AWLL 1 - Book 1 - Birgit

August 1976 - Age Thirteen

‘If you end up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it.’ -Frank Zappa

Walking down the hall of Milford Junior High, I was looking for locker number 101. Tim Abbott had locker number 100. I found it, right outside my homeroom, Room 10. For the first time in my life, I actually knew people in my school on the first day. Prior to eighth grade, I had attended a different school district every year from Kindergarten on. This was my second year in the Milford Exempted Village School District, and it felt good.

My parents moved a lot. In fact, they moved nearly every year I was in school, and before that, they had moved several times. By the time we ended up in Milford, I had lived in La Habra, Yorba Linda, Bermuda Dunes, and Palos Verdes in California, Tucson, Arizona, and Cincinnati, Ohio. I went to religious schools for kindergarten, first, fourth, fifth, and sixth grades.

I put my lunch (I always brown-bagged it with the same thing every day - salami sandwich, chips, an apple, orange or banana, and cookies. Mom still packed it.) into my locker, stowed my bookbag (backpacks were not a thing yet) and went to homeroom.

I found my name on the 2nd desk in the row by the window (right behind Tim Abbott, of course) and sat down. Ms. Booher, a tough-looking, very fit blonde lady (I would find out later she was the girls' volleyball and basketball coach) was at her desk looking over her homeroom class list. I knew I would have her for 2nd period for ‘Atoms and Molecules’ an introductory chemistry class.

The bell rang as the final students filed in. I knew most of them from Milford Main, the middle school that housed sixth and seventh grades. There were a few cute girls, a few guys I’d had some trouble with last year but no friends. In fact, I didn’t have too many friends. My best friend from 7th grade had moved over the Summer and my previous best (and still good) friend lived fifteen miles away, near our old house in Anderson Township.

The principal came on the loudspeaker, welcomed us, made a few announcements about clubs and sports that started right away (the football team had been practicing for a few weeks already), and then we stood and said the Pledge. I’d repeat this every school day for four of the next five years. Junior year was an exception, but we’ll get to that.

Ms. Booher called the roll and when she called out ‘Stephen Adams’, I said ‘Steve, please,’ because that’s what I went by. She appeared to make a note in her grade book. I’d be doing this every period today. Only my mom and her family called me Stephen. Oh, and my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Oligee, who called everyone by the proper given name. She was a very old-school teacher, but I had heard that the teachers at the Senior High could tell if you had her just by the quality of your grammar, spelling, and word use. I suspected the rumor was true.

I learned that the very cute blonde in the seat right behind me was Birgit Andersson, a Swedish exchange student. Little did I know the huge impact she would have on my life, all from me saying “Hi” to her when the bell rang to send us on to first period. She said “Hi” back and I could detect only the slightest accent. We introduced ourselves and discovered we had a few classes together - Health first period and English sixth period. I decided that maybe this year would be better than last.

In seventh grade, I had been picked on constantly. Being the new kid, being forced to dress differently (my parents did not like blue jeans - I didn’t even own a pair, and if my parents had their way, I wouldn’t until I moved out of the house), and getting really good grades, made me the target of a lot of jokes, jostling, and some outright bullying. It had been better after the class bully challenged me to fight and I had taken him up on it. In the end, it wasn’t even close.

As soon as we were in the locker room, he’d said, “Let’s go,” and took a swing at me. I ducked. But then I swung back. I hit his shoulder when he dodged, but he was shocked I was fighting back. I decided right then to press it. I never landed another punch, but he kept retreating, shocked at what was going on. As the gym teacher came in to see what was happening, I simply turned around and went back to my locker. Jim Hornberger never heard the end of it - that he had chickened out of the fight by backing away from someone who was supposed to be the class wimp. I knew I had to watch out, but it was close enough to the end of the year that I managed to avoid any dangerous situations with him. That ended the bullying.

Walking down the Junior High hall to Mr. Saneholtz' Health class, I saw a couple of my past nemeses, including the just discussed Jim Hornberger. None of them said anything. Perhaps I was off the hook. If that was the case, maybe, just maybe, this would be a good year for me. I also saw Susan Pollard, my girlfriend from last year. We had broken up over the Summer, but I wasn’t particularly broken up about it. She was still a friend.

