ROOTS

Ariele M. Huff Published in July 2003

This is an example of love of a parent.

            I have always wanted to see Iowa.  Not because of the cornfields…or the song about it from The Music Man.  Webster City, Iowa was my father’s hometown until he was twelve years old. 

            He wasn’t much of a storyteller, my dad.  My sister and I were never regaled with how it was when he was a kid – not in Iowa or in Washington.  We didn’t hear tales of adventurous doings, big celebrations, or even harsh punishments.  A few facts filtered to us through our aunt and confessions made to my mother in private.  His mother, my paternal grandmother, died when Dad was in high school, and his father was the same kind of tight-lipped guy.

            We had heard some of the family lore: a caravan of Sweazeys had crossed the country all at once, hoping for a better economy and less “dustbowl” conditions.  As they snaked over a mountain pass, a truck had careened into the lead car, killing the parents and a baby, but leaving the backseat daughters injured for life.  This was the kind of story we did hear about my father’s life.

            When my husband and I decided to do a “Midwest trip,” Iowa was immediately on my mind.  I wanted to touch and see the things my father had known during his early years.  I wanted to connect with swimming holes, dusty old school corridors, a malt shop, where the theater had stood, the house he’d lived in.

            I also wanted to track back on the high school annual passed down from his mother…her life and friends.

            When we got to Iowa, the scenery changed.  Even though our journey had taken us through Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington, South Dakota, and Minnesota, I hadn’t been prepared for how abruptly the landscape changes at the state line.  Suddenly, those green fields – those ubiquitous cornfields – were around us. 

            It was eerily like being transported into that place I’d thought of as being my father’s native soil.  He hadn’t described it, but I’d seen pictures and read stories and seen movies. 

            Eagerly, we sought out spots mentioned in letters and the annual, places that had become part of general family lore.  We were prepared for change and we were prepared for utter failure…it had been sixty years, after all.

            What we hadn’t really been prepared for was the level of success we had.  One old stone building after another yielded up nooks and crannies, class photos, family names engraved, places still recognizable from scrapbook photos.  There were relatives left behind and descendants of friends who remembered my father’s dark curly hair and his older sister’s charming smile.  There were farms my grandfather had helped to build and a store where the family had shopped.

            Almost as meaningful were the era things preserved or left unchanged, at least:   the restaurant with 1920’s crockery in a glass case, the 30’s style dresses decorating a store window, the 35’ jalopy rescued from a field and on display.  Probably, my father and his family hadn’t used any of these…or seen them, but I found myself gazing at them sentimentally as though they had. 

            Then, I realized I wasn’t only looking at these things for myself.  My dad hadn’t been back to Iowa since the move out.  Somehow, I was looking at them for him too.  And then I remembered the poem I’d written right after he died.

HAPPY RETURNS

 

My father died with Iowa

in his eyes.

 

The whole family came West by station wagon

to escape the dust bowl.

 

Webster City was home,

But Seattle was food on the table.

 

He never spoke of Iowa:

At 12, wherever you are is home.

 

But he still twanged on

“sirrup” instead of “syrup,”

And he still remembered hard times.

 

Fifty-six years later,

He peacefully retraced his steps

and died

with Iowa in his eyes.

           

             My father and mother on a date.

 

           

           

"Love and the Space Needle"

The Space Needle is an

anchor that stretches from

shore to shore in Seattle where

the rain falls on those reading

the weather in The Seattle Times.

Most of them say, "Fair and warmer, man.

Yet please to have a tall umbrella in

case the shores of the Emerald City

fall upon your shoulders. Paul

Simon says, "See all the people

who like lumps of coal sit in

front of the slot machines hoping

to turn into diamonds. Remember

that great men can become

even greater when they show how

long they can wait until they

start "Feelin' Groovy" again!

Susan Gemson

“It’s Time to Remember”

The alarm went off and I felt for Francie. She was already up. I could smell the coffee and I knew breakfast was on the way.

As I moved my body out of bed and shuffled off to find the bathroom, there was no way I could know what was ahead. The first thing I noticed was my dress shirt tied around the shower curtain. My trousers were inside out, and on the floor. My socks didn’t match. The shoes were one dress shoe and the other one a tennis shoe. What is going on here? I wondered.

Into the kitchen I went, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. As I saw my wife cooking breakfast, wearing nothing but her apron, she turned, put the spatula down, and gave me a kiss. I asked her what I had done wrong. She just gave me a silly grin and said, “Do you know what day this is?”

