Pictured from left are Jack, Butch and Sally, 7th grade, 1962. (Provided photo — Jack Drury)

Not counting Linda Leydon — who I kissed in the back of the bus in third grade — or Crystal Waters — who I sent a love letter to when my family moved from Long Island to the Finger Lakes and never heard from again — my girlfriends were few and far between.

Then there was Sally Salisbury and the infamous hayride of 1961. What made it infamous was the fact that we didn’t attend together. She was dating Butch Denniston … at least according to Butch. I sat next to the two of them and tried my best to monopolize the conversation with Sally the entire evening.

Sally’s family operated Sunnyside Farms, so she was Sally of Sunnyside Farms. Sally had blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a sparkling personality to match.

If you’ve never been on a 1960s hayride, let me tell you what you missed. A large wagon that could accommodate nearly 20 adolescents, with rails to keep them from falling off, and enough hay to feed Custer’s cavalry. The dray was pulled by a 4020 John Deere tractor. Before I moved upstate, I couldn’t have told you the difference between a John Deere and an Allis-Chalmers, but pretty soon I knew all the makes, models and how many blade plows they could pull.

I don’t remember much from that hayride other than I was jealous of Butch for having such an attractive girlfriend and that Sally made great conversation. An example was her response to my explaining how amazed I was at the size of the local farms. My parents had purchased a 128-acre farm, and I was flabbergasted that other farms were even larger. Sally’s family farm was 365 acres of apple orchards and strawberry fields. When I told her I thought my family had a lot of property on Long Island with six acres, she said, “Oh, that’s the size of our flower garden.”

Suffice to say my crush on Sally never went anywhere.

It wasn’t until I met Martha Willson that I had a crush that was reciprocated. Martha had three big bruising brothers, all excellent athletes. They were the kind of guys you didn’t want angry at you for dating their sister, but they didn’t have to worry about me: If our relationship had been any more innocent, it wouldn’t have existed at all. I think we came close to kissing one night, but I’m not sure.

So how did our relationship manifest itself? Roller skating. Some bright entrepreneur had a truck full of roller skates and traveled to the rural school districts of the Finger Lakes and turned the gymnasiums into skating rinks. It was great fun and kept me busy well into eighth grade.

I’m not sure who invited who, but it was the spring of 1962, and we were hand in sweaty hand, skating around the gym to The Shirelles’ “Soldier Boy,” or perhaps Shelley Fabares’ “Johnny Angel.” We were having a great time and even did the hokey pokey. It was a memorable night, and there were several others. But soon, the school year was over. I headed to Saranac Lake for the summer and I’m not sure where Martha went. I didn’t write, she didn’t write, and whatever we had fizzled. What the heck, we were eighth-graders. What’d you expect?

I have no memory of the summer, but I do know that come fall I wasn’t ready for what awaited me — Martha, much to my surprise, still had a crush on me. It wasn’t like I had forgotten her. It wasn’t like I had a crush on a different girl. But at 13, I just wasn’t ready to settle down.

The fall roller skating party came along and somehow there was an understanding that we would meet and skate together. Mentally, I had moved on, but I was incapable of telling Martha that. So instead of skating with her, I just ignored her and skated by myself the entire evening. It was not one of my better moments. I’d like to blame it on my age, but that’s a stretch. I was a jerk.

After being humiliated for an hour, Martha finally left in tears, and I felt horrible.

I was young and foolish. It’s 62 years later and I still feel bad. But I did learn I needed to communicate honestly. Did I succeed? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. I’m still a work in progress.