I walked into Mr. Saneholtz’s room, just down the hall from my homeroom. The board had his name and a note saying, ‘Sit where you like’. I plopped down front row center, a habit that I’d started early on in my schooling. It made it easier to see the board. Birgit sat next to me on my left without prompting, which made me happy. On my right was a swarthy kid with very dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He leaned over and said “Larry Higgins” and I said “Steve Adams” just before the bell rang.

Mr. Saneholtz called the roll (‘Steve, please’, which he noted), handed out our books and a syllabus, then had us introduce ourselves and tell one interesting thing about us. Each kid stood up, gave their name and something interesting about them. Birgit said she was an exchange student from Stockholm, Sweden, and told a bit about that. I discussed attending different schools in different cities nearly every year and Larry mentioned he had a ham radio.

The rest of the day pretty much went the same. It turned out that Larry and I had the same lunch period, so we decided to sit together. He had two younger brothers and I said I had a younger brother and sister. Funny thing - both middle kids were named Jeff. His dad worked for IBM as a Field Service Tech and his mom was a nurse. My dad owned a plumbing company and a gas station and my mom was a homemaker (yeah, they used that term). She did my dad’s books, but that was done mostly at home and didn’t take a lot of time. Larry lived too far to bike from our house on Milford Hills Drive, but my mom had never objected to giving me rides so I figured we could hang out in the future.

I asked him if he played Dungeons and Dragons (a game I had learned over the Summer from Kevin Dugan who lived just down the street from me, but who was a Sophomore at the High School). He didn’t, but we both liked chess and we both bowled. It was the beginning of a long friendship.

September 1976

The Reds. Oh, man. They were on fire. They were favorites to repeat. I remembered the 6th game of the '75 series. Perhaps the greatest game of baseball played in my life, perhaps the greatest ever. And the Reds lost that one. But they went on to win game 7. I felt a repeat was in the cards.

The school year was progressing. It really wasn’t all that interesting and the classes were pretty easy so far. The only truly interesting class was American History with Ted Dixon. He made the class interesting and often regaled us with stories that were most definitely not in our textbooks, often saying “If you want the rest of that story, you’ll have to look it up yourselves” when things of a more “mature” nature were in question.

Larry and I had joined the same bowling league and asked to be on the same team. He was better, but not by much. And I had become friends with Birgit. She had just turned fourteen (as I would in April of '77) and had come to the States with Youth for Understanding, an exchange program. She was cool, and Larry and I went to a few of her volleyball games. We hung out afterwards a few times, finding out that we enjoyed each other’s company. I also enjoyed looking at her - blonde hair, blue eyes, and a nice figure.

There wasn’t any place really close to the school to hang out, so we usually just sat in the bleachers and drank Cokes.

“America is quite different from Sweden,” Birgit said. “In all the big cities, and in most smaller towns there are coffee shops where we can hang out near the school.”

“Milford isn’t exactly a big town - there are a few places on Main Street and at Five Corners, but that’s too far from school to go without a car. Same with my house, and because you live right across the street from the school, your mom or my mom would have to bring you and Larry home.”

Larry lived about 2 miles from the school and could bike if it was light out.

“How did you become an exchange student?” Larry asked.

“I had a friend who did it last year and said it was a lot of fun so I signed up. My parents have an American girl staying with them now, because YFU Sweden requires it. Do you boys want to come to my house? My host mom said it would be fine. Your parents could pick you up there.”

“Sure!” I said and went to find the payphone. I dialed home, explained to my mom I was hanging out with Larry and Birgit at her house (and yes, her host mom was home!) and she said she’d pick me up in an hour. I wanted longer, but she wasn’t buying it. “Fine,” I said in a snippy way that I knew I’d pay for when she came to get me. Oh well.

We walked to Birgit’s house, I met Mrs. Spencer, her “host mother” as she called her. She was the same age as my mom and stayed home as well. I think she probably knew my mom, because I recognized Mrs. Spencer from Church (my dad never went, and neither did Mr. Spencer) where Larry and I were both now altar boys.

We sat on the couch, listening to WKRQ radio, drinking some Cokes. Birgit was clearly flirting with Larry. He had just turned fourteen and was pretty good looking - better than me, for sure. I could tell by the way she talked to him, giggled at his dumb jokes, and otherwise made it clear she was interested.

