Of Pigeons, Proms, and Kisses Gone Astray
by: Sandy Gibbons '57

    Prom, the rite of passage in a formal dress for high school students, short for promenade, a walk or procession and derived from the late nineteenth century practice of a promenade held each spring.
      It's possible that's what WHS music teacher and general overall wild man, Charlie Cordeal and his musical collaborator, Thelma Pape Hines, had in mind when in 1954, they put together the strange archaic Cotillion like dance routine that prom court performed every spring for years.
    In spring 1956 I helped with the rehearsal, students entering, bowing etc., to scratchy recorded music opening with a clock chiming. Until I saw a dance master direct hundreds of dancers in a grand promenade at the Scott Joplin Festival I never knew what it was we had been trying to accomplish.
    When our Class of 57 was host for the prom, our theme The Mikado with musical entertainment by Gilbert and Sullivan, not my idea.  Three girls sang Three Little Maids from School, I think Lee Erwin sang a solo and my friend, Sandy Whiat sang "The Sun and I."
    While fluting miles of crepe paper, I thought about my yellow dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. My step-dad, with whom I did not live, had gathered and sold a truck load of scrap iron to give me the money to shop for a dress. That kindness might just have been enough to get him into heaven, who knows!
    On that magical night and a few others, I remember looking up and seeing the faces of our families-yours and mine. They sat in the amber tiled bleachers watching us, proud to see us looking beautiful and happy. I realize now that my family probably wasn't the only family that made sacrifices so those pretty dresses and rented tuxedos could go dancing.
     One of our male teachers remarked, in a broad southern accent, that parental attendance was a strange custom, unique to Wellston, so far as he knew. He added snidely that it was probably going to be the only time some of our parents ever saw their children clean and dressed in formal wear. I'm certain that he was joking or thought he was, but pride reared its head. I told him that I thought he was a bloody snob and rude to say such things about us. He said he was sorry and that it was thoughtless, even if true.
     When my Mother and I shopped for prom dresses together at chic downtown stores, smartly dressed sales women would spin the gowns around on their padded hangers, swirling them out against the carpeted floor for our amazement and possible approval. OMG was I impressed! My Mother, a truly shy woman, must have been so intimidated, but she braved that pomposity for my sake. Of course, I ate it up.
    That spring, we had spent the whole day shopping and were headed for the Page-Wellston bus when, as we walked out from under a downtown awning, a pigeon with a serious intestinal disorder, pooped on my head. We took a cab home. After a series of shampoos and supper, my family gathered to watch as I floated down our splintery old steps in my lovely yellow gown. I said, "In spite of that pigeon, my hair looks pretty good tonight," (My Indian straight dark hair was the blight of my life.) "I wish it would look like this when I go to school,"
    "You could go to night school!" said my helpful cousin, Mel Kehr '67, age 6 at the time.
    In 1957 I attended prom with my first serious boyfriend, a smart, kind, very tall and wonderful boy who grew up to be the founder of a fine family and the brew master of equally fine beer, Jerry Cebe '57.
    But in my sophomore and junior years I had the honor of attending prom with another smart, kind, nice and very tall young man, Orvus Barton Harry III. I was a rather strange girl, brash on the outside but very shy inside. Reading about such stuff was okay, but kissing a boy was beyond the pale for me, so I didn't--kiss the boy, I mean.  Years later, when I had overcome that nonsense, I felt bad about that. Not that a kiss from me would have meant all that much to Orvus, but it might have been reassuring at least, I figured.
    As we approached our most recent reunion, I told my husband that I was going to find Orvus Harry and present him with a friendly and very belated kiss.  I thought it would really make him laugh. After all, I am a sophisticated woman now.  I could do this easily.
      As a non-denominational minister, I have married nearly 700 couples in 15 years so my husband and I arrived late, having just come from a wedding. Knowing my intent, he took a long time parking. I had no time to waste.  I looked for the tallest man I could see. We've all changed, I thought, but since Orvus was a light house of a young man, I was sure I could find him.
    Yes! There he was! He was a bit bulkier than I imagined he might be, but then, I am a veritable butter ball myself.
     I sailed up to him, shyer than I had thought I would be, but still determined. I flung myself at the poor man and said, "I've owed you this kiss for 50 years."  I flat planted a great big, but totally chaste, I
assure you, kiss, on the poor dumbstruck man in front of me.
    "Sandy," he said, "Do you know who I am?"
    "Well, of course, I do," I said, "You're Orv..."  As my arms fell to my sides, my eyes slid upward from his mid-section to his name badge.  "Jim Bausch!" 
    "Oh, Jimmy," I gasped, "I'm so sorry! I mean, I'm not sorry that I kissed you, but I didn't know it was you!" I had always liked Jim Bausch.
    Jim, a perfect gentleman, said, "Don't be sorry, it's the most interesting thing that's happened all night."
    "I'll apologize to your wife," I sputtered, "I'll s'plain." (Who was this gauche woman? I wondered. What happened to the sophisticated woman I thought I was?)
     "Oh, please, don't." Jim said gallantly.  "That would ruin the whole thing".
     I apologized to Sandy Hart Bausch anyhow and she laughed, because, since we all went to school together, she knew I had always been a little strange.
     On Sunday at lunch, I got to see and talk with The Real Orvus, but somehow, overnight, I had lost my intent to go about planting kisses.  Orvus was spared that ordeal.
          I'll never attend another prom, never fasten another sweet wrist corsage to my arm and see my family admire me and my date. At the moment, I have no plans to be the Kissing Bandit at the next reunion, but then, again, who knows?