From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: compassion wins over her modesty   
      
   by bobandcarole   
      
      
      
       You could say it all happened because of Girl Scouts.  And because of   
   lemonade.  When I was nine years, like so many other girls, I was a Girl   
   Scout.  I wanted to get my Civics badge and my troop leader suggested   
   helping out an elderly person in my neighborhood for a month.  When I told   
   my mom of the idea, she suggested Mr.  Dawson next door.   
      
       We had known the Dawsons for a long time, even before I was born.  When   
   I was younger, around four or five, we often had the Dawsons over for   
   dinner on the weekends.  They were an old couple whose children had moved   
   too far away to visit often.  Mom said it was important to be sociable and   
   neighborly, especially since they only had each other for company.   
   Besides, this was the 70s and people did this sort of thing more often back   
   then.   
      
       When I was eight Mrs.  Dawson died, of old age I think.  My mom started   
   visiting Mr.  Dawson more often, almost every other night.  When she   
   couldn't go, my dad would visit.  "Hi there, Mr.  Dawson," he'd say, "what   
   are you up to tonight?" Mr.  Dawson would say hello and they would chat for   
   a few minutes.  I remember once when my dad came home from visiting and my   
   mom asked him how it went.  My dad just shook his head and my mom looked a   
   little sad.   
      
       It made sense then when my mom suggested I spend time with Mr.  Dawson   
   to cheer him up.  I didn't mind, Mr.  Dawson had always been nice to me but   
   after Mrs.  Dawson died, he seemed distant even with me.  He used to smile   
   a lot and play catch with me in the backyard but not anymore.   
      
       After school one day, I knocked on his door.  He answered after a few   
   knocks but I noticed he still had that distant look on his face, a sort of   
   dazed expression that indicated he was hearing my words by not listening to   
   them.  It had never occurred to me how old Mr.  Dawson was until then.  I   
   always thought of him as an adult, but certainly never elderly.  His hair   
   was much thinner now, and graying too.  His posture was slightly stooped   
   over as if his cardigan were too heavy.   
      
       "Hi, Mr.  Dawson.  I'm doing this project for Girl Scouts..."   
      
       Most days we would just sit in Mr.  Dawson's backyard.  Homemade   
   lemonade was my specialty so I would make some in his kitchen and bring it   
   to the gazebo.  He seemed content to just listen to the crickets humming. I   
   would sit for twenty minutes or so, trying to make small talk that he   
   rarely responded to.  Other times he would tend to his garden and I would   
   help, handing him his tools or untangling the water hose.   
      
       One evening, we were sitting in his backyard as usual sipping my   
   lemonade and waiting for the sunset.  I was wearing a summer dress, nothing   
   fancy, but I must have been sitting in a very un-ladylike fashion because   
   when I glanced at Mr.  Dawson, he was looking at me very intently.  Not at   
   my face but between my legs.  I had my left foot propped up on the lawn   
   chair as I picked at a mosquito bite on my knee.  My hemline had risen   
   sufficiently to give Mr.  Dawson a clear view of my underwear.   
      
       Self-consciously, I took my foot off the chair and flattened my dress   
   against my thighs.  Before doing so, I made sure to look away from Mr.   
   Dawson because I didn't want to embarrass him by catching him in the act.   
      
       Suddenly, he cleared his throat.  I looked at him and he was gazing   
   steadily at me, something he hadn't done for a long time, probably not   
   since Mrs.  Dawson was still here.   
      
       "So Tara-Ann," he said taking a sip of his lemonade.  There was a short   
   pause.  "...  How was school today?"   
      
       It wasn't much but that was more words than he had spoken for the entire   
   first week.   
      
       The next night, though, we returned to the same old routine.  I made   
   some lemonade in his kitchen and the we sat in the backyard.  I tried to   
   get him to talk some more but it was like before, just quiet answers that   
   would drift to nothing.  I went home that night feeling disappointed.  I   
   wanted to help Mr.  Dawson, to make him happy but I didn't know how.   
      
       Several days later, we were sitting in his backyard again listening to   
   the wind rustle the trees as only seems to happen on a summer evening.  I   
   was sitting on the lawn chair, straddling it really, because my legs were   
   flung apart as I lay down and stared at the sky.  I heard Mr.  Dawson shift   
   in his chair but when I raised my head to look at him, he curtly turned his   
   head.   
      
       That was when the light bulb when off.  I was only ten years old at the   
   time, just a little girl really, and I didn't understand the first thing   
   about grownups.  I vaguely knew about pornography and understood the human   
   reproductive system but I never really put two and two together.   
      
       The light was starting to dawn though.  I noticed how Mr.  Dawson was   
   sitting up straighter now, not slumped down in the defeated way he usually   
   sat in his chair.  I also noticed him stealing glances at me.  It never   
   occurred to me that a grown man would find me attractive.  I felt I was   
   rather plain looking.  I was of average height for my age, about 4'6" and   
   my long brown hair was nothing special, I just let it go straight and it   
   fell below my shoulders.  My arms and legs were slim but muscular from   
   years of gymnastics.  I was completely flat, of course.  And my behind,   
   while pert, was likely indistinguishable from a boy's.   
      
       "What did you do in this neighborhood when you were growing up Mr.   
   Dawson?" I must have asked him that question a million times in the past   
   two weeks.  My mom told me had grown up around here and that this would be   
   a good opening question.  The difference was that when I asked him this   
   time, I had laid my head back so I was staring at the sky again.  I had   
   also propped up one foot on the lawn chair to let my hemline creep up a   
   bit.   
      
       "Well, Tara-Ann," he began slowly.  I didn't dare look up.  I could feel   
   him staring at me again but I wanted him to talk.  "We used to dig play   
   ball in the field, right over there where the Sanderson's house is."   
      
       "Really?  Their house wasn't always there?"   
      
       We talked for half an hour.  I didn't sit up until the end when I was   
   ready to go.   
      
       I made sure to wear a dress each time I visited Mr.  Dawson after that.   
   I wasn't stupid, I knew it was wrong but it wasn't hurting me or Mr.   
   Dawson so what was the problem?  My mom told me about the dangers or   
   strange men but this was Mr.  Dawson.   
      
       Mr.  Dawson and me really started to gell.  Sometimes I would even just   
   lie down on the grass and enjoy the green earth smell as we chatted.  I got   
   to know him really well too.  He told me how the towering pine trees in the   
   corner of his yard were planted when he was a teenager and the trees were   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)