Darn. Him. Not me. Larry was either clueless, uninterested, or both. I couldn’t figure it out and I sure couldn’t ask him there! And I was kind of miffed that the Swedish angel didn’t seem interested. We got along so well, I couldn’t figure it out. Why? Larry and I had become such good friends that I couldn’t hold it against him, but I sure was jealous.

I saw my mom’s station wagon in the driveway and knew it was time to go. Larry asked for a ride and I said yes, knowing my mom would take him. “Man, she is hot for you! A hot Swedish girl! You gotta ask her out!” I said as we walked out together.

He just looked at me and said “Nah, I’m not really interested.”

“You’re crazy not to go for it.”

“Nah.”

I just shook my head and got in the car. It made little sense to me.

“Stephen, you can’t use that tone you used on the phone with me. You’re lucky I let you come here and didn’t come to get you right away.”

I didn’t say anything. No matter what I said would have been wrong and I had learned that she shut up quicker if I just kept quiet. Yep, I had a bad relationship with my parents and it was getting worse by the day. She saw Larry and greeted him warmly. Of course.

“Thanks for taking me home, Mrs. Adams.”

“You’re welcome, Larry.”

We dropped off Larry and headed home. Dad was home, as he usually was in the early afternoon. As the owner, he set his own schedule. He liked to be in his office very early, come home in the afternoon, and then work in his office at home in the evening. My relationship with him wasn’t much better.

“Steve, the lawn needs mowing.”

Not even a hello. Typical dad. I had an hour before dinner, so I figured I’d do it then rather than listen to him complain if I waited until tomorrow. My brother Jeff stuck his tongue out at me as I went by. I didn’t bother complaining because my parents wouldn’t do anything. Like usual.

I put on some shorts and a t-shirt, got out the mower, checked the gas, filled it, and cut the lawn. It wasn’t a huge lawn, so I was done in about 30 minutes, front and back. Fortunately, it was a bagging mower, so I didn’t have to rake. I had enough time for a shower before dinner. I quickly showered and passed my little sister Stephanie on the way to my room.

“Hey, Squirt.”

“Hey, big bro.” Now that was more like it! The only one in the family I really got along with. She was 9, cute as a button, and really smart. “How was Birgit? Get anywhere with her?”

I sighed, “No. She likes Larry. I think she’s just going to be a friend.”

“That stinks for you, but Larry should be happy. He’s cute, too!”

“Not interested”

“What? Does he already have a girlfriend?”

“Nope. Just not interested.”

She thought for a moment and said “Well, all the boys in my class think girls are gross. Maybe he still thinks that?”

“Maybe. We’ve never really talked about it.”

Mom called us to dinner. Mac and Cheese. As usual, it was dry and tasteless. She could not cook. Dad was a decent cook, but he mostly did Sunday breakfast and the grill. At least there was salad, so I could fill up on that and eat the minimum required Mac and Cheese. The conversation at the table was the usual collection of praise for anything Jeff did, scorn for anything I did, and treating Stephanie like a princess.

Pretty much anything I said was disregarded or scorned. To me, a perfect example of how my parents treated me was the “Scotch” incident. My dad made a comment about Scotch and I said, “It has to be made in Scotland.” To this day, I don’t know why he decided I was wrong, but he did.

“No, that’s not true,” he’d said.

“Yes, it is,” I’d countered.

“No, it’s not, and that’s enough from you young man.”

Really? I knew I was right, so I ran to get the ‘S’ volume of the World Book Encyclopedia. And I showed him and mom. And was promptly grounded to my room for a week. I kid you not. This had happened when I was twelve and I never forgot.

After dinner, homework, and M∗A∗S∗H, I went to bed. I was fortunate enough to have my own room with my own radio and record player, and of course, my books. Lying in bed, I thought, all in all, it was another day like any other. And there would be a lot more of those this school year, I thought.

October 1976

I decided to try something different. The school newspaper, JR Journal, was looking for 8th-grade reporters. I knew I’d get an endorsement from my English teacher, so I went and talked to the faculty advisor, Mrs. Toepfer. She was an English teacher at the High School but was helping out by covering the Jr. High newspaper. She asked me for my writing samples and I gave her a couple of essays from English class plus my first quarter history research paper on Paul Revere. She asked a few other questions and said she’d get back to me. I hoped I got in. It would give me something to do Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday after school. I wouldn’t have to go home. And that was a good thing.

