My Very First Date

Dear Byron,

In an earlier blog I promised that I'd begin sharing some stories from our family's history. Here's one from my high school years when I attended Concordia high school and college in St. Paul, MN. You must realize that in those days Concordia was an all boys school, in the Deutsche (German) Gymnasium model of earlier centuries. It was set up in a six class levels, from freshman high school through sophomore college. Each class level had a Latin name. The lowest was called Sexta (six) and the highest Prima (one). As a result, we boys talked much about, but had very little experience with GIRLS—those mysterious creatures who lived outside of and beyond our reach.

And yet it was Spring, the time for the annual Junior-Senior banquet. I was a "Quartaner"(junior in high school) at the time.

Now understand one more profound fact. In our school we did not dance. With whom would one dance anyway? There were no girls and you certainly would not dance! with a guy. We knew how to play baseball, basketball and football, but most of us knew absolutely nothing about dancing. Consequently the usual high school Junior-Senior Prom was out! However, the Junior-Senior Banquet was in. Eat we could do. Eating was indeed one of our specialties and if the school OK'd an event with food, we were all for it. Forget the dancing. Give us food.

Since, as you might expect, I was already known for my ability to imitate accents and tell stories, I was to be part of the entertainment for the night. That was fine with me, except that I was supposed to have a date—with a . . . with a . . . with a GIRL! And I didn’t know a single girl to invite. In fact, I had never even asked a girl to go out with me anywhere. What to do? What to do indeed. 

A number of us came upon an amazing solution. The Lutheran Church Of The Redeemer was but a couple miles ride away from our school on the Selby-Dale streetcar line. On Sunday evenings they had Walther League meetings. The Walther League was a youth gathering named after the first president of the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod, JFW Walther, who was elected back in the middle of the nineteenth century, a hundred years before. So four of us set off to that Walther League meeting but one week before the upcoming J-S Banquet. This was urgent. 

The group welcomed us strangers from Concordia with shy smiles and invited us to be seated. We sang a hymn, suffered through what we considered a boring Bible study and a couple of rather silly group games before we could proceed with our real reason for being there. Finally it was time to have some snacks and meet the GIRLS!

But how do you do that? 

It took all the courage I could muster to shuffle over to a cute little blond who stood with a couple of her friends. I prayed silently that she wouldn’t be turned off by the acne pimples that kept popping out on my cheeks and neck in those days. Taking a bite of my chocolate brownie, I sputtered, “Hu. . .hu. . . hi! I’m Al. Sure was nice of you guys to have us visit.” 

They all began to laugh at once. “Really,” said one, “did we invite you?” 

“Well, not exactly,” I said after swallowing the brownie bite. “But we did notice the meeting in the bulletin last Sunday.” 

“ You guys go to Concordia,” said another.

“Uh huh,” I replied. “We do. Ever been there?”

“Naw,” said the little blond. “They don’t allow girls at your school.” 

“You’re right,” I replied. This was getting me nowhere. I took another brownie bite and almost decided to thank them for the food and head for the door. Forget the banquet. The committee could get somebody else for the entertainment who might have a girl to sit with him. I’d go, eat the food and rush back to my dorm. Getting all dressed up was no fun anyway.  

Almost. But maybe I could give it one more try. 

“Yeah, you’re right. We don’t have girls at our school,” I continued. “Not that we have anything against girls. It’s just that, just that . . .” Then I realized I didn’t know why girls were forbidden—not really. But then it came to me. “Its just that we’re all gonna be pastors and girls can’t be.” Oh, no!! Why’d I say such a dumb thing?

The girls were all laughing again. “Well, none of us intend to be pastors anyway,” one said, “so you might as well not have us around.” 

“But we do want you—I mean, we don’t got nothing against girls. Our mothers are all girls and some of us have sisters. I mean . . .” Oh, for heavens sake, what did I mean? 

Then the little blond saved me. “I heard you guys are having a banquet in a week. One of my friends said she’s invited.” 

“Yeah, we are,” I said. “Would you like to go?” 

“Sure,” she said. “Are you inviting me?” 

“Uh . . . sure, I sure am. What’s your name?” 

“Marilyn, Marilyn Minar.” 

And so it began, my very first ever date with a GIRL! Marilyn, I later learned, was the daughter of the owner of Minar Ford, a big car dealership in Minneapolis dating all the way back to 1917. By the way, Minar Ford is still around. It was sold in 2002 to became New Brighton Ford.

Anyway, I took the Selby-Dale streetcar and got off a block away from where she lived. I had polished my shoes and put on my best and only suit and tie. When I was a couple houses away I distinctly remember the feeling of wanting to run, run as fast as I could—in the other direction. But I couldn’t. It was the banquet night and everybody was counting on me. Besides I spent three dollars for the flowers and I was not about to waste all that money. 

Marilyn was waiting when I arrived. Her mom helped her pin on the flowers to her pretty blue party dress. She smelled nice, like lilacs. Her hair was very nice too. She took my arm and somehow we made it to the streetcar line. I paid for the tickets and we rode to Concordia. I wish I could tell you what we talked about on that ride, but my memory is blank. 

The rest of the evening is a big blur in my mind too. We sat at a table with two other couples. Marilyn found her girl friend before the banquet started. They stood together for a while, giggling and telling stories before we were all seated. 

I think I did OK with my reading. A couple of people even laughed—I think—and they clapped when I was done. Don’t ask me what we ate or what I said to Marilyn on the way back. I do remember her standing in the doorway of her house. “I had a good time,” she said. 

“I did too.” I mumbled. “Well, g’night.” 

“Good night,” she replied, smiling. 

“OK, g’night then.” I turned to walk down the sidewalk and back to the streetcar. I never saw Marilyn again. I’ve often wondered if she remembers that night.

I wonder what it'll be like when you have your first date with a girl. 

We love you, Byron, 

GGPa