In the town of Pine Hollow, decent people did not discuss sex.
They discussed weather.
They discussed potatoes.
They discussed whether Pastor Blevins’ sideburns suggested vanity.
But sex itself remained hidden beneath layers of silence so dense that several local teenagers reached adulthood believing pregnancy could occur during square dancing if the fiddle player became overly enthusiastic.
Naturally, this produced confusion.
Especially for Leonard Fisk and Mildred Butterworth.
Leonard and Mildred were considered exceptionally decent.
They attended prayer meetings voluntarily.
They consumed dangerous quantities of casserole.
And during church picnics they maintained no less than six inches of respectable Christian air between themselves and all upholstered furniture.
Unfortunately, they were also catastrophically in love.
This became apparent the summer Mildred accidentally brushed Leonard’s wrist while handing him a deviled egg.
Leonard dropped the plate.
Mildred sat down suddenly near the lemonade barrel.
And Sister Prudence Crumbly, who witnessed the event, later claimed she had physically seen temptation drift through the fellowship hall “like heat above a highway.”
Afterward, Leonard and Mildred agreed stricter precautions were necessary.
No kissing.
No embracing.
No sitting beside one another during hymns involving emotional key changes.
Unfortunately, repression has always been one of nature’s favorite engineering challenges.
Their first breakthrough occurred during a handshake.
Not an ordinary handshake.
A prolonged handshake.
The sort generally associated with international treaties or men attempting to sell farm equipment.
Something happened.
Neither fully understood what.
But both later described the experience as:
“Unexpectedly meaningful.”
This alarmed them deeply.
Naturally, they attempted the handshake again the following Thursday behind the Methodist softball equipment shed.
Science requires repetition.
Within weeks the couple had unknowingly entered what local historians now refer to as The Period of Improper Innovation.
The second discovery occurred accidentally during choir practice.
Leonard and Mildred were standing beside one another during Rock of Ages when both inhaled simultaneously.
Then exhaled simultaneously.
Then inhaled again.
Their breathing became synchronized.
Witnesses later reported a strange silence descending over the alto section.
Mildred gripped the hymnal so tightly the cover bent backward.
Leonard temporarily lost track of the third verse.
And old Mr. Purvis, who had fought in Korea and feared almost nothing on earth, quietly left the sanctuary and sat in his truck for twenty minutes.
Afterward the couple agreed synchronized breathing was clearly dangerous.
Unfortunately, danger merely increased its appeal.
Soon they were experimenting with other forms of morally acceptable contact.
Passing hymnals.
Simultaneous mitten adjustments.
Extended casserole transfers.
The mitten incident proved particularly troubling.
One January evening after Bible study, Leonard helped Mildred pull on a wool mitten beside the church coat rack.
The contact lasted no more than four seconds.
Five if one included thumb alignment.
Yet Mildred immediately dropped her purse.
Leonard stared at a radiator for nearly an hour.
And Sister Crumbly later testified she had “never seen cheeks become that color outside childbirth or Communist interrogation.”
At first the church elders blamed modern society.
Then jazz.
Then fluoride.
But matters escalated disastrously after young Harold Bixby returned from college carrying what he described as “medical literature.”
This turned out to be a horrifying collection of scientific papers suggesting the human nervous system could, under certain conditions, associate pleasure with nearly any region of the body.
Wrists.
Hair brushing.
Fingertips.
Even synchronized breathing.
One paper described a French woman who reportedly experienced overwhelming romantic sensations while purchasing celery.
Another referenced a Scandinavian study involving scarves, eye contact, and something called “thermal intimacy,” which caused three Pine Hollow elders to stop reading immediately and pray for Denmark.
Even worse, Harold revealed that in certain cultures young unmarried couples were permitted to sleep beside one another provided a sturdy bundling board separated them.
The townspeople initially found this reassuring.
Until Harold explained that according to the reports, several couples had eventually begun sharing mittens beneath the blankets.
And in one particularly alarming case, the separation board itself was later discovered reduced almost entirely to sawdust.
No one could adequately explain how this occurred.
A Norwegian researcher reportedly described the phenomenon as:
“Accelerated frictional enthusiasm.”
Sister Crumbly fainted dead away near the potato salad.
The town reacted decisively.
Within forty-eight hours an emergency morality meeting was held in the church basement.
By Sunday evening the citizens of Pine Hollow had burned down a nearby medical library and two public libraries.
This accomplished absolutely nothing.
Because by then Harold had already explained the entire situation to half the unmarried population under the age of twenty-three.
Worse still, the information spread exactly the way dangerous information always spreads:
Through whispering.
Through curiosity.
And through church potlucks.
Soon the Elder Sisters Committee had become convinced excessive hair brushing was creating “unwholesome emotional awakenings among the unmarried.”
Meetings were held.
Pamphlets circulated.
One elderly widow claimed vigorous combing had once caused her late husband to purchase a Buick impulsively.
Soon Sister Crumbly proposed a complete church-wide restriction on decorative combs, unnecessary brushing, and “lingering scalp activity.”
The motion passed unanimously except for Deacon Wheeler, who argued Americans had fought wars specifically to preserve moderate grooming freedoms.
By spring the entire town had become exhausted.
Teenagers were no longer permitted to exchange mittens.
Choir members stood six feet apart.
And one unfortunate couple became engaged after accidentally sharing a thermos lid during a hayride.
Meanwhile Leonard and Mildred continued their research quietly.
Because that is the eternal problem facing civilization:
Young people may be temporarily delayed by rules, sermons, winter clothing, suspicious church committees, separation boards, and the occasional library fire.
But human affection eventually finds a way.
History shows that once the first mitten comes off, supervision becomes essential.
