My Tale of Two Octobers

I ran away once… in September 1976. But not in the usual manner. Friends and family understood I was leaving, but I knew—inside—I was running away. 

 

I ran all the way back to where I was born and raised in upstate New York, to my hometown of Perth in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains. I bring this up because, as I write, it is October, and that is when it all comes back to me… when my thoughts wander north, to my hometown… and also to the Adirondack village of Lake George. 

 

The village lies just thirty miles north and east of Perth (as the bird flies… driving is another matter) and cozies up to the southern shore of the lake from which it takes its name. Sir William Johnson (a British Army officer and colonial administrator) named the lake in 1755 for King George II. He also built a fort there during the French and Indian War, where the village is now. Those familiar with James Fenimore Cooper's novel “The Last of the Mohicans” (or, more likely, the 1992 movie of the same name) know of the 1757 siege of that fort—and the horrific massacre that ensued. Although both the novel and the movie are works of romantic fiction, their portrayal of the underlying history of the fort is accurate. The tragic events remain engrained in the region’s history.

 

The French ultimately burned the fort to the ground. However, a re-creation serving as a living museum stands on the site today. I remember going there on school field trips as a child in the 1960s… to learn of the fort’s history and to comprehend what transpired there… as best a child could.

 

History lesson aside, I spent many treasured moments at the lake with my family. It is a place that I wander off to in daydreams (and nightdreams) often enough. I should also mention that even though I was born and raised in upstate New York, I did not grow up there. I grew up in Virginia, moving to Virginia Beach in June 1968.

 

Yet still, it is easy for me to imagine myself at the southern end of that lake with its thirty-two miles of Adirondack water before me, especially in late October. And not just because of time spent there as a child, but also because of an afternoon spent there some forty-eight years ago in 1976… when I was but a few weeks into my twentieth year… and had recently (and surreptitiously) run away.

“You don't waste October sunshine. Soon the old autumn sun would bed down in cloud blankets and there would be weeks of gray rain before it finally decided to snow.” – Katherine Arden (Small Spaces)

I was staying at my aunt and uncle's tavern in Perth… a good-sized place on County Road 107. My aunt and uncle built it in 1949—with a wonderfully cozy three-bedroom home above—about a quarter mile west of the Perth four corners (home to the town’s one and only traffic light). Back in the day, one would find there: Perth Food Center, the firehouse, Hank’s Sunoco, a Texaco station, a small café, Lamanna’s Market, Butch’s Drum (another tavern, this one owned by a former jazz band drummer), and a beautiful Victorian home. 

 

Sadly, none of these places exist now; most were torn down long ago. Some have been replaced with new buildings, some have not, and a few remain but serve other purposes now. My aunt and uncle’s tavern is a restaurant these days. I’ve never been… and probably never will. They both passed away some twenty-odd years ago… but not a day goes by that I do not think of them… and the home that they provided me during that somewhat confusing time in my life.

~

On the afternoon that I drove up to the lake from the tavern, my intention was to travel north, along the lake’s western shore to Bolton Landing, but with the days growing shorter—and a telltale chill in the air—I thought better of it and made the village my stopping point.

 

I parked at the lake's southern shore under the watchful eye of Fort William Henry. It stood tall and silent on its ramparts behind me, shuttered for the season like the nearby steamboats slumbering in their docks. Though by rights, autumn could lay claim to more weeks ahead than behind, she had already begun her peaceful surrender… her whispers were on the wind for those who cared to listen, and they spoke guardedly of the winter to come.

~

I had come to the lake to write, but as I sat in my car, with pen and notebook at the ready, not a single word came to me. So, I took to looking out over the lake instead. The autumn colors were now long past their peak, and the onslaught of tourists in the village had dwindled to a trickle… but the lake was as beautiful as ever, and it held me captive for more moments than a person who had run away deserved. 

 

Most folks were elsewhere. Their calendars marked for the opening of the ski resorts and lodges… or the opening day of one of the dozen (or so) winter carnivals held across the Adirondacks. 