A couple of days later, Mrs. Toepfer found me as I was heading to homeroom and told me I was in. I should come to the meeting that evening if I could, otherwise on Monday. I had told mom I might stay after school and she had agreed to pick me up. When the dismissal bell rang for the day, I headed to the classroom where all the layout desks and stuff were set up. Mrs. Toepfer was there along with the rest of the newspaper “staff.” I got my first assignment - a story about my friend Danny Baer and his two brothers - all football players. Danny’s older brother Frank was a Junior, and David was his twin.

It took about a week to interview them and the coaches and write up my 300-word story. We also got to write our own headlines, so I chose ‘The Three Baers’. Corny, yeah, but that was the style of the JR Journal. I turned it in and after some light editing, it was approved for print with my name in the by-line. Cool. I wrote more stories, mostly about sports, which seemed to be my beat.

The Reds would meet the Yankees in the World Series. They had swept the Phillies 3–0. The hated Yankees were their opponents. My dad was a Brooklyn Dodger fan from way back, so even though Los Angeles was a foe of Cincinnati, he was rooting for The Big Red Machine. They swept the Yankees. The last game was a laugher. 7–2. Back to back champs. Johnny Bench as MVP.

The Volleyball season was in full swing, and I made sure I covered their games, looking for stories. I really didn’t need to look hard because Birgit was a perfect story. A short interview with her, a brief chat with Ms. Booher, and the article was done. “Sweet Swede Sweats for Success.” Mrs. Toepfer almost vetoed it, but when I told her that Birgit was OK with it, she let me use it. They even ran a picture of her in her volleyball uniform. Our photographer let me keep the original Polaroid. I kept that pic in my notebook for the rest of the year.

November 1976

Our school custodian was retiring. Mrs. Toepfer asked if I would write a 500-word article about him. My sports ‘human interest’ style had been well received and she felt I should do this one. The custodian had been there for 25 years and they were going to miss him. I wrote the story and came up with the ultimate headline of my short newspaper career: ‘It’s Hard to Let Go of Mr. Leach’. Yeah, I know, cornier than ever.

The Volleyball season ended and Birgit had more free time. Larry, Birgit, and I started hanging out together at her house after school. I got to know her host mom, Mrs. Spencer, and met her ‘host sister’ Melanie, a fifteen-year-old fox. We had a great time playing hearts, chatting, and just being together.

I was infatuated with Birgit, but she never gave me any sign at all that she was interested in me that way. She’d laugh at my jokes, talk to me on the phone, hang out with me, but there was never an opening to move things even to a ‘date’ - going out with Larry as a group was fine, but I don’t think there was ever a time when we were alone together. And I felt that was her doing. I didn’t press it, despite being frustrated. Birgit always talked about people back home, but never a special guy. Maybe that was it and she just wasn’t letting on.

My dad took me to my first Cincinnati Stingers hockey game. They beat Birmingham 2–1 in the new Riverfront Coliseum, rather than the venerable Cincinnati Gardens. The stadium was built right next to Riverfront Stadium where the Reds played. I hoped we’d get to more games. I much preferred ice hockey to football during the Winter.

On Christmas Eve, Larry, Birgit, and I were at his house to exchange presents. We had set a limit to keep things cool between us. I gave Larry a chess book and I gave Birgit an inexpensive but cute necklace with a ‘B’ and two small chips of something that looked like diamonds but most certainly weren’t. Larry gave me a set of D&D dice and a thief miniature I could use during my D&D games. Birgit gave me a Dala Horse, a traditional carved horse painted mostly red, that she’d had sent over from Sweden. Larry got the same thing from her, and he gave her a book about Milford (one of those coffee table books with lots of history and pictures). We had a great time at our own Christmas celebration.

Christmas Day came and went; I got a lot of loot (my parents' sole indication of affection was the pile of presents I got at Christmas). I hung out with Larry and Birgit, played Dungeons and Dragons at Kevin’s house, read, went to the movies, and did all those things a normal thirteen-year-old would do. I didn’t have a girlfriend, but that didn’t bother me too much. I wanted one, but I wasn’t suffering without one.