I said, “Yes, it’s Thursday.”

“Keep going,” she said. “What month?”

“October,” I said.

“You’re getting closer,” she said. “What number?”

When I said “four,” I knew what was going on. It was our 36^th wedding anniversary. I had forgotten it!

As she kissed me, she said, “I’m five foot two. My eyes are blue; my hair is blonde and naturally curly, and I weigh 102 pounds. And, lucky boy, today, you get the ride of your life!”

It started in the kitchen and ended with our breakfast burned and the kitchen a mess. But we both knew who loved who on this anniversary day.

Wise woman, she said, “Let’s get a shower. Your work clothes are on the bed. I set the clock up an hour. So no need to be late getting to work. Let’s just remember this day and the fun we have had on our wedding day, remembered, our 36^th!”

Roger Wilson

Francie Wilson

Kitten Love

I found three kittens in a box at a park. They were 3 weeks old and had been left with a tiny bit of adult dry food.

Though I have a cat and a dog, I took the kittens home. We are amazed at how endlessly entertaining they are. (We have always found our pets fun and funny, but these littermates are a total sideshow.)

Plus, they give us so much love. The sweet looks, the nose kisses, the snuggles, and the soulful meows!

It’s hard work—they need to be fed 4 to 5 times a day and litterbox cleaning is continuous, but it’s all worth it. We know that stage will be over soon too.

 

Precious Pain 

 

I want to touch you with tender hands

As I’d hold a newborn baby

Or stroke a sleeping pet

Or caress a loved one’s brow.

 

I want to lie beneath

 A blanket of wisdom with you

While the whole world circles us,

Mending the hem.

 

But bees sting, curt replies, careless eyes,

And my lungs inflate with rage

That wants to be expelled.

 

The hardest job is

Holding my breath

Until the pain returns.

It’s not for you.

 

Ariele M. Huff

 

“Home”

By Kathy Reeves

When I walked in that night—my last night walking in from that job, that commute I’d done for thirteen years—he was waiting for me.

It had been a good day, but a hard day. Saying goodbye to some good people, yet still holding onto grudges against others. Was I free, or was I cast out? Chased off or escapee?  Both, maybe, I’d decided during the long ride home.

So when I walked in that night, I had mixed feelings about having left. Layered on top, of course, was the guilt.

Love is not simple, is it? Of course, no matter how I felt about what I’d done, what mattered more was what he felt. I must have disappointed him. The loss of my income could affect both of us—now and later. I was putting down my burden, but how much would now fall on him?

He met me with a dozen roses, a smile, and a glass of wine.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

That’s what love is.

 

BOTH

 I have much for which I am grateful,

Thankfully

My body is shot through and through

I live on social security

Tolerable

Quality,

not quantity the doctor says

Still, I want both.

 

Melba Walton

March 1, 2005

BUTTERFLY

My romance with blossoms in an arboretum,

is the most picturesque moment in ultimatum.

I can decorate your garden in style,

provided, you keep the flora in pride.

Elated to dabble with a child,

as long as, both of us get stirred.

I can pose in variety of striking colors,

competing positively with seasonal flavors.

I am the world's most aesthetic insect,
  with my graphics globally perfect.

I Love

I love to print words of heartiness

I love to air speeches of liveliness

I love to beam actions of peacefulness

I love to shower feelings of tenderness

In me, you, and all; by my prayers to God.

Ramesh Anand

LOVE STORIES

of all kinds

And a cool DISCOUNT

Don't forget to write about your stories of loving relationships—school crushes, teen angst, meeting your mate, falling in love with a new child, discovering the depth of connection with an animal, re-uniting with parents after you get mature enough to appreciate them. LOVE makes great stories.

                Even better than that, recent studies show thinking about love (of people, activities, favorite things) “activates the brain's reward center." The sense of taste is enhanced, breathing becomes deeper, blood pressure normalizes, and we get that wonderful serotonin effect.

Bring "happy" back into your life by reclaiming your "love history.”

Start with a delightful three hours at the Greenwood Senior Center, June 12^th, Thursday from 3-6pm for Love Stories ($35). (I may request your love story or poem for my book, columns, blog, or the NW Prime Time's web segment I host—"Sharing Stories.") Come and discuss what “love” means to you.  Register: ariele@comcast.net or 206-361-6733 (leave a message as we scan all calls). 

Discount: Mention this blog piece when you register and get $5 off the class price.