 

The lake, of course, knew nothing of these things. It had been there, bounded by the hills, for twelve thousand years, formed by a receding glacier at the end of the last ice age (and no doubt will still be there when the glaciers return). Its clock, the one which it abides by, is not something the likes of you or I can easily comprehend. To the lake, the passing of autumn, the coming of winter, and the eventual arrival of the ice that lingers into spring all happen in a solitary tick of its eternal clock. 

 

Yet, to those of us who live our lives between those ticks, there is something extraordinary about all of it. The water there reaches far into the distance, and for those who take the time to dream upon it, a gift is often bestowed… a masterpiece painted in light upon a crystalline canvas… a canvas that has known every blue sky, radiant sun, and billowing cloud ever to have been perched above it.

~

It took a while, but I eventually began to write… but just twenty-eight words came forth.

 

“I both love and despise being alone,” I wrote in my notebook. “I love it for what it has allowed me to write. I despise it for what it has taken from me.”

 

With nowhere else to go, I sat there, pondering my words. And, in time, turned to a fresh page in my notebook. There, I wrote a letter… to a girl who meant the world to me… some three thousand miles away.

 

I will never forget that day at the southern end of that beautiful lake, surrounded by the Adirondack foothills that were once so much a part of my life… for the letter I wrote… changed my life forever.

~

She and I last saw each other in August… at an airport in Virginia. We both cried, but not together. We cried unbeknownst to each other, she in her seat on the plane, and I somewhere in the airport. Before that, there was the customary kiss followed by the usual promises to write, but all I could think about were the words I wanted to say… the words I needed to say… the words that remained with me as I watched her turn and walk away.

 

And I could tell that she wanted to say something to me, but sadness won out that day—for neither of us said much of anything. And so, it came to be that the words I could not find in summer came to me in the fall, effortlessly finding their way into the letter that I wrote at the lake's southern shore. 

 

Her answer came swiftly, taking me by surprise. I rediscovered much that I already knew. She was different… patient… and knew what she wanted. And I was blessed… all along… for what she wanted was me.

“For the longest time, my life had been confined to a handful of moments. They were all I had until the day I met her, when my moments began to runneth over, causing me to realize it would require nothing less than the rest of my life to behold them.” – Thomas Smith (Remnants from my dog-eared notebook)

A year later, in 1977, she and I journeyed north from Virginia Beach to upstate New York. And nary a day after arriving, on a beautiful but cold late October morning, we drove from my aunt and uncle’s tavern to the village… and, upon arriving, sat together in my car at the lake's southern shore. 

 

There was scarcely another soul in sight… almost as if we had the lake to ourselves. Everything around us hinted at a winter waiting in the wings. The nearby steamboats were slumbering peacefully in their docks, the shuttered fort stood tall and silent behind us, and a familiar chill filled the air. 

 

We could hear the whispers of autumn, lamenting the remnants of her beauty now resting brown and fallen upon the hillsides. But to the lake, it mattered not. Its crystalline waters were as beautiful as ever, and a deep blue sky full of white wispy clouds lay mirrored upon its surface. It was as if Monet himself had happened by earlier that morning… and painted it… just for us. 

 

We smiled at the whimsical thought that perhaps he had.

 

After a while, we continued our journey, traveling east into Vermont to explore its Green Mountains, quaint little towns, and old barns full of curious antiques. And a few days later, at the end of October, the girl turned twenty to my twenty-one. And a tick of the clock later… we were wed.

"Lake George is without comparison, the most beautiful water I ever saw; formed by a contour of mountains into a basin... finely interspersed with islands, its water limpid as crystal, and the mountain sides covered with rich groves... down to the water-edge: here and there precipices of rock to checker the scene and save it from monotony." – Thomas Jefferson, May 31, 1791

The photo is not mine; I found it on a Lake George travel site. If you have read this far (and thank you for doing so), you will know where to look… to find where I wrote my letter… and where Laura and I sat and looked out over the lake a year later.

Regarding My Lineage and a Certain High King of Ireland – A (very) Tall Tale

Most know me as Tom. My actual name is Thomas though. 

When I was growing up, my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins called me Tommy. Occasionally, my mother would also call me Tommy (although it was Thomas when I was in trouble). Everyone else just called me Tom.

