Love Story: Here’s to You, Mrs. Henry

You can’t help but wonder, can you, how Mary Kay Letourneau and her new husband celebrated Memorial Day. It was their first holiday as a married couple. Like me, you’re probably curious if the newlyweds cooked out and if Mary Kay or Vili did the barbecuing.

In case you’ve forgotten about Letourneau while she was in prison, she was the teacher who developed an abiding love for Vili Fualaau when she was a 34-year-old married mother of four. Cute story, but the part that upset people -- including police and prosecutors -- was that Vili was 12 at the time and one of her students. They eventually had two children together.

But now that she’s out of prison for the child rape of the boy she loved, they were free to marry. Which they did May 20.

Cynics call it a twisted, perverted tale.

I understand completely.

In fact, it could have happened to me.

You’re shocked? Appalled? Let me tell you a little story about how these things can happen. Mine is set in a small east-central Nebraska town in 1960 and could easily have been titled “Me and Mrs. Henry.”

I was 11 and a heck of a good-looking kid, even with the glasses. I was a nicely proportioned 5 feet 4 and 90 pounds or so. Sue Henry was about the best-looking woman I’d ever seen and, because she was new at school that September, she seemed heaven-sent. She was tall and thin, with jet black hair, and had a Southern accent that poured out into the classroom. She obviously liked me 10 times better than any of the other six boys in my class, and not just because my dad was superintendent. I think of her as being 30, but my mother later told me she was probably still in her 20s.

Whatever. It was pretty obvious that we had a special relationship. I was an ace speller (she liked that about me), and as the calendar turned to 1961 she (I always called her “Mrs. Henry”) began preparing me for upcoming district and state competitions. On many occasions, long after the other kids had gone home, we practiced word after word in the deserted classroom. On some nights that winter and spring, she’d take me with her to the town where she and her husband lived, about 10 miles away. There, we’d study some more.

By then, I was 11 1/2 and becoming pretty worldly wise. Although she never came out and said it, I knew she loved me. Without question, I loved her back. If I didn’t, why did it hurt so much whenever we parted? But even then, I was discreet enough not to tell the other kids that I’d been to her house.

I remember the day I knew it was over. It was the end-of-the-school-year class picnic in May. I think we had it at the town ball field. Our family was moving to Omaha, and it must have dawned on me that Mrs. Henry and I would be separating. It was as if I was happy one day and then, the next, suffering mightily.

I date my coming of age from that day forward.

Mrs. Henry must have felt the same way, because in the school yearbook, she wrote the following words to me: “It’s been such a pleasure having you in my room this year. Thanks for being as cooperative and nice as you’ve been. Some day I’m sure I’ll be able to sit back in my rocking chair when you are a famous doctor and reminisce about the many evenings we worked on spelling. Whether you ever secure the title of ‘World Champion Speller’ or not, you’ll always be the ‘champ’ as far as I’m concerned in everything. Richard and I enjoyed your visits. Come see us this summer or any time.”

It’s pretty obvious she was holding a lot back in that note. But you don’t have to read between the lines to realize she knew she had to let me go.

Still, my feelings for her never changed. Thinking about her today reminds me of the absolute glow I felt every single time I was in her presence. And when I force myself to remember our parting, it’s a renewed agony.

So, a sixth-grade boy and his teacher being head over heels in love?

Sure. I just showed you exactly how it could happen.

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Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. He can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or dana.parsons@latimes.com. An archive is at www.latimes.com/parsons.