Ariele M. Huff

MIRACLE

My miracle came as a 5'2" beautiful blonde, natural curly hair. The first time I saw her, she had three little guys with her age 4, 5, and 6. I mentioned to her she must have started awfully early to have three youngsters at 16. We both laughed. She told me she was visiting her sister for the summer. The kids were her sister's not hers. We just fit each other. I saw her every day. We laughed, danced, swam at Angle Lake. I couldn't get enough of her. The day she left to return to Cheyenne, Wyoming was a sad day for me.

We wrote each other for a year. When the next summer arrived I told her, you don't get to go back—EVER!

We were married—Francie 17, Me 19. Many thought we were too young. That marriage lasted 66 years. Every one of those years had its ups and downs, but we were a team. We took each hit by supporting each other: her dad's death in a car wreck, the birth of our daughter Linda Gail, making a living with a 6^th grade education, a string of horrible jobs. But we never missed a meal.

Going to college. When we landed at school, we had a lone $5 bill. We made a commitment: We were leaving with a degree. Four years later, we did leave with degree in hand. We lived in Idaho, Wyoming, Arizona, California, back to Washington. We traveled the world, the USA, Kentucky Derby, Nashville for Xmas, Mardi Gras New Orleans, Branson MO many times, Las Vegas. We
got it done. One miracle after another.

The next miracle when I once again take her hand—forever and ever.

By Roger Wilson

 

"Mnemonae Healing"

Mnemonae , You are Mother of All Muses.

Because You are Mnemonae I worship You always.

 

Mnemonae in Loneliness is Pain not forgotten.

Pained and hurting I find You Mnemonae with grave regrets.

 

Mnemonae in Solitude is Bliss not forgetting.

Blissed and Blessed I greet You Mnemonae with dear regards.

 

Mnemonae I can escape Your embrace but for a moment.

Momentum is not forever. Your inevitable touch, Mnemonae,

precious perpetual Mnemonae,

I crave and must know.

 

Mnemonae, Your Loss and letting go I must embrace just now.

Mnemonae, Your Life and Love I must so will know.

 

for My Precious Mnemonae, You are Death and Loss

unforgotten. for Present Mnemonae,

You are Life and Love and Time.

 

Mnemonae, I owe You All My Muses. They will come visit Me.

I know that. for You, Mnemonae, for You are Death and

Loss and Love and Time Immortal. Yes, My Dear Mnemonae, You;

BECAUSE You are Mnemonae,

You I will Worship with Awe Forever.

Patrick McCabe

 

           "Cupid"    
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

 Skilled archer, your arrow found its mark.
 It pierced my unsuspecting heart
 and left it bleeding there.
 Deceiving cherub, you sent the pangs
 of love into my breast:
 an agony that I must bear.
 
 No sword can penetrate my armor.
 No adversary do I fear.
 But deep inside this tortured soul
 how fragile is my shield.
 Your tiny arrow pricks my heart
 and causes it to yield.
 
 I fight with all my strength
 to keep from falling
 as many helpless mortals fell before.
 You draw your bow and I quiver.
 I cannot tell you why
 for in my heart, my greater fear
 is that you'll pass me by.
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Rinald Steketee

IT IS VALENTINES DAY--I REMEMBER YOU

Today is Valentines Day. Last night, I saw the full moon shine with a glow from the past. I think of how much I miss you. I think of the time we had together when we thought the world was ours forever. I think of the years you were on oxygen twenty-four hours a day, each breath a reminder time doesn’t stand still.

I remember the first month you were gone. You left Sydney and me at three o’clock in the morning on December 27, 2012, while at Evergreen Hospice for a week, after surrendering to your brave battle with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The moon was full, a bright light to guide you on your journey. I felt hollow and empty. You were my rock. You were my safe harbor. I was lost in a sea of tears, every breath a reminder of your encouraging smile. I still wish for one more minute--one more day--one more year--an endless amount of time through eternity when we were healthy, dancing in the kitchen to our own rhythm. I hold on to your memory like a life-saver.

I met you when I was twenty-two, you were thirty, the year was 1968, strobe lights flickered over the dance floor as we smiled, dancing to bass beats pounding, voices singing poetry into each heart. We were members of a secret tribe, changing partners to dance when the police walked in the front door. No commitments back then, we were free spirits chasing new adventures each night; the sexual revolution was blooming. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I would get married, have children, and be like everyone else. Somehow I thought I was going through a phase, like a full moon.