 

As you probably know, my last name is Smith. It’s a very popular surname (in case you were not aware of that), and surprisingly, the fifth most popular surname in Ireland. A very long time ago, it was found mainly in the town of Cavan, which was home to the Mac Gabhann clan. Smith is the Anglicized form of Mac Gabhann and the Smith surname is now found throughout Ireland. 

 

According to my DNA matches on Family Tree DNA, a substantial proportion of my Irish distant cousins reside in Galway… for the superb Fish and Chips I suppose.

 

Since I am half-Irish, you can call me O’Smith if you want. 

 

Just kidding… don’t.

 

I once had a friend who liked to call me Smithinski. This was because I am also half-Polish. 

 

I have a middle name as well, but I don’t use it much. I suppose most folks don’t use their middle names… unless you are a Jim Bob, or a Billy Joe, or a Mary Lou, or a Barbara Ann, or something similar. By the way, the proper pronunciation of that last one can be a bit tricky… let me help you out… it’s /ba-ba-ba-baba-aran/. 

 

Anyway… my middle name is Brian.

 

I mentioned earlier that my mother would call me Thomas when I was in trouble. If I was in deep trouble, she would call me Thomas Brian… as in “Thomas Brian, you get your a** home right now.” It was very helpful to grow up with an easy-to-interpret verbal barometer like that… especially one with three distinct severity levels… Tom (no problem), Thomas (get your alibis in order), Thomas Brain (hide).

 

Back to my middle name. Of those who knew what it was, most knew not why I had it. It was something I didn’t talk too much about, for I was not a person who liked to brag. You see, I am named after Brian Boru, High King of Ireland.

 

When I was born, my hair was red… I’ve seen color photos that show this to be true. The red hair did not last though… gone before I could walk. Yet, in my younger days, before turning gray, my hair would exhibit unruly tints of red whenever I ventured out under the summer sun for extended periods. I am told I had a great-grandmother whose hair was red… I never met her though… she died young.

 

I did keep the red-headed skin though, and I had freckles as a child, thus my skin does not tan easily (if at all), which has left me with the uncanny ability to obtain a really nice sunburn just by thinking about going outside on a sunny day.

 

And I do check my DNA matches often… waiting for the Boru surname to show up. It hasn’t yet, but I’m sure it will… eventually. Note, I do know that Brian Boru’s actual last name was something different, with Boru being added after his death; but I’m not letting something like that get in the way of discovering my true ancestry. 

 

Besides… I don’t need more proof than I already have concerning my being a descendant of Brian Boru. Brian and I have so much in common… his first name and my middle name… the red hair thing… and also this amazing factoid: He first rose to power, as the King of Munster, in the year 978… and exactly 978 years later (in 1956), I would be born. Coincidence? I think not.

 

You can call me Mr. Boru if you like.

A Peculiar Pair of Friend Suggestions

A supposition: “Facebook serves up the most peculiar friend suggestions."

Facebook homepages have a section called “People You May Know.” No doubt you’ve seen it. It’s where Facebook displays the profile photos and names of people (it thinks) we might want to reach out to. I believe it was once called “Suggested Friends.”

In either case, I’ve noticed Facebook doesn’t throw many friend suggestions my way. In the areas where they are typically displayed, I usually see an off-putting message telling me I need to add more friends to receive suggestions. This infers that the familiar adage about money also pertains to friends—at least within the realms of social media—meaning, “It takes friends to make friends.”

I have just sixty Facebook friends, a paltry amount in these days of supersized social media circles. I’ve never had the several hundred that some folks do. And I’m pretty sure the three-digit friend barrier will remain elusive. The truth is, I’m not one for reaching out… and never have been. Likewise, not many reach out to me, and I’m okay with that. In fact, I was okay with it long before the advent of social media.

My circles are small, and I prefer them that way.

Could it be that Facebook long ago discerned this about me? And that is why it gave up on beguiling me with friend suggestions? Whether that is true or not, a few months ago (and several weeks into a prolonged period of not being beguiled), Facebook presented me with a most peculiar pair of friend suggestions.

Yes… two whole suggestions… how generous of the Meta folk.

