I fell in love with Robert “The Frog” Qualls in fifth grade at Roosevelt Elementary. His father was a piano turner and completely blind. Robert wore coke-bottle glasses, his eyes staring out at me at twice anybody else’s size, and since they were green as grass and bright as the sky, and they were more often than not staring at me, I succumbed and went steady two weeks after classes began, with him presenting me with an Indian beaded bracelet on the softest suede.
I’d never been to the movies. I was raised a Mennonite and movies were a prohibition in our church, but when Robert asked me to a matinee, I gathered my courage and asked my mother if we could see The Babe Ruth Story at the Cherokee Theater. She said no at first but came to me a day later and told me that if Robert and I were properly chaperoned and she could meet one of his parents, I could go.
The day Robert’s father came to our house, he walked into the living room tapping his cane, where Mother and I were waiting, and introduced himself. He said his wife would drive us to the movie and pick us up after and bring me home, which she did.
But halfway through the picture, I was suddenly overcome by the sin I was committing and ran to the lounge, with Robert close behind. We sat and ate licorice he bought from the concession stand and waited for our ride home. I didn’t see the rest of The Babe Ruth Story until many years later.
And although I’ll always remember Robert “The Frog” Qualls as my first boyfriend, my first love’s name was Mayre Mueller. But that’s another story.