It was a time when people only exchanged first names, keeping personal information to a minimum from fear of being blackmailed or losing a job for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or beaten-up by the self-righteous or even murdered. No big neon lights above the door announcing welcome to the local gay bar, relax, have a drink. No warm, safe feeling when policemen walked through the bar, out the back door. A ripple of fear followed crisp blue uniforms to the alleyway, expecting to see human garbage lurking in the shadows needing to be arrested, placed behind locked steel doors, or deserving to be beaten with a billy club. Lost, lonely spirits made it past a maze of obstacles to a circle of friends for comfort, protection, and a few hours of feeling accepted. Eyes met across the room, shooting Cupid’s arrow to an empty heart hiding behind a secret life.

Dancing slow dances at the Golden Horseshoe. Hearts beating to three songs for a quarter playing on a glowing blue light jukebox. Titles were selected, giving courage to ask temptation to step together in an embrace on a small crowded dance floor. Hands sweat. Music plays so loud, conversations can’t be heard--murmurings imitate sentences, heads shake with silent answers, smiles acknowledge something was said. A few drinks, fear melts away; three dances become an introduction to true love; time speeds fast forward to last call. With luck from the heavens, I woke-up snuggling with you, my Yvonne. Leaving in the morning with a throbbing hangover, back to another rule to live by: If you see someone away from the bar, act like you don’t know them, be a daylight blur in the crowd. But oh, the nights, the magic of the dance.

For six months, my heart skipped a nighttime beat, living a dream. I woke-up mornings, looking at you in wonder, saying your full name like a mystical chant. No shadow of daylight blurring the stars in my eyes. Your decision to return to Australia burst the bubble of happiness filling my heart. I was twenty-two, left alone with the memory of your smile, prepared to change partners for the next dance.

Twenty-eight years later, I was fifty years old, living alone for ten years, feeling depressed, empty from a life filled with ups and downs. You had been watching a channel nine PBS program. The end credits listed April Ryan--graphic artist. You looked up my phone number, called thinking I was a talented PBS artist, but didn’t seem disappointed hearing I was a Metro bus driver. We spent a few weeks talking on the phone. I felt anxious making plans to meet after so many years. On the inside, I was a thin twenty-two-year-old, drinking beer and dancing under strobe lights. On the outside, I was a fifty-year-old bus driver with a sore back and seventeen years of sobriety. I wondered if you expected time to have stood still since 1968.

We met for lunch at Thirteen Coins Restaurant, where years before we had dinner, ordering Steak Sinatra ala Mia, drinks, and bottles of wine. This time you were waiting in the lobby, reaching out to shake my hand. I was having none of that, pulling you in for a heart throbbing hug. No Steak Sinatra on the menu. It was 1996, new famous names, but I didn’t care what was on the menu; I was fifty years old, ready to burst with excitement like a giddy school girl!

I told my mother I wanted her to meet the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with. She had us come to her house for a “my daughter loves you and wants us to meet” dinner. I sat on the couch, holding your hand. I had never before, not with men, or other women, held anyone’s hand in front of my mother. I was fifty years old, finally holding the hand of someone I loved and adored. It was a monumental moment for me, expressing I was ready to start a new, open life without guilt or shame.

One night, your dear friend June invited us for dinner to celebrate our new relationship. June was cooking sizzling New York steaks, when you said, “I just can’t get used to April’s gas!”

I about fell out of my chair. GAS! How could you tell June about my having gas when you hadn’t said anything to me? I looked at you so hard I am sure my eyes were bulging out of my head!

“What do you mean?” I whispered like it was a hidden national secret.

“Well,” you said, “I’ve never cooked with gas before.”

“You’re talking about cooking with gas? I thought you meant I have gas! I wondered why you would tell that to June in front of me!” We laughed so hard tears ran down our cheeks.

For the longest time, when we visited June, she’d open the door asking, “Have you gotten used to April’s gas yet?”

You got used to more than my gas. We got our dog Sydney when you retired in 1999. We bought a home together. You helped hold my spirits up when my mother was ill with Lou Gehrig”s Disease. When mom died at Evergreen Hospice ten years ago, you told me, “If I need to be in a hospice, I’d want to be in a place like this.” You encouraged me while I helped my stepfather live with a stroke at Harbor Point Assisted Living. You were put on oxygen in March of 2005. You were brave, loved, and adored by Sydney and me.

The list of our common values was much longer than our differences. I was more Tinker Bell, you were more Thinker. We traveled to Mexico, Hawaii, and your beautiful Australia. I didn’t expect a long wonderful adventure after I turned fifty. We were a great team, we loved each other and were comfortable together.