Unlike what usually pops up on my Facebook page, these two suggestions caught my eye—which was quite a feat given the quagmire Facebook has become. I don’t know about you, but my Facebook feed is constantly clogged with ads and posts that don’t belong to anyone I follow, let alone anyone who is a friend of mine. It’s quite sad, actually… what’s become of Facebook. And I mean that sincerely.

Let’s face it, “The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.”

The first of the pair was none other than the King of England (i.e., King Charles). But to be clear, it wasn’t really him. I checked. It was someone who “thinks” they are the King of England… an imposter… a faux royal. In any case, since I did not require a pretend king friend, I deleted the suggestion.

Sorry, Charlie.

The second of the pair, however, was a different story altogether.

~

Her name took me back to when I was a freshman in college. She was in high school then (the same high school I graduated from the year before), and we had met through a mutual friend. Her name, though, popping up as it did, caught me off-guard.

But seeing it paired with the King of England was a tad amusing… and it did cause me to smile.

The truth is, I liked her… a lot. But it was not meant to be… something easy to say now, but not so much back then. Long story short, she and I dated for a couple of months… some forty-nine years ago… winter into spring 1975. But I was an overly shy teenager back then, and she grew tired of that (or so I was told), and things fell, as they so often do in life, quickly apart.

I did try to talk with her about it (the last time we were together), but the words just wouldn’t come.

So, I retreated… with contradictory emotions. I felt hurt (by the things I was told) but also contrite (for not talking with her about it). Looking back, I realize I was a bit harsh on myself, but it was a different time… and a different me. Nonetheless, I never heard from her again… and took to believing all of what happened was a foreshadowing of my eventual station in life.

But I was mistaken.

~

Hidden among the moments of our lives are moments of the essence. And it has been my experience that these moments do not always reveal themselves as such… at least not right away. Sometimes, it is not until we look back—be it days, months, or years—that we recognize them for what they truly are… turning points in our lives.

While April 1975 ended with a deafening silence, the month of May graciously ended with a symphony of much-needed change. It was my turning point… an inflection point… my moment of the essence.

And it brought a most remarkable girl into my life.

Her name was Laura, and she simply strolled in one day, in the most carefree of manners… and with no more than an unassuming “Hi,” pocketed my heart.

She spoke of Key West and Pensacola, and I spoke of mountains and upstate New York. She was talkative and outgoing. I was quiet and reserved. Her eyes sparkled each time she smiled, and I happily allowed myself to be taken prisoner by both.

Our first date was in September (forty-nine years ago… tonight). Four months later, when the New Year arrived, 1976 brought with it… quite simply put… the rest of my life. 

~

As for the second friend request… I’ll not mention her name here, for we have three Facebook friends in common, and I wish to save her from ever having to admit that she once dated me. 

However, unlike with the pretend king, I did not delete the suggestion… but neither did I act on it. The truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to do either. Perhaps my contriteness lives on in some way… for I do have a knack for feeling at fault. So strange it is to excel at such a sullen thing.

Maybe that is why I thought it more fitting to simply wait for the suggestion to disappear on its own (which it has). For the record… the pretend king has never reappeared as a friend suggestion… and neither has she.

And as for the supposition… I hold it to be true. And perhaps I have convinced you… “Facebook truly does serve up the most peculiar friend suggestions.”

Get My Pants Off. Now.

This is the short (and rather quick) story of the birth of our son Donald… on a December day that doesn’t seem all that long ago. 

Donald was born fifth in line, having four older sisters and one younger sister, is named after my father, and came into this world during the wee hours of the morning after an evening spent decorating our Christmas tree. Laura woke me and let me know it was time. 

We were just about to head off to the hospital when Laura, who was sitting on the living room sofa tying her shoes, suddenly stopped what she was doing and sat back. 

Looking up at me, she calmly said, “Get my pants off. Now.” 

I looked at her with a “What?” expression… and she calmly informed me that the baby was coming. 

Long story short… or better said... short story shorter (because all of this happened in the time it is taking you to read this), I delivered Donald right there on our living room sofa. My mom had already arrived to watch our daughters (still fast asleep upstairs), so she was able to witness the birth. 

The Virginia Beach Rescue Squad showed up a few minutes later, clamped the cord, checked Laura and Donald out (both were fine), and whisked them off to the hospital.

