We met in mechanical drawing class, fall of 1968. She sat at the desk in front of me.
She worked hard on her drawings, usually getting “Cs & Bs.” I shot rubber bands at her butt, blamed it on the guy next to me, and copied her drawings—I got “Bs & As.”
The teacher warned her to stay away from me, telling her, “He’s trouble.” He may have been right.
Our first date was on her sixteenth birthday, it took me months to get up the nerve to ask her.
She was beautiful. Her eyes sparkled when we talked about things she enjoyed. I could barely contain myself when she scooted over close to me in the car. I had her home at eleven, just as her mother asked.
I had lain awake most of that night reliving our conversations and sniffing my shirt collar for a trace of her perfume. I was infatuated with her. I wondered if 7am would be too early to call the following morning.
We became a couple. She decided our song was “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack—I thought, “Hush” by Deep Purple was much more accurate.
We married in the fall of 1972. She and I became us. We had no marriage handbook, we simply loved each other. In the beginning she was probably better at showing it than me, but I learned.
We had kids, three of them. You know those things don’t come with instructions. She seemed to be a natural at parenting. I eventually figured it out—I think.
We’ve stayed committed to each other, never wavering—even in the worst of times. I think that had something to do with our faith in God and our trust in each other.
We’ve dreamed together, played together, cried together, and prayed together. We found contentment in each other.
After 45 years of marriage I really have nothing to complain about…well, she could maybe speak a little louder, but other than that, I’m still infatuated with her.
So here’s to young love—here’s to the flame that still burns—here’s to us.