Stuffed Up

Once a month, the school nurse would come in the classroom, smelling like band aids, and make us fork over a pencil to trace our soft, little craniums in search of head lice.

One day, in the first grade, she found them. A sad waif of a girl, whose last name was fittingly Ratcliff, had infested the whole class. I sat behind her and could actually see the little buggers crawling around, but before the school nurse gasped, that fact didn't strike me as odd.

"Ho hum, she's got bugs crawling around in her hair. Doo doo doo doo ..." Besides, watching them was far more entertaining than practicing my cursive Q.

School let out early that day and a panicked mimeograph informing our parents of the "situation" was tucked in our back packs, along with orders not to return to school until we were all nit free.

Most of us just had them in the egg stage, so with a little Nix, we were fine. But our parents were instructed to launder everything in our houses and toss ALL STUFFED ANIMALS.

Bye bye Tom. Bye bye Jelly. Bye bye Weep. I fought with my Dad about Purple so vehemently that he finally relented and sprayed the poor thing with industrial strength pesticide. My Dad promptly gave Purple back to me, and I buried my face in the stitching on his furry, little tummy that proclaimed, "Happiness is You!" This may or may not account for the growth of my third arm bud.

In any case, there was one stuffed object that I confiscated and hid away until it was safe, for I would not part with it for all of the Fun Dip Lik-M-Aids in the world. A neighborhood boy by the name of Rudy Comer had given me a stuffed heart the week before.

After we finished watching The Goonies at his house, he walked me home, carrying a brown paper bag. He led me behind a dumpster, pulled the stuffed red heart out of the bag and kissed me. Just an innocent, little first grade kiss, but the stuffed heart remained long after Rudy ran off and yelled, "If you tell anyone, I'll kick you."

Needless to say, I didn't want to jeopardize our relationship, so I didn't tell anyone, and lice be damned, I was NOT going to give that red heart up. Shortly there after, my Dad met my first Step Mom, so we moved to the town where I would eventually meet Megan Jane and Scotty. Rudy Comer was gone, but not forgotten.

I came across that red heart the other day, and it struck me just how much it resembles my own heart: a little scruffy and beat up, hidden away for a long, long time. Just waiting to be found and appreciated.

Bwah. While I'm waxing poetic about my sad heart, in the Comments section, tell me if ya'll happen to know Rudy Comer. His last name alone is enough to make the thought of finding him fill me with delicious hope and delirium.