Boys with Mustaches

If you had not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down

I knew that someday you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

"Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson


I am pretending that I am at a funeral. Lord knows that the older I get the more funerals I seem to go to. I suppose it's equal parts age and good southern manners, but, goodness - it's still difficult. See, I am missing a funeral next week. I don't want to miss it, but there's this thing about this mastectomy revision surgery. It involves me being absolutely fine and as cancer free as one could imagine. Nevertheless, there are surgical drains and my potential incapability to draw in my eyebrows correctly that are keeping me from attending. Mostly, the drain. A little bit involves the restriction of raising my arms above my head. Or driving. But the person who passed, can we talk about him? I haven't laid eyes on him nor have I spoken to him in well over 30 years, yet I've cried over him almost every day for the last week. Let me tell you a little story about Roger Dale McKinley, Jr.

It was the fall of 1979. I was in the 7th grade (cue my momma's Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight pulling up to the curb of Seagoville Jr High School one afternoon). I had long brown hair and feathered bangs that were not permitted to start the feathering process until they reached my cheekbones. I was not even 5 ft tall. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up yet, but I was not opposed to sneaking pool cue chalk to school in my otherwise empty purse and using it as eyeshadow in the girl's restroom (this was Seagoville, after all). I was most likely wearing dittos jeans and earth shoes with a peasant shirt AND a ton of Love's Baby Soft. I'm sure I spotted the Olds and held back for a bit, painfully shy as I was, back in the day. It was my chance to observe. Fast forward - I launch myself into the chocolate brown velour front seat. As my momma reached for the gear shift on the steering column, I did the simultaneous spoken and gestured "stop." This boy walked out from the covered awning and stood next to the sidewalk. Jeans. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Pretty much the outfit du jour of today's modern day 7th grade boy. But, he turned. For 5 seconds I thought maybe he saw me. And, never one to be shy in the safety of my momma, I said - "I love him." Enter Roger McKinley.
So, the funny part of the story was my momma! I distinctly remember her saying, "Dina Dale, is he 30?" This is where things get super funny. Yes, we had the same middle name. Great for him. Not so great for me, but I digress. This is where we pretend I'm actually at the funeral and I found the wherewithall to stand up when they say "would anyone like to share your memories of the loved one"...raise your hand if you remember the full on Roger McKinley stache of the 7th grade? Am I right? He had a complete mustache & I loved it. I also don't think he knew I existed. Yet.

Act 2. It's the spring. Young Roger is between Jr High romances and somehow I manage to catch his eye. I cannot recall the specifics but I imagine it involved 300 spiral notebooks of lettering our names together and 300 more calls to Eagle 97 for them to play "I Want You to Want Me" and undoubtedly some practical magic on my part. He looked at me outside of the cafeteria, baseball cap/mustache/feathered hair and all, and said the magic words. Will.You. Go. With. Me.
For the next approximate 3.5 weeks, I traipsed the grounds of the joint Seagoville Jr High/High School campus holding hands with the then love of my young life. Back to reality. Young Roger's life would not be a bed of roses. He would lose touch with me. He would lose touch with many. He would fight demons and addictions. Sometimes he would win. Sometimes he would lose. Sometimes he would haunt my dreams. The whole purpose of this blog entry is for me to share this part of this recollection. I've lost immediate family members. This is the kind of story I would have enjoyed hearing from an old friend.

When Roger McKinley is your 7th grade boyfriend, it goes a little something like this: He calls you on the phone Friday after school and asks you if you'd like to go on a "date" at Super Skate Saturday night. Duh. You pause for effect, looking down at your princess slimline baby blue phone (because a girl has to play hard to get) and you say, "kay." He says to meet him at 7:30 and not to be late. So you do. If you think you'll pay for your own Dr Pepper at the concession stand, think again. That's not how Roger rolls. He's extremely soft spoken. I seem to recall he had the voice of an angel. I seem to recall it was next to impossible to get him to sing. He opens doors for you. He orders for you. He puts his hand on your back to guide you into the snack bar. He finds a booth and he doesn't sit down until you do. When they leave the jalapenos off of your nachos, he goes back to get them. He's not a big skater, but if you make a pouty face during the couple skate, he can be persuaded. And, when another boy says untoward, vile things about you, he'll tell you that he'll be right back. As you sit there, unaware, he will take that boy around to the back and teach him some manners. And then he will sit with you on a bench for the rest of the night while you pick his bottom lip out of his braces with a concession stand toothpick. My 7th grade Roger was a gentleman.

See, I didn't know the Roger of the last 30 years. I'd heard here and there - stories of his misfortune. I knew he wasn't doing well. I knew, like so many people we all know and love from every single walk of life, that he was fighting battles in a war his family so prayed he would win. About 2 years ago, he sent me a Facebook friend request. I accepted. That's all I did. I saw he was doing better. I saw that he was fighting. Demons be damned, Roger was not going down easily.  I wish that I'd done more. I wish I would have reached out and shared this memory with him. About a boy in the 7th grade with an awesome mustache who shared my middle name and fought for my dignity.

Fly high Roger. We'll always have 3 weeks of 7th grade romance.

Your takeaway - if you have a Roger McKinley in your past, share your memories with them. We all need to know we made a positive impact along the way. He did.