Where you be, J-Zee?

I wonder if my first love ever thinks of me. We’ll call him J-Zee. He was adorably freckled, with curly brown hair, a sweet, open face, and a tendency toward oxford shirts. A “Wonder Years”-era Fred Savage ringer, but younger.

I loved J-Zee with all my six-year-old heart, but he didn’t love me back—a kindergarten tragedy, and an indicator of most of my love life to follow. I can remember how I used recess as my promenade, thinking that if he saw that I could swing the highest out of all the girls in our class (there were about eight, counting me), he’d change his mind. I also employed music in my attempts at a love snare: I truly believed that by singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs (while swinging), J-Zee would hear my dulcet tones and sweep me away to the merry-go-round. He did not.

I sometimes posit that if my family had stayed in that one-stop-sign North Dakota town, I’d have been head cheerleader, Homecoming Queen, and valedictorian by the time high school was over. So I’d probably have had my pick of the seven or so boys in my class, and therefore be married to J-Zee right now. The mind, it boggles.

Here’s to you, J-Zee, wherever you are and whoever you grew up to be. I hope that every time you hear “Silent Night,” you think about that silly little blonde classmate with the mad swinging skills . . . and smile.