Laura inherited fast deliveries from her mom. She herself was born in the backseat of her father’s brand-new car in the parking lot of a hospital in Pensacola, Florida (she is the oldest of six girls, by the way). Of our six children, Laura’s longest labor was three hours (our first child… also born at home… but delivered by a doctor). 

An Unexpected Homecoming

Even though the first day of winter is a month away, wintery weather is upon the northeast tonight. And that is enough to coax a winter musing out of me, especially with that winter weather arriving back home in upstate New York. 

 

Those who read my writings will recognize the following for what it is, for I have mentioned it before in passing. It is something that has stayed with me for forty-six years now.

 

Come with me… let’s take a journey. 

On a snowy evening in late 1976, in the Adirondack village of Lake George, New York, I was walking a snow-covered sidewalk to my favorite little pub… the coziest, friendliest, most welcoming place one could imagine, especially during the winter months when its patrons were for the most part local, and its rustic stone fireplace kept everyone warm and cheerful… even on the coldest of nights.

 

It was located just north of downtown at the bottom of a slight downhill. In the evening, from the top of the gentle rise one had to crest to get to it, warm light could be seen emanating from its windows, beckoning all who passed by to come inside and escape the cold. 

 

That night, as I came over the top of the hill, I noticed a small group of people gathered near the pub’s entrance. They stood close together in the cold… talking… their breath visible in the night air… their hands tucked deeply into their coat pockets. As I began the downhill leg of my walk, they were joined by someone who had come from the direction of the lake. The group then turned and quickly scampered into the warm pub. 

 

At that moment—and seemingly out of nowhere—a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the pub. Its rear passenger door swung open, and a tall young woman with dark hair emerged. I watched as she spoke to the driver and then closed the door. As she turned to face the pub, the taxi pulled away and began moving slowly up the hill in my direction, a soft, crunchy sound coming from its tires as it traversed the fresh snow accumulating on the street. It eventually passed by me and disappeared over the crest of the hill, now behind me. 

 

The young woman wore a long wool coat that reached past her knees. Its front was adorned with round buttons. She also wore a white knitted scarf and two matching mittens. Her dark hair, which fell around her shoulders, was now speckled with snowflakes. 

 

She looked up at the hand-carved wooden sign above the pub’s lighted entrance. I thought she might be trying to assure herself she had come to the right place. Then, instead of entering the pub, she looked down the sidewalk in my direction. And upon seeing me, turned toward me and remained there, as if waiting for me. 

 

A few steps later, I was close enough to see her face. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her eyes sparkled with all the starlight missing from this wintery night. She looked at me and smiled the loveliest of smiles… and all I could do was bite my lower lip and stand there… frozen in my tracks, for it had been far too long since that smile, and those eyes, had brightened up any night of mine.

 

“I missed you,” she said.

 

I quickly closed the gap between us and took her face into my glove-covered hands, and with a thumb resting upon each of her rosy, frozen cheeks, I kissed her… for the first time since August.

 

“How did you know…” I began but was shushed by her. 

 

“Your aunt told me where you’d be,” she said. 

 

After a long embrace, and as I laughed for the first time in a long time, I said to her, “I better get my Florida girl inside… before she freezes.”

 

We entered the pub and found a booth near its hearth. The fire was warm, and we shed our winter garb, hanging it on the hooks next to the cozy booth. As always, we sat across from one another. Our hands, now free of mittens and gloves, quickly found each other’s, and I raised one of hers to my lips… to prove to myself that she was truly there and not still in California.

 

We ordered hot chocolate with marshmallows and talked of her surprise homecoming, our sad goodbye in August, her travels, and our future… the one we so carefully planned in the letters we wrote to each other while she was away. 

 

The warmth of the fire was all around us… I could feel it. Its crackles and pops were a playful arrangement of random syncopations… I could hear them. Snowflakes continued to fall on the other side of the frosty windowpanes… I could see them. Laura’s voice soothed me and breathed new life into me… like sweet music in the night… strings in a summer gazebo under the stars. Everything about the moment felt real—even though it was not. And like the marshmallows in our hot chocolate, the dream eventually melted away into the night.

