Wings folded

(It’s a Corsair; four-bladed prop too.)

—“I feel like I folded my wings some since I last came here.”
I said that to my so-called bereavement counselor the other day. She spends more time dealing with my childhood than the death of my wife.
“I’m not as forthcoming as I was recently. I feel striking up conversations isn’t worth it.
Yet I just flirted with your cute receptionist. I wouldna done that 10 years ago.”
“Flirt” isn’t the word I used. I talked to her, but realized later that was flirting.
She loved it. I thought enough of her to start a conversation.
“I’m pretty sure I saw you the other day at my supermarket. But I didn’t say hello because I wasn’t sure it was you.”
Note usage of “you,” plus I was looking her straight in the eye.
10 years ago I wouldna said anything, and looking her in the eye was impossible.
“NO CUTE GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!”
That’s Hilda Q. Walton, my immediate neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child.
Hilda convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. Her husband was probably fooling around.
I noted that had my parents come to my defense, Faire Hilda probably woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed; I was already stupid and disgusting for not worshipping my holier-than-thou father.
People tell me to “Get over it!” —My childhood that is. Through 75 years on this planet only two people out of thousands understand where I come from:
—One is my 89-year-old aunt, who probably suffered a worse childhood than mine. She was born in 1930, the height of the Depression, so was unwanted = a mistake.
—Second is my father’s brother’s only son, a cousin. “I don’t know how my father ended up being as decent as he was after that madhouse he grew up in.”
That uncle also told me he very definitely wasn’t the favored one. That was my father.
I could go on-and-on. What’s notable is my entire childhood is being flip-flopped since my wife died.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/BE INTERESTED IN YOU!” That marked me for 70 years. Fear of people in general, pretty ladies especially.
But now at last Faire Hilda and my parents drift into the filmy past. I’ve collected too many female friends — they pile up. Add that receptionist.
You can be sure I’ll say hello the next time I see her. And much to the angry chagrin of Hilda and my parents, she’ll like it.
Which makes her a slut, which she’s not. No sluts for this kid!

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.