The Story of Us - Chapter One

When Paula Met Georgie

My all-time favorite romantic comedy is Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Besides the classic scenes that made Top 100 lists, my favorite moments were the “older” couples sharing their “meet cute” stories, and subsequent happily ever-after’s.

Cancer stole our fairy tale ending. But George and I had a wonderful Once Upon a Time. I have decided to share our story – a way to remember the boy I met in high school, who became the man I loved – and who will forever be my one and only. The story of George and Paula… 

I have an overworked and underpaid high school counselor - a man I met only once - to thank for the happiest 50 years of my life. Without his begrudging acceptance of my request to opt out of advanced Economics class, I never would have been transferred into the English class in which the trajectory of my life would be determined...

September, 1968. My last semester of high school. I spent my entire high school career on the periphery, as an observer. I was most comfortable when I went unnoticed. I quietly studied, and silently admired from afar, the fun and frolic of the popular kids. A safe distance, I thought, from what I feared would be their rejection. I knew who they were, and I envied the ease with which they navigated high school – making friends and memories from “their” lunch tables and gathering spots. 

There was one boy in particular who always caught my attention. He seemed to fit in with everyone. And he seemed to own the campus in his own special way. As a junior, he would routinely appear out of nowhere, ambling into my in-session biology class and perching himself on the window ledge to “hang out” in the class. Mrs. Swanson, the teacher, obviously knew him. And she never booted him out! The rule follower in me was fascinated by his casual disregard for classes and hall passes. He never disrupted her lessons, and left with the same ease with which he appeared.

George, Class of  Winter, '69 Voted the Friendliest Boy in class.

Paula, Class of Winter,'69 Always flying under the radar.

“Oh, that’s George,” his next-door neighbor informed me. She was a casual acquaintance of mine, and ambivalent to George’s high profile, high school persona. To her, he was the boy with a ‘57 Chevy who gave her a ride to and from school when she needed it. George’s command of high school culture fascinated me. And never in a million years did I imagine being noticed by him. Frankly, I was happy to be a “nobody” in school. It was safer that way.

By my senior year I was more interested in war protests than muscle cars. Baez over Beach Boys. High school boys? Too immature for my taste. And, at 17, I had a boyfriend! My first. He had been the laundry delivery boy for my parent’s dry cleaner business, and had a year of college under his belt. He took me to prom four months earlier, and I felt some satisfaction in finally attaining boyfriend-worthy status. I walked a little more confidently down the halls of high school, and counted the days until graduation.

With one semester left, I had already decided to attend a nearby community college. The reason wasn’t my SAT scores or grade point average. It was my insecurity, and fear of being away from home. The traumas of  childhood left me scarred, and moving away to attend a university was simply terrifying. This decision meant I could coast through my last semester. College prep classes? Didn’t need them. I was looking for an easy A, and advanced Economics was not that class!

Enter the counselor. Mr. Friedman. I don’t recall ever making a trip to visit him, but two days into my last semester I signed my name on the counseling office roster, and took my seat. I would state my case, and hope for the best. Try as he might to guilt me into staying in that Econ class, I stood firm. He searched the schedule and found an opening in a senior English class. Bingo! That was my ticket to an easy A, and I jumped at it.

The only downside? I had to waltz into the class - already in progress - to present my transfer papers to Mrs. Barry, the teacher. To add to the discomfort, the only entrance to her room was at the rear of the class. From there, I had to walk the gauntlet between two rows of desks to the front of the room and her desk. I took a breath, and marched in, never making eye contact with a soul - but feeling their steely stares as all eyes turned to see why teaching had been interrupted.

As I quickly glanced up to make the turn toward the front of the class, I saw him. Seated in the last seat at the back of the class. George looked up from his book as I entered, and as I approached his desk, he quietly made a comment directed at me. I don’t remember his exact words, but whatever he said made me feel welcome. I handed Mrs. Barry my papers, and took the seat she offered. Smack dab in the front row. I was relieved to sit down, and imagined 35 pairs of eyes looking at my back – feeling the discomfort of the attention I so carefully avoided. I focused my attention on the teacher, took out my pencil and notebook, and settled into the safe haven of English composition.

Day two in Mrs. Barry‘s class ignited an unexpected friendship. As I sat down at my front row desk, the seat next to mine had a new occupant. George would later tell me he had negotiated a seat swap with the boy to my left, using his nearsightedness as an excuse to have a front row seat. In that move, our friendship was born.

He was friendly. Funny. Well-mannered and respectful. He made me laugh and I felt comfortable for the first time in any high school class. I listened to his painful breakup story, from which he had not fully recovered. 

His first high school sweetheart. Tall. Blond. Beautiful  They remained friends to the end...

I shared College Boyfriend stories. CB was a child of privilege, a pampered only-child who didn’t apply himself and lost his football scholarship after a year. I was flattered by his attention and overlooked his flaws. He was nothing like George. 

George, like me, was the child of solid working class roots, and spent every day after school and weekends as a “tire buster” for Firestone Tire Company. He made excellent money for the time - a whopping $4.50 an hour when minimum wage was $1.25 (tire busters were also card carrying Teamsters Union members). He was understandably proud to have purchased a replacement to his mom’s 57 Chevy - his royal blue, 1967 GTO. I wasn’t impressed by his muscle car, but I appreciated his work ethic. I was content to sing folk songs in College Boyfriend’s VW square-back.

For 20 weeks we spent an hour together, Monday through Friday. George would call me occasionally after school to chat, eventually steering the conversation to discuss the novels we were reading for class. He would ask my opinion about the plot and characters, or whatever the written homework assignment called for. And I willingly shared my thoughts as, I found out later, he took copious notes. I can safely say my A in Mrs. Barry‘s class was earned, while George’s B was directly influenced by those evening chats!

College Boyfriend wasn’t interested in any of my high school activities, so my new friend George graciously offered to sub in. He drove my girlfriends and me to and from football games (where girls were still required to wear skirts or dresses). Being with George gave me a sense of belonging, and it felt wonderful. 

When a bout with flu sidelined me from attending the Senior Class Breakfast (where he received the “Friendliest Boy” award), George took me to IHOP a week later as my consolation breakfast. I finally had happy memories from high school. I had a boy - friend. And he was “Popular”! My fragile ego felt a wisp of that oh-so-precious teenage commodity – acceptance. We graduated in January 1969 (baby boom overcrowding necessitated staggered enrollment with two graduating classes each year), and we went our separate ways.

Our paths would only cross a handful of times over the next two years. We never dated during that time, but our friendship never faded. And I had no idea it was the beginning of a fifty year love story.

Thank you, Mr. Friedman!

Prom 1968. Before Paula met Georgie

After 45 years, I finally made it to the cool kids table!