Mincey’s Musings
Year Two, Week Four

My good friend Sharon MacDonald was a Type I diabetic. I did not know this until once I went to the movies with her. After we were seated, she began to act strangely. I didn’t quite know what to make of her unusual behavior. She retained enough presence of mind to ask me to go buy her some candy, and I did.

When I returned to my seat, I gave her the candy and she ate some. After that the movie started and she seemed more her usual self. After the movie, she revealed to me that she was a diabetic and told me that if she ever started acting like that again to just make sure she ate something sweet.

As a result of Sharon’s condition, her eyesight was to some extent compromised. She enrolled in Lincoln Memorial University’s graduate program and was taking a night class. She asked me if I would drive her, as it was hard for her to see after dark. I gladly obliged, for there were few free thrills in life that could compare with conversation with Sharon MacDonald.

And we had many of them, practically none which I remember. I do remember on the way home one evening we were talking about Charles H. Lynch, Jr., principal of Maynardville Elementary School for many years. There were quite a few years’ differences in our ages, but Mr. Lynch was principal to both of us.

When we got back to Ms. Winnie MacDonald’s house (where Sharon was living at the time with her mother), Ms. Winnie told us that Mr. Lynch had passed away that day. We both thought it sobering that we had just been reminiscing about him on the very day of his death.

While Sharon was in class, I would go to the library and grade my students’ papers. I tried to sit in a place where I would be unnoticed and undisturbed. My plan worked well, and I have proof.

One evening while I was hidden at a table that was located behind the “stacks” (known as rows of bookshelves anywhere other than a library), I heard a group of females come into the room. Traditional college-aged girls, in my mind, are too old to be called “girls”, but not old enough to be called “women”. They certainly did not have studying on their minds! I could not see them, and they did not see me. I don’t even know how many there were, though I believe I heard four distinct voices.

They proceeded to get into a discussion with explicit detail about their escapades and fantasies involving males. Again, in my mind, the traditional aged college male is too old to be called a “boy” but not mature enough to be called a “man”. In my experience, I thought I knew much more when I was eighteen than I presently know at fifty-three.

I honestly do not remember one word the females said, but I was mortified should they discover that I was there, hearing their every word. Of course, I had been in situations where males would brag about their escapades with females, strongly suspecting that some (if not many) of them were highly exaggerated. It never occurred to me that females did the same thing. If half of what they said was true, I feared for the safety (and chastity) of the male population of Lincoln Memorial!

I don’t know how long I was secretly “entertained”, but it seemed like hours! I was late meeting Sharon when her class ended that evening, for I wanted to be sure that none of those girls saw me emerge from the stacks. I would have been horrified for them to think I had purposely been eavesdropping (let’s forget the fact that I was there first). Perhaps they would think I was some kind of pervert who just hid in places like libraries and laundromats to see what I could pick up of the sly!

It might in a sadistic way be flattering to think they knew I was there all along and were just trying to shock me, but I honestly don’t believe that was the case. I have in later years wondered what they would have done if I had coughed, sneezed, laughed, or walked out right in the middle of their conversation with my satchel in hand.

I don’t remember for sure, but I would bet that Sharon and I had one long laugh about the predicament which I had just endured. From this I learned at least two things I hope I haven’t forgotten: make sure private conversations are in private places, and avoid isolation in public places.

As the snow threatens to fly, I leave you this week with another bit of email wisdom:
Gone are the days when girls used to cook like their mothers;
now they drink like their fathers.