Even though I enjoy putting pen to paper, and it has helped me through many a difficult time, a writer I am not.

 

Yet still, I owe much to my simple writings, for it was in letters written to Laura, both while she was in California and (strangely, you might think) only a few miles away from me in Virginia Beach, that I let my heart be known to her. At the time, it was the only way I felt I could accomplish it. And because of that, I thought I might lose her. 

 

But as fate would have it, my letters and writings brought us closer together. She answered all the questions my heart was asking… took to her heart all the words I had written… and, without a second thought, chose me as the one she had been waiting for… all while knowing I was not the easiest of souls to understand.

A 1970s Tale (Part 2)

A boy calls a girl on the telephone. They talk about normal teenage things for a few minutes, and then the boy says, “What are you doing tonight?” Actually, it comes out more like, “Whatcha doin’ tonight?” The boy is trying to sound confident, which (surprisingly) he is.

Much to his dismay, the girl replies, “Homework.” 

Trying not to sound the least bit put off, he bounces back, “How about tomorrow afternoon?” 

Again, she says, “Homework.” 

The boy feels his earlier self-confidence beginning to wane. With hesitation in his voice, he tries one more time. “Tomorrow night?” 

He holds his breath. 

“Homework,” she replies for a third time.

The conversation goes quiet. They talk a bit longer, but the wind has left the boy’s sails. He lets her go, says goodbye, and hangs up the phone… perplexed by what happened.

At the other end of the telephone line, the girl is happy that the boy has called. They went out for the first time the night before… to a high school football game… and she likes him... a lot. 

Her mother, not far away, overhears most of the conversation, and by the time her daughter hangs up the phone, her curiosity is piqued because something about it doesn’t seem right. She asks her daughter what she and the boy were talking about near the end of the conversation, and the girl recounts it for her. 

The girl’s mother remains silent for a few seconds and then says, “You know he was asking you out… right?” 

The girl’s smile quickly fades. She had taken the boy’s words literally. To her, he simply asked what her plans were for that night and the next day… which was homework. She was swamped with homework. She did not realize he was asking her out for a second date.

The girl thinks she has “blown it,” and the boy thinks he somehow “messed it up.” The girl does not have his telephone number, nor does she know where he lives. They used to work together, but that was over the summer, now past. 

The boy thinks he was on the receiving end of a brush-off. The girl hopes he will call again. But he does not. So she puts her hopes into running into him at college, where they both take classes (but unfortunately, none together, nor even on the same days or nights). The boy decides to withdraw from the situation in an attempt to put it behind him.

But it continues to nag at him; she stays in his thoughts constantly. He cannot get her off his mind. 

Three months go by. The girl is sure now… she blew it. But the boy is not so sure about the phone call anymore… “Our date the night before went so well,” he says to himself. He decides he needs to be sure, one way or the other. So, on a Wednesday night in December, he goes looking for the girl at college… he knows she has a class that night of the week. It is three months after their first date in September… which took place three months after they first met in May.

He decides to head for the student lounge first. When he enters, she is there, and she looks up at him as he comes in. He notices but decides not to react. Truthfully, he did not expect to find her so quickly and is unsure what to do. He makes his way to an empty table and sits down, pulling out one of the books he brought with him. He plans to act as if he is studying while contemplating what to do next. 

But it matters not. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone standing beside him. He looks up, and the girl smiles a beautiful smile and says, “Hi.”

The above is a true story. It really happened. The unfortunate telephone conversation took place on September 6th, 1975, the day after their first date, and the young couple’s heartfelt reunion happened on December 10th. They have been together ever since.

This is where the immortal Paul Harvey would say…. “And now you know... the rest of the story.”

A 1970s Tale (Part 1)

It’s the 5th of September… still summer, but hints of autumn are in the air. It’s also National Be Late for Something Day. I am not making this up. It’s for real. And I hope you found time today to participate. I know I did.

With that said, I have a story for you.

My wife Laura and I graduated from high school in the mid-1970s in Virginia Beach. She in June 1975 from First Colonial High School, and I in June 1974 from Kellam High School. Back then, the two rival schools held their graduation ceremonies on their football fields (in addition to playing their first football game of the year against each other).

