I was just a few weeks shy of 18, and it was literally my final official day of high school. Exams were over, teachers were cleaning out their classrooms, but I had to go one more time, to get my photo taken for a couple of scholarship applications. This was long before email, and I lived far out in the country, more than 20 miles from school, so it wasn’t easy. I got a lift from the school bus driver, who was dropping it off for summer maintenance, but after the photo session, I had to hitch a ride back home.
There I was, standing with my thumb out at the edge of town, at 11 am on the last day of June, and a very hot day it was already. To my surprise, the third car going by slammed on the brakes and pulled over, and I ran over to hop into a sporty-looking red Mustang – an unusual car for a rural area. Even more surprising, the drive was one of my classmates, a young woman named Patricia. It turned out she had also been getting her photo taken, and she was dressed up way beyond her regular blue jeans and patterned blouse. Today she was in a short pastel yellow dress, matching her hair. Patricia was a quiet, “big-boned” farm girl, one of those who did a lot of chores and had the legs and arms to prove it. I tried not to stare at those legs as I climbed in, but couldn’t help it.