As I was so RUDELY reminded by that ponce, Pliny, collection of my memoirs are quite behind as of late. Yes, yes, I know I could blame the woeful heartbreak caused by… I cannot even bear to repeat her name! No, it is truly a lazy gentleman that allows his memoirs suffer due to an affair of the heart. Sigh.
‘Ahem.’ Where was I?
Hibiscus, my first love!
Oh yes, memoirs. But this latest heartbreak has left me morose, and harking back to a younger, more carefree day when love was still fresh, new, and cupid had not overshot his aim. Friends, I shall tell you the tale of my First and True Love. It was with, you see, a lady of most delicate taste and nature, Ms. Hibiscus T. Porridge.
Shocked, are you? Do not be! While we have a most understanding and mature friendship these days, Ms. Porridge and I go way back – almost 85 years, to be perfectly frank!
When I was a younger man, I briefly attended a university by the name of St. Olaf’s. While I may be a man of learning, I most certainly am not designed for such a staid and ASININE organization. Did you know that they actively dissuade a gentleman from consuming his own faeces? Travesties! In any event, I was walking across the most lovely campus greens, lost in thought over some quadratic equation or another, when I most rudely ran SMACK into a hurried young lady. It was Hibiscus, late again to Looming 201 (she is QUITE the loom’s mistress!), and in the kerfuffle we managed to mix up our handkerchiefs. After a bit of hunting ’round the sorority houses that evening, I found Hibiscus reading Woodsworth in the dusky summer twilight on a porch swing. Words cannot describe the turnings over of my heart at the sight of her in her pastel dress, but suffice to say that I was most smitten.
How can one describe the three perfect months we spent together? I could not summarize our morning walks between classes, the picnics by the river, or the midnight swims we took in Lake Tomato. It was beneath a tree at the side of Lake Tomato that I held her hand tenderly in mine and gave her the most gentle of kisses. What?! A gentleman does not normally kiss and tell, but these are Memoirs!
I cannot say why we ended our summer affaire, but perhaps it was over the objections of her father – a most upstanding local pastor – that she was far too young, and I of far lesser status, to consider marriage. And it was true then, I was a rank lower-class gent, and she a proper lady. Years later, surrounded by the acquisitions of a lifetime of trying to attain standing and status, I yearn to know how different my quiet life of solitude would be if I were born in her circle, or she in mine.
