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Here is another explanation of one of my AD poems that was eaten by a computer glitch. I will try to provide a link.
Juice notes: The memories of three girls I attended grade and junior-high school with inspired this poem, which became inadvertently about one. The circumstances surrounded a trip to the Volo Antique Auto Museum in Volo, IL, one day in August, 2007. While going through the muscle car section of the museum, I caught a satellite radio oldies show, where the host was talking with a musician from the early Rock and Roll era. They were talking about Brenda Lee and played her rendition of the song, "My Coloring Book", one of those sad love songs guaranteed to bring back bittersweet memories of my first crushes.
How did this poem revolve around her by accident?
Among the cars for sale and on exhibit was a 1963 Ford Thunderbird roadster (two-seat convertible), about three early 50's T-Birds, a 66 model and a pedal car with a frame resembling a 58-60 Bird. This particular girl's dad was an FBI agent (I want to be clear, SHE CHASED ME) and she was a long-haired blonde. Here are why these items are important.
The 1960s TV series The FBI (which I never missed) starred Efrem Zimbalist Jr., who previously starred as Stu Bailey on another long-running detective show, 77 Sunset Strip, where he mostly drove a (that's right!) Ford Thunderbird, much like kiddie-car frame and the 63 roadster. The fleet of 55-57 models were similar to the one Suzanne Sommers drove as the mystery blonde who Richard Dreyfus' character spent most of the movie "American Graffiti" trying to meet up with. Both girls were blondes. There is a natural explanation, isn't there?
I just hope that this gives you a better understanding of this poem without taking from some of its impact. My only regret is that I was unable to go into my usual case of longing for my lost loves after this, mainly due to the fact that I had learned the previous evening that my father, Charles Joos, was seriously ill (he died two months later).
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My twin brother and I were separated in the New Men's Dorm (it was two years old and had not been named yet) by two floors, because he registered for school I did. Looking out the window from the fourth floor with his roommate to be parents, he saw a neat 1955 Red Thunderbird drive by below. And said so. The parents' answered, "That's our son."
Later, while we were building our homecoming bonfire, I got to ride in the T-Bird around the quarter-mile dirt horse track at 90 miles an hour.
Ron