On this Valentine's Day, I think of you.

I see you flash your beautiful smile, our eyes meet. We dance together, once again. Holding each other, forever I am twenty-two. My heart skips a beat.

February 14/2014 April Ryan  

 

THE LOCKET of LOVE

“What’s this about his grandmother?” My mother came rushing into the dining room from the kitchen as my brother, Fred had asked: “Isn’t that the locket Peter brought home from Egypt or Australia that time?”

            As Kay looked at me, and said, “Why Peter, your grandmother sure gets around!” I was instantly wishing the floor would somehow open and swallow me. But it didn’t.

            You see, it’s this way. I had met Kay in New York some three years earlier. She was brought up to the British Apprentices Club at Chelsea Hotel as a guest of one of their hostesses. I happened to be there as a guest of Tommy Finn, an apprentice on the MS Western Prince. I seemed to hit it off with this black-eyed beauty right away, and for a couple of weeks until my ship sailed, I escorted her home from the club each night, detouring by way of Times Square to her residence hall on East Eighteenth Street. When I sailed that snowy December day to West Africa for a three-month trip, I went in hopes that she would still be in New York when I returned. She wasn’t.

            I joined another ship and sailed out for a five-month trip to Egypt, via South Africa. When I returned in November, I called at the British Club and learned Kay had returned to her home as she couldn’t find her dream job in New York. I didn’t know where her home was. In late December, I found in my notes the phone number GRamercy 5-8924. I couldn’t remember what it was, so I called it. Mrs. Garrison, the house mother at Kay’s one time residence hall answered, so I asked her for Kay. She gave me her home address in Fall River, Massachusetts.

            On a chance, I sent a Christmas Card. Right after I joined another ship, I received a Happy New Year’s card from Kay in return. This card gave me an excuse to take the weekend off and travel up to Fall River to meet Kay and her parents. When I returned to New York, my ship sailed to Australia.

            In Melbourne, one day, I happened to see a crystal heart-shaped locket on an old fashioned gold chain in a shop I was passing. I thought of Kay, and purchased it.

            When I returned to San Francisco in April, I immediately called Kay on a pay phone to her home in Massachusetts. I was so happy to make contact with her, I managed to run up a phone bill of over $23. Since I was only earning $35 per month, I figured the rest of my pay would just about purchase a bus ticket to take me back to New York.

            When I returned to New York, I was nearly out of funds, and headed for the Union hall to put in for another ship job. It was early enough, that I stopped in an Automat for morning coffee, and while looking through the newspaper came across an article about a new Officer’s training school for merchant seamen who had a minimum of 19 month’s sea time, and was 19 years old. This school was to be at New London, Connecticut. I just fit the criteria, so instead of the Union hall, I went to the War Shipping Administration office to apply. I was accepted, and sent to New London, Connecticut for a four-month’s training course.

            The courses were Monday to Friday, so I had week-ends off. I used these weekends to visit either New York or Fall River, so spent many weekends visiting Kay’s family. As the weeks went by, I thought about this locket, and being quite bashful, tried to figure out how to give it to Kay with all the sentimental attachments I wanted to convey. I couldn’t just say, “I’m in love with you!” So I made up a yarn that this locket had belonged to my grandmother, who had died ten days before I was born. It was to go to me if I were a girl, or to pass on to a love as the years passed. Since I would be sailing into the torpedo infested North Atlantic, I did not want to chance losing such an heirloom. I gave it to her for safekeeping. As the summer passed, I asked her to wear it.

            After September, I went to San Francisco and was sent to New Orleans for a ship assignment. In late January, 1943, the ship was torpedoed, and I sailed with part of my crew nearly one thousand miles, landing in Barbados.

Before I left Barbados via Trinidad and returned to Mobile, Alabama to payoff the ship, a troopship the Dorchester” was sunk in the North Atlantic. Headlines in the papers told of the many possible survivors succumbing to hypothermia in the cold waters before they were rescued.

Kay read these headlines, and thought it was my ship. When I called her about ten days later, she was so happy to hear I was still alive, she quit her current job at the Pentagon in Washington and took the first train to Mobile to join me.

When we met, I took her to New Orleans to be married. Then brought her to the West Coast to meet my family and so I could sail the relatively safer Pacific Ocean. Hence that dinner with my family.

