The Summer I Was Nineteen

The summer I was nineteen was a turning point in my life.  By the end of August I had learned how to be a secretary, a receptionist,  how to run a blue print machine, how to navigate around Phoenix, and I had turned 20 and fallen head over heels in like.

That summer I took as many summer classes as allowed, still aiming at graduating from ASU in three years instead of four, but they were only morning classes, two days a week, so I had lots of time left to do other stuff.  A girl I knew decided to the spend summer in Utah with her family, and asked if I would like to fill in for her as secretary to an architect in town.  I wasn't sure I knew how to do that, but she was sure I could handle it, so at the beginning of the summer I became a secretary.  It was a blast!

My main duty was to answer the phones and greet customers, which I knew how to do.  The phone would ring and I would say, "Good morning, W. Allan Turley and Associates.  May I help you?"  Dad told me once that he had dreamed of being a radio disk jockey when he was young; he had a smooth, mellow voice that would have sounded good on the airwaves.  I'd thought about that over the years, and tried to modulate my voice into one that was pleasant and easy on the ears.  The practice paid off when I became a receptionist.  More than once customers commented on how nice I sounded, and I'm afraid I let it go to my head a little.  The rest of my job humbled me, though.

Mr. Turley wanted me to keep track of his financial books, and although I really tried, I never could make the ledger balance at the end of the month.  I was also supposed to proof read specs, filling in the areas that were blank.  Again I tried, but I never really got the hang of how architects did stuff.  I failed miserably at copying blue prints on the big machine they had in the back room.  It used ammonia, and the fumes were so strong that my eyes watered and I could hardly breath, let alone see what I was doing.  I was happy when occasionally the copier wouldn't work and I had to drive the blue prints over to a professional copy place to have them run off. 

The worst, and best part of my job was delivering blue prints and specs to clients over in Phoenix.  My boss owned two really nice cars, a white Monte Carlo with red pin-striping, and a slightly less expensive car that was maroon and really cool.  (You'll notice that I can't remember the make of that car, but I can still see how pretty it looked.  That's kind of the way I view all automobiles, much to my poor husbands dismay.)  Anyway, when Mr. Turley needed papers delivered he would hand me the keys to one of his cars, tell me who I was to give them to and how to get to their business, and send me on my way.  I felt so sophisticated, climbing into one of those beautiful cars, driving down the freeway to Phoenix, which is a huge city.  I usually had no trouble following the directions to get where I was going, but coming home was often another story.  Phoenix is mostly a very thoughtfully laid out city, and by the end of the summer I was familiar enough with the main roads to have an idea of where I was, but to begin with I seemed to get lost almost every trip.  Then I would have to stop and find a phone so I could call work and ask how to get home.  There were four men who worked for Mr. Turley, and they all got the biggest kick out of me getting lost in Phoenix.  Still, it was fun.

I also spent the summer dreaming about Gene, the boy I sure hoped would fall in love with me.  We went out the first Sunday he came home from his mission and had a nice time, even if we didn't talk a lot.  I don't know what it was about Gene, but whenever I was around him my mind went blank and my tongue was tied up in knots.  I could swap stories with the guys at work, no problem, but I could never think of a thing to say to Gene.

A year or so earlier I had decided I wanted to be a good listener.  I hated talking to people who interrupted all the time, so I made a point of trying not to interrupt or spend too much time talking about myself.  That worked out good when I was visiting with girls or the guys at work, they all had plenty to talk about and all I had to do was listen.  Talking to Gene was harder, somehow.  He wasn't self centered, needing to talk out problems and feelings like my girl friends, nor was he a boaster, proclaiming his exploits and always having to do one better like the fellows at work.  He was just a nice, quiet guy, maybe a little shy, and it seemed to me that every time we talked to each other all either of us could think to do was comment on the weather.  Maybe that's why he didn't ask me out very much. 

After our first date I waited and waited for him to call me.  Since we were both in the same ward in church we saw each other on Sundays, and Gene always smiled and talked to me there,  ("How was your week?" or "It sure is hot today.  Do you think it will rain?")  but he didn't ask me out on another date. There were lots of Young Single Adult activities going on that summer, and I went to all of them in the hope that Gene would be there.  Usually he was, and we would hang out together, but still he didn't ask me out.

to be continued.........