His name was Hank. Not the most romantic name for a first love, I admit. But it was his name, and I loved repeating it in my mind and sometimes out loud to a few trusted middle school confidants. Then there was the obsession with writing it alongside my own name, in exaggerated cursive fonts joined together by one red heart and the word FOREVER in all caps. Even after summer camp was over and I returned to school as a seventh grader, I would trace his name and mine in my spiral notebook, knowing I would probably never see him again, but also knowing intuitively that I would never forget him. I was right.

After all, it had been my first kiss. The fact that it happened at the bottom of a mudslide didn’t cheapen it for me. I had waited forever, almost eleven days to be precise. From the first night when I saw him at the campfire, my heart had developed a strange new rhythm whenever his boys group joined my girls group for an activity. I saw him watching me as I did roundoffs and back handsprings out on the soccer field before dinner one night. Not that I was a showoff or anything, but before I did the splits, I glanced out of my peripheral vision to make sure he was still looking my way. He smiled at me. It was almost too much.

Every morning I would rummage through my packed bag, which stayed closed against the threat of lizards and other critters at the foot of my bunk bed, searching for the perfect outfit to get his attention and hopefully another smile in my direction. And every night, as I lay in that bed, my heart pounded relentlessly as I wrote about him in my diary. He was tall and lanky, tanned from our days spent out on the zip line and learning the J-stroke as we awkwardly steered our canoes down the river. His sense of humor delighted me most, as he would laugh hysterically in such an animated way at his own jokes, causing his hair to fall wildly in his face while he entertained a captivated audience. I was captivated. Those overgrown golden curls which he repeatedly swept to the side of his forehead were the stuff of my dreams each night, right after brushing my teeth, saying my prayers, and applying bug spray for the umpteenth time to ward off the mosquitoes.

Our groups spent one day apart, a lifetime, taking turns rotating through the obstacle course, the rope swing and monkey bridge, and an indoor craft time. I had a hard time concentrating on anything that day because my mind was wherever Hank was. While I swung from the rope and shimmied across that bridge, I was consumed with thoughts of him. At dinner that night, he approached my table and sat beside me on the edge of the splintery bench that swayed beneath our slightest movements. He was shy, and that charmed me all the more.  Timidly, he pulled something from behind his back. A leather bracelet with his name burned into it was in his outstretched palm. “I made this for you,” he almost whispered.  I kept that bracelet until I got married eleven years later. I think I kept it not because of how special he was, but because of how special he had made me feel. 

Every girl’s celebrity heartthrob, Donny Osmond, sang a song that I always believed was about that summer. It was called Puppy Love:

            And they called it puppy love,

            Oh, I guess they’ll never know

            How the young heart really feels

            And why I love us so.  

It was near the end of the two weeks, and we knew we would part ways soon, trading the intoxicating high of summer love for the realities that awaited us back home. He would return to football training and drum lessons. I would go home to cheerleading competitions, gymnastics meets and flute lessons, wondering if what had happened at summer camp was just a dream.

But that kiss had been real, even if it was just a rushed, awkward peck on lips sunburned from a day at the river. Climbing up the hill to the top of the mudslide was a tiring, treacherous journey. For the joy set before us, we made the trek up the hill more times than we could count. Each time we were rewarded with the exhilarating thrill of sliding down the smooth, wet earth cut into a body-shaped groove on the hillside. Our bodies were covered in the reddish brown clay. I laughed until I was hoarse. Never had one day held more electrifying enchantment as that day when twelve-year old me took the hand of a boy in whose eyes I was found beautiful, covered from head to toe with mud. Holding tightly to my slippery hand, he pulled me up that hill, and when we reached the bottom, we stopped laughing just long enough for that one kiss that I have never forgotten.

Forty-six years later, I still remember that last day of camp when I found a little love letter from him on my bunk. On top of it he had laid a tiny bunch of wildflowers picked just for me—some ever-romantic Queen Anne’s lace, sturdy black-eyed Susans, and bright yellow dandelions for a splash of color. Those dried flowers, the letter, and the bracelet became my most prized possessions, and I treasured them with all the respect they deserved for longer than I probably should.   

           


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