight AM for the campground, a little after breakfast. The plan was to avoid the inevitable deluge of rushing holiday travelers and get to choose a better site by the water when they arrived.

Stacey was the oldest son of three Ferguson children, his brother Christopher three years younger and his adorable sister Ann, just a mere five months. He enjoyed very much watching and caring for his siblings. But the boy was only six, and like any other six-year-old, he got sidetracked stretching a simple trip to the rustic campground bathrooms and shower house. Earlier, the camping gear unloaded from car roof racks, hand-packed the Thursday night before done without anybodys help. All the unpacked gear had to set up, including all three canvas tents, cots, baby's crib, plus manage to separate the luggage, toys, blankets. Likewise, separated neatly, every bit of the cargo went into whoever was to occupy each tent for the next three days.

To make life easier, all the organized cooking gear sat in plain sight on a red and white plastic flannel-backed tablecloth spread out and thumb-tacked to the sites picnic table. The wooden table got dragged within fifteen feet of a ring of rocks capped by a steel grate that formed a simple fireplace. Stacey thought at the time that the only thing left to do was to gather wood to burn in it. Aluminum folding chairs were opened and faced toward the pit that his parents sat on when he left for the bathrooms. The scene begged for fire later in the evening to gaze at and toast marshmallows on stiff sticks. There is nothing like marshmallows, toasted or raw from the bag. Well, maybe bacon sizzling in a cast iron fry pan wafting through the air the morning after.

Stacey had all but put the unpacking job out of his mind for a while, including the marshmallows. It was just then he heard his name being called out by his mom. The quiet reverie of the private peaceful spot behind thick blueberry bushes growing close to the shore's edge was irrevocably broken. Even the fish he watched in the shallows he tried to calculate how to catch, scurried away. Stacey, She screeched again! She was accustomed to being heard and answered when she called. Every time she repeated his name, the echo of her voice carried to pierce the whole of the roughly 10-acre patch of recreational forest. She had a very high-pitched voice, to the point of being shrill. It was loud and noticeably obnoxious. On the other hand, even when called out that way, he always loved hearing his name. He was more than willing to have peoples heads turn, as long as they were not annoyed, to put his face to the name and the fact that he was a boy, albeit a very small one. Still, he was cute as a button, and he matched the name perfectly. Its as if his parents knew something, even before he came out of the womb, naming a boy Stacey. All in all, small and a bit feminine, Stacey was pretty toughtough defined a little differently in his case. He was called Stacey, too, never Stace, and it was spelled with an ey. For some reason, it always gave him pleasure. Staa-cee, she screeched again.

He was roughly five hundred feet away from where she repeatedly bleated out his name from space number twelve. He had to respond, but with a slight hint of annoyance in his voice said, Ill be right there. But, she did not hear the answer to her call. He scrambled to emerge from his secluded spot behind the blueberry bushes. He broke into a run toward his familys campsite knowing that if he didnt put a stop to her repeated yelling, she would grow angry and end up irritating the other campers in the rapidly filling State Park. She would create enemies well before they could be befriended.

A short explanation is needed of Staceys view of the screeching dragon lady image at that time. It is because this was a pivotal point in his life. Stacey took control of his deepest thoughts and viewpoints, greatly reduced by any input garnered from his parents at the time. It began at that exact moment at the campground. It was the final straw that at the ripe old age of six, realized how he felt about things that shaped his desires, wants, and needs. It dawned on him for the first time that he loved his mom, but it became as clear as daylight, just then how much she embarrassed him to death sometimes. He had not yet formed an opinion about his dad because George generally did not interfere when his wife publicly displayed her volatile personality. The familys rightful head of household was always hotly disputed in private, behind a closed bedroom door, and the only voice loud enough to ever be heard was mama Margaret. George was the type that argued in a calm condescending even-tempered way. He was intelligently abusive, that is to say, that he softly dished out venomous vitriol sounding collected and reasonable. Stacey could not have known such things at the time. Stacey was blinded to those kinds of things, much too young to understand.