Last weekend, we attended the Avon Lake High School Homecoming Parade. I love this supportive little community. Not only did the high school participate, so did the elementary and middle schools, dance squads, the police and fire departments, Boy Scouts, and Girl Scouts, and others.

There was even a bus decorated by the Class of ’84, followed by several alumni!

It all reminded me of a scene I wrote in my memoir-in-progress a couple of weeks ago. The scene takes place almost 50 years ago, in my sophomore year. I had volunteered to help construct our class homecoming float. It was there I first met my high school sweetheart.

Here’s an excerpt:

It had been a scary thing for me to volunteer—to become involved in an activity usually reserved for jocks and cheerleaders—you know, the “popular” kids. I was a band freak—a flute player, or “flautist,” as my mother called me. Still, I overcame my fears and looked forward to the gatherings held each night in a committee member’s garage—especially when I noticed a cute guy with shoulder-length, wavy black hair, smooth, fair skin and light green eyes.

From the garage, I caught his glance. He quickly returned his gaze to the toilet paper flower he was creating for the float that would eventually contain hundreds of such flowers.

My cheeks burned as I tried to hide my hopeful smile. Was he purposely looking at me, or had I simply caught a glimpse of his eyes that roamed the room for anything of interest? I felt certain his reaction to me “catching” him — to glance down reflexively — was his own embarrassment that he’d been caught showing interest.

What a lovely dance it was, if it was indeed a dance, between a wildish looking boy and a shy, tall, skinny, gawky girl, all begun because he found her interesting enough to look at. And she joined the dance with a return of his glance, for as long as she dared, which wasn’t more than a split second before she retreated back to her own toilet-paper flower.

As I tossed each completed flower into a pile beside me, I’d sneak a glance in his direction again, moving my head around the room as if it was a part of the act of tossing the flower, though in actuality, my eyes remained in a certain place slightly longer than the rest of my head. But it was long enough to study his eyes and lanky body. When I wasn’t looking at him, I listened for his voice and laughter.

When he smiled, his face lit up and his intense green eyes softened and sparkled. He had a bit of a wild, bad boy look, which made him curiously more attractive to good-girl me. But his easy-going personality made him seem approachable, and I soon found I couldn’t keep from casting a glance in his direction.

Then, he caught me. I had let my eyes settle on him for too long. Again, both of our stares rebounded to the flowers in our hands. I hoped he’d looked away soon enough to miss the bright red my face must have turned.

I dared not look at him again. To be caught a third time would definitely give him too clear a message – make him think I was flirting with him. Part of me wondered what the big deal was if I let him see my interest. But the other, much louder part of me warned it wouldn’t be proper to make the first move.

Was it my parents’ Rules of Good Girldom or society’s Edict of Virtues that kept me from letting this boy know I was interested? That I thought he was cute? That I wanted to go out with him? Maybe it my own fear that he would turn me down because maybe in reality, he was not looking at me, but through me, perhaps into the kitchen behind me, wondering what there might be to eat?

It didn’t matter which reason caused my hesitation to hang over my head like a guillotine, waiting to drop should I stray outside the behavior expected of me.

In the middle of my mixed-up maelstrom, I heard a voice behind me. “Hi!”

By then, I was well-practiced at recognizing the voice of the wild boy with black wavy hair. I slowly turned and looked up to see his green eyes staring down at me.