If my life in the late 1960s had its own theme song it would
have been ALFIE. When I close my eyes I can almost see a younger version of
myself running around with my arms spread wide open, long flowing skirts giving
me grace, and with a voice coming out of me that sounds like Dionne Warwick
singing: "What's it all about, Alfie? Is it just for the moment we
live?" I see myself leaping and strutting around a city park belting out
line after line. "Are we meant to take more than we give or are we meant to
be kind?" I see the orchestra of Burt Bacharach's running along behind me,
trying to keep up with the pace that I set while still playing their
instruments. Those piano movers are really working up a sweat. "As sure as
I believe there's a heaven above, Alfie, I know there's something much more,
something even non-believers can believe in. I believe in love, Alfie."
That's
the Walt Disney version. During my
"what's-it-all-about" era I was actually a dating machine, searching
for love and the meaning of life in all the wrong places. It's funny how
forty-five plus years can make you forget a thing like that about
yourself.
I've been looking at old diaries today and when read 1969 I was actually
shocked to see that so many guys' names had filled up page after page.
Ten of
them! All those guys were trading places back and forth as if they were
race
horses going around and around on a track. First one guy would be my
favorite,
then another. Break ups and makes ups and near-fist fights. One guy even
turned
out to be an undercover cop working on a case involving a shirt-tail
friend of
mine. As I read those diary entries I couldn't believe I was reading
about my
own life. I wanted to break out the pop-corn and get a score card.
My power dating era was winding down by March of 1970 when
Don entered the pages of my diaries. We met at a bowling alley that had an
adjacent pub with live music and dancing. It was the local hunting ground. I
was on a lady's league on Friday nights and when Don and I met it was far from
love at first sight---at least not for me. Oh, Don was good looking enough to
curl a girl's toes and lord knows conversation never lagged when he was around.
But I met him along with a friend of his who looked like he shared the same
gene pool as Tom Jones; he even had the same weighty voice in an era when Tom
Jones was red hot on the charts. Of course I wanted the other guy, not Don.
For the next six months I dated them of both frequently, on
different nights of course, but the three of us often found ourselves hanging
out together on Fridays after bowling. All that time Don kept telling me that
his friend was a one-night stand and if I went out him again, he (Don) would
stop asking me out. The friend did turn out to be an irresponsible loser, but
Don turned out to be a liar because in spite the fact that I kept dating his
friend, he hung right in there date for date. I couldn't quite figure these two
guys out. I was guessing they had some kind of contest or bet going, so I
didn't trust either one of them. Finally six months out, the log jam broke when
Mr. T.J.-Look-a-Like started dating a woman he later married. It was in that
same time frame when Don first declared that he loved me and wanted us to get
married. It took us thirty-one years and a severe stroke for us to follow up on
that idea. And in those years we spent more time together than most
married people do.
It's weird how your memory can play tricks on you. Before I
cracked open my old diaries today I had already written the story of how Don and
I met. I couldn't believe how far off from the truth that first draft was. I
had to scrap it and start all over. I'd completely forgotten about my marathon
dating in 1969 and about the triangle dating thing we had going for the six
months after Don, his friend and I all met. I had given that whole period the
Walt Disney, this-is-the-version-you'd-tell-your-grandkids spin.
Off
and on all afternoon I was reading the pages
of my diaries and wishing I could figure out how I could hold on
to these books until twenty minutes before I die when I'd like to burn
them. Every so often I get them out and give myself a good laugh. It's
also
cathartic to watch yourself grow in spirit and wisdom over the years as
you
turn those yellowed pages. On afternoon years ago Don and I had was
reading and laughing over my old diaries but we stopped laughing when we
came across an entry about a chance meeting on cruise night at a local
drive-in restaurant, circa 1958. We're 99% sure it was us and our two
best
friends I had written about who passed jokes back and forth while
sitting on
the hoods of our cars. So, I guess you could say that we've actually got
two
"When Harry Met Sally" stories to tell. ©
I love your writing. You make me laugh and cry...which is very necessary when you're a widow....both emotions being equally cathartic. I haven't been here in awhile. Avoidance is a survival tool used by widows and I'd been avoiding anything "widowy" lately. But I can't sleep and am feeling melancholy. So I decided to visit some of my favorite widow sites and laugh and cry....mostly crying tonight. Wishing I could call a friend~
ReplyDeleteMama is not a widow but one of our relatives passed away in his sleep about two weeks ago. To say that this was unexpected was an understatement. He was not disabled. He was injured in a car accident when he was in his 20's and never fully recovered because of numerous back surgeries. He was in his late 40's when he passed away.
ReplyDeleteTell you mama that I am so sorry for her loss. Sudden deaths like that are very hard on those left behind.
ReplyDeleteIf these replies seem unrelated to the blog entry they are attached to that's because they are. I erased an entry and replaced it with this 'how we met' story.
ReplyDelete