It’s been a long time, some fifty-six years, since I graduated from Good Shepherd, the Catholic elementary school in Brooklyn, New York. While the childhood connection to the three-story brick building, schoolyard and Romanesque church with the Celtic cross remained submerged and relegated to the past, something changed today.

Con Sweeney, one of the few remaining alumni friends, texted the obituary of a fellow classmate.  It read “Obituary of Lorraine T. Modafferi, Marine Park Funeral Home.”  

_{School Boy “Crush”}

The timing was unforeseen; the loss lamentable.  Surely the beautiful Irish-American woman on Facebook with the green eyes, bright smile and long frosted hair and bangs would never leave us so soon, so unexpectedly. 

For the next two days, I was hardly myself.  I talked little, thought much and took meandering walks in the neighborhood not believing she was gone.  Sunny California seemed so far removed from New York City, yet that didn’t stop me from summoning a ‘coming of age’ moment from a lock box of memories.  

I had a “crush” on Lorraine Bell as she was known then, albeit from afar. There was something about the girl with green eyes, her brown hair in a bun, her shyness which fascinated me.  

She was not only a good girl, clearly devoted and protective of her two younger brothers, but a doting daughter to her parents. 

Partner In Crime

My partner in crime and confidante was Paul Durkan, an Irishman from South Shields, England who had come to the country with his mother and older brother a year or two before.  I liked Paul. Liked him a lot. I could confide in this boy who had a certain swagger about him and seemed more worldly than me.  I shared my secret him–I liked Lorraine but didn’t know what to do about it.  I added, however, she exhibited no interest in me that I could discern.  Paul had a solution– a gift box of chocolates for the upcoming Valentine’s Day. 

Together, we cobbled a strategy—Paul and I scouted the neighborhood and found a ^[1]confectionary on Avenue R just off Nostrand Avenue. We agreed I would purchase a small heartshaped box of inexpensive chocolates. I could discreetly borrow money from my mother…and pay her back when I was older. 

“Now what do I do?”

Paul was becoming exasperated, “Kenny, you’ve got to hand the box to Lorraine in person…then say Happy Valentines Day. Say it like you mean it! It’s that simple.”

“Yeah, maybe for you…but I’m shy.”

“Look, it’s not hard…you know where Lorraine lives, right?”

I nodded.

“OK, then….get to her house before school and wait for her to leave. Walk up to her, say hello and wish her a Happy Valentines Day.”

Little did I know I was about to make ‘stalking’ fashionable.

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day arrived.  I was nervous that morning and ate very little. My mother instinctively knew something was off, she gave me that look.  I smiled my way past her and was out the door. Catching a a city bus l landed on Avenue R and Gerritsen Avenue. A few blocks later, I was standing on 29^th Street. Paul was waiting for me on the corner.

“Are you ready? Do you have the box of candy?”

I removed the treasure of sweets from my school bag.

“Good. Better get going. Remember, you can do this.”

Just minutes before I could have a change of heart, Lorraine exited the house with her youngest sibling.    As I closed in on the duo, only several feet away now, the brother looked over his shoulder informing his sister a tall, skinny guy—isn’t that Kenny Strange?–was about to overtake them.  Lorraine turned, looked surprised, even frightened to see me panting and out of breath. Between gasps, I uttered “Happy Valentine’s Day,” thrust the box of chocolates into her hands, turned on my heels and retreated in the other direction. If Lorraine said thank you, I didn’t hear it…I was long gone.  

Nothing took root from the schoolboy crush. The years rolled by.  In the fall of my sophomore year of high school, our family departed Brooklyn leaving my childhood (and Paul Durkan) behind. We settled on Long Island. My world and circle of friends changed. College came and went. I married a flight attendant I met in the Middle East. One career followed another—teaching Spanish turned into federal law enforcement.  Suddenly, I was fifty-four years old, one year short of retirement and living in California.

40th School Reunion

Fortunately, I saw Lorraine one last time—at the school’s ^[2]40^th Reunion held at the ^[3]VFW Post in Brooklyn. She was still pretty, just older and married with children.  Lorraine, her husband, Dominick, and friends sat in an adjoining room.  It didn’t seem I’d have the opportunity to introduce her to my wife or reminisce about a Valentine’s Day many years past.

But then a funny thing happened, as people were coming and going to to leave the event, my wife (and her new friends Betty and Karen) excused themselves to the lady’s room leaving me and another classmate, John Chiapetta, waiting outside.  Suddenly, Lorraine and a classmate walked right past us toward the exit. 

“Good-bye Kenny.” 

I was taken aback by the sudden farewell and was making a gesture to wave good-bye when she smiled and winked!

_{The Last Time}

I never saw her again but like many of my classmates we followed each other on Facebook. When I published my first book she, like many, sent a congratulatory comment.  And that was the last time I would ever hear from Lorraine.

Looking back, I understood the wink was not for me….rather it was for the twelve year old boy who followed his heart and presented a young girl with a box of chocolates.  

With Lorraine gone, so too, goes a sliver of childhood.

RIP dear classmate.  

---

^[1] JoMart Chocolates

^[2] 2009

^[3] Veterans of Foreign Wars