I had forgotten about the sentimental story I had used when I gave the locket to her, thus when my brother asked: “Isn’t that the locket Peter brought home from Egypt or Australia that time?” Kay responded: “Why Peter, your grandmother sure gets around!”

Peter and Kay Chelemedos, in their 90s and still together, live in Edmonds.

                                         Peter, Kay and their daughter Penny. They seem to have 

                                         survived the locket incident pretty well. 

Read tales from your friends and neighbors in SHARING STORIES on the LOCAL page of Northwest Prime Time  at http://northwestprimetime.com/. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).

“I’M IN LOVE!”                                                                                                                 Sept. 9, 2013

By Marta Boros Horvath,  age: ancient

“I’m in love” might sound like an ordinary statement of fact or an excited shout from a young person, but come on; I’ve practically sailed here on the Mayflower with the Pilgrims!

The exciting discovery is that I’m as passionately, obsessively, madly “in love” once again, just as I was when I was in my youth or prime.

The object of my current passion is a beautiful 33-year-old man named David Garrett.  David is a violin virtuoso, which in itself could ignite my emotions, but in addition to being a talented musician and a great violinist, he is also a “beautiful man,” beautiful in a sense of Greek gods.  His face, at times, can look classically sculpted,  at other times exotically sensuous.  He has a charming smile that reveals dimples in his cheeks, and he has a captivating personality when he talks to an audience of thousands or to a few friends in an intimate bar.

My meeting with David was accidental, a chance encounter. I was looking for something to watch on TV Saturday night, flipping channels.  I finally stopped on PBS.  And there he was!  The station was doing their usual fundraising, broadcasting one of David Garrett’s concerts. It was one of his crossover concerts that looked more like a pop or rock concert than a classical one.  A spectacular light show, dancers, and pop instruments, such as guitars and drums, rounded out an explosion for the senses.  David played the violin like a blond devil. I’ve never seen him or heard him before.   It was love at first sight that glued me to the TV set, mesmerized, trying to figure out who this Pied Piper was. Then, l  heard his name.  After the show, I “Googled” his name on my computer and continued to watch YouTube clips of his performances, classical and crossover, for hours.

Next, I looked at numerous still images of him, and as an avid amateur photographer and a visually oriented person, I enjoyed comparing the “many faces” of David. I wanted to know everything about him.  I found out that while he had attended Juilliard, to help with his living expenses, he sometimes modeled. Another evidence that he’s “easy on the eyes.”

My obsession took me to Silver Platters yesterday to see what recordings of his are available on CD or DVD. I purchased some of both, and just finished viewing him and listening to him perform Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with the Russian National Philharmonics. Immense enjoyment! He is a renegade artist, likes to dress unconventionally for the crossover concerts, yet he’s equally capable of conveying the most tender tunes and emotions on his Stradivarius violin.

So what is happiness? According to some, happiness is having something to do, someone to love, or something to anticipate.   

Now I look forward to seeing David in person.  As luck would have it, he has an engagement at the Paramount Theater in January.  Just in time for me to ask my family for tickets to his show!  I love you, David Garrett!  And I’m  a senior citizen of 72!                                                                         

A JOYFUL EXPERIENCE

I knew where the Tully’s was on Lake City Way in Kenmore and made the journey from my RV home on the lake in time for our coffee date.  I checked my hair and lip gloss before exiting the car.  I was nervous.  I asked myself if I was ready for this.  I wasn’t sure, but I would soon find out.  This would be our first face-to-face meeting after many long emails for two weeks sharing our interests and getting to know one another.

 

I entered and she greeted me with a smile and a gentle hug, then we sat down to chat.  I felt like I’d known her all my life.  We talked rapidly, pausing to take a sip of coffee and then reengaging in a lively conversation.  We made plans for a matinee that afternoon and subsequently our dating began: camping, boating, gardening, walking, and going to boat shows, out to eat, to movies, and finally to Hawaii.

 

We shared travels and fun that led us to where we are today.

Now, eight lovely years later, we are domestic partners and have discussed the notion of marrying.  Posting the ad on Craigslist to see if I could meet someone led me to the joyful experience of meeting the love of my life. 

 

by Sue Ferguson

 

This is the response to one of the exercises in my online class, Write about Your Life. Sue has graciously allowed me to use her lovely story.

Ariele M. Huff

Having a cold together is bonding, though not exactly romantic.
On the other hand, it really makes us aware of times when we want to kiss and really don't think that would be good for us--continuing the contagion to the less sick one, etc.
There is something to be said for anticipation ;-)