PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I do not know why these reminiscences are collecting, but as I feel led, I wil record them.

My enforced separation from Cerulean began on Thursday, September 9th, when my parents conveyed me an hour's drive north of our rural village to the campus of the small university that they had compelled me to attend.  While this matriculation was the culmination of an ambition for which they had prepared for even before adopting me in 1958, it would also serve, they hoped, to destroy my relationship with Cerulean, whom they viewed as little more than a whore, who would tire of my absence and replace me.  This did not happen as they had hoped and planned; and when they returned me to their residence, on Tuesday, November 23rd, 1976, for a Holiday break that would last until Sunday, January 2nd, 1977, I discovered, and made sure they knew, that Cerulean had not abandoned our friendship, and it resumed as if it had not been interrupted.  Not only that, when I returned to channel 22 that evening (where I also received a very warm welcome back), I was told that, right after my absence had begun, some youngster had attempted to appropriate my handle for his own use.  Led by Cerulean, the community of channel 22 subjected the usurper to the "Dead Key":  whenever he began to speak, those whom Cerulean had recruited and who happened to be listening would immediately press the "talk" key of their radios, without saying anything.  This would create a blanket of sound that would effectively silence the usurper, who withdrew shortly thereafter was not known to have been heard from again.

Although my parents compelled me to work during the weekdays of the break, and Cerulean was in the middle of his senior year in high school, our evenings were quite free, and we spent as many of them as possible together.  That December, in our vicinity, was unusually cold, setting records; and so many of the nights were cloudless and starlit.  The drive in theaters were, of course, closed for the season; but we managed to find other entertainment for our weekend nights.

One Wedneday night, either the first or second week of December, I was getting ready to drive from my parents' house to Cerulean's guardians' residence, which was close enough on our street that I could see that the houselights were on.  Cerulean's guardians had, as was their habit, already left for the Wednesday evening service at the local Baptist church where they were devout members, taking with them their son, who was then about seven years old.  Cerulean and I had already planned for the advantage of an uninterrupted evening alone together in front of the television set.  As I was about to leave, I picked up my c.b. radio, because I never got into my car without it.  My father was absent because this was his weekly bowling league night.  As I crossed the carpeted floor, I inadvertently dropped the c.b.  I think my mind moved faster than it had ever moved before, and the radio's fall seemed to be occuring in slow motion.  Although I was usually a clumsy clutz, I was agile enough to thrust my right foot into position that the c.b.'s chassis slammed into my ankle bone, which seemed to break the fall.  The pain that shot through my leg was intense and exponentially unpleasant.  At that same moment, my mother began to laugh, almost hysterically, because she thought that the fall might have destroyed the radio, a development she would have welcomed..  I feared this, too, and the fear was nauseating, and I could not, then, have afforded to replace it.  Limping noticeably, I left the house and drove up our street to Cerulean's.  Since he was now a second year electronics student at the local vocational school, he knew enough to assess the damage.  He shook it gently, and did not hear any kind of rattle, indicative of an interior breakage.  We put it into the car (although, due to the chill, this required that he put his shoes back on, a situation that both of us hoped would be temporary), turned it on, and he talked to several people on 22, requesting them to check their monitors to see how we "pegged the needle."  They assured us that we were still broadcasting at higher than the legal wattage, although the radio was still "barefoot," despite the chill in the air.  Thus satisfied that no major damage had been done, except to my anklebone, we were able to proceed with our evening.

I might add that the c.b. continued to operate quite well until, in August, 1978, I replaced it with one of the forty channel models.  The original c.b. that I had purchased continued to operate until 1986.

Starward