The ceremonies were held on football fields because of the large structures that served as the home stands. They were the only venues on school property capable of holding all the family and friends of 500+ graduates. Of course, the weather played a huge role in ensuring that the commencement went off as planned. If the forecast called for rain, the gymnasium became the new location, and fewer folks could attend.

The weather for my graduation in 1974 was great. However…

I know what you are thinking… the weather for Laura’s graduation was terrible, and the ceremony was moved to the gymnasium… right? Well, Laura and her classmates only wish (to this day) that was what happened.

Laura’s graduation in 1975 was a complete disaster. Even though the forecast clearly called for rain, the decision was made to throw caution to the wind and hold the ceremony outside. Of course, the hope was that the rain would hold off until the ceremony ended… but unfortunately, that was not the case.

The skies opened up mid-ceremony, pouring buckets of rain onto Laura’s graduation. Her brand-new watch (a graduation present) was ruined, as was everything else forced out into the rain that night, including the white dress Laura wore beneath her robe (which turned blue to match it). The ceremony was so disastrous that it caused a scandal of sorts… it even made the papers. Articles were written full of accusations and finger-pointing.

I remember Laura telling me all about her ruined graduation when she came to work the following day… which dovetails into the much happier story of how we two met.

It was near the end of May 1975, just a few weeks before her soggy graduation. Laura took a summer job where I was working at the Virginia Beach oceanfront. I was on summer break after wrapping up my first year of college. She worked part-time until high school ended and then full-time until college began in August.

Truth be told, there are memories, and there are memories with a capital M. Looking up from my work and seeing Laura for the first time is one of the latter. Let it be known… I fell… and I fell hard.

I wish I could say things progressed like in movies and romantic stories… but I can’t. Being the “fast mover” I was back then (that’s sarcasm), I waited until September to ask her out. Yes… you read that correctly. I met Laura in late May, fell in love with her almost straight away, and then waited three months to ask her out.

This unwanted delay was caused by my being excessively shy around the opposite sex back then. So, I settled for getting to know Laura over the summer… and making sure she got to know me.

I did come close to asking her out once during the summer… on a day when I gave her a ride home from work. She usually rode a bicycle, but not this day. I drove a convertible back then (a 1968 Chevy Impala… I loved that car), and the weather was beautiful, so I put the top down, making the ride to her house a fun one for her and me.

During the drive, we talked a lot, and the words I wanted to say were right there on the tip of my tongue; they were also there as I pulled my car up to her house in the London Bridge area of Virginia Beach… and as she got out of the car… and as she thanked me for the ride… and as I watched her walk away. Even the magic of a top-down ride in a convertible on a sunny summer day in Virginia Beach, with Laura sitting beside me, failed to coax the words out of me. I was, for sure, a bit disappointed in myself that day.

I finally did ask Laura out… in September… after our summer jobs ended. Did I mention today is National Be Late for Something Day? Yes, of course I did. How’s that for being late for something? I asked her if she’d like to go with me to the opening night high school football game between her old school and mine.

Without hesitation, she said yes… and on Friday, September 5th, 1975, forty-seven years ago tonight, she and I (finally) went out on our first date.

A side story here… the date was supposed to be a triple date… with my best friend and his girlfriend… and his sister and her boyfriend. But the four of them suddenly had “other plans” that night. I quickly realized what was happening… they had helped me garner the courage to ask Laura out and then decided to leave that magical night to us alone. I suppose that makes this also a story about good friends… and what they will do for you when you least expect it.

Laura and I sat in the Kellam home stands that night, where she loudly cheered for the visiting team… her team… First Colonial. The looks from those around us (those “shouldn’t you be sitting in the stands on the other side of the field” looks) only made me love her more.

As happy as I was that night, I had no way of knowing—as I sat there next to this amazing girl who literally walked into my life three months earlier—that I was two years, four months, and two days away from marrying her.

And such is my life.

p.s. Laura took the photo in 2014 before the new Kellam High School opened a few miles away (on West Neck Road). Neither she nor I knew what would become of the old campus, so having a photo was important to us. The school and the stadium are still there, by the way, home to Princess Anne Middle School.