Month: August 2018

Meant For Me

I worked for a woman who told my teenage self that there was someone for everyone, if you are paying attention and grab them when they come into your life.

I met him because I was dating the guy who lived across the hall from him in the dorm.

I saw him from time to time on campus and thought he was cute. He had a Southern kind of accent… And those amazing blue eyes.

We shared our first kiss before we ever had our first date. He invited me to his birthday party in the dorm. I was late for a date with someone else so I could accept the invitation to go to his party first. He walked me to my car and kissed me. It was remembering all the specifics of that kiss – on that February night standing next to my green Gremlin in the cold outside Scott Hall – that scored us big points in the Newlywed game we played at the church Sweetheart Banquet years later. When both of our answers matched exactly, the preacher said, “It must have been some kiss!”

In the fall, I stopped to see my friend, Susie, in that same co-ed dorm. She wasn’t in, but when I cut through the guys’ side, there he was. I must have been remembering that kiss. I invited him to come home with me for lunch, even though I was still dating someone else. He said yes. We had to make a detour on the way to my apartment, to the grocery store to pick up something to make for lunch – chicken noodle soup, bologna, bread and barbeque potato chips. If he thought it was odd that I had no groceries after inviting him to lunch, he didn’t say anything.

We had a nice lunch, sitting at my table in front of the big picture window of my first floor apartment. My landlord walked by and waved. He went back to the dorm after lunch. I was still thinking about him, when the guy I was dating called. He screamed, “You had a man in your apartment!” My landlord was his brother-in-law so news like that didn’t take too long to be delivered.

The long story made short is I called him sobbing about the break-up. I guess he felt sorry for me. In between sobs, he asked if I wanted to go out with him that night and forget my troubles. I said yes. On the way out the door, I dumped my penny jar in my purse. Much to the dismay of our waitress, we paid for our pitcher with two hundred pennies. The date was just what I needed. He was fun. He was smart and charming and those eyes… And the kiss six months earlier was only a preview of those to come.

After our impromptu date, there was no one else for either of us. Although, there was one old flame who like to borrow albums from him so she could see him alone when he came to get them back. Her taste in music must have changed. When I picked up the borrowed album, instead of him, she never borrowed one again.

About the middle of this month, my husband said he wanted to do something romantic – just the two of us – instead of our regular monthly dinner with friends. I was surprised. We’d already had a romantic celebration on our wedding anniversary earlier this summer in St. Louis, where we honeymooned forty-three years ago. My husband, who doesn’t like to make plans too far in advance, had a plan. He took me to a nearby big city to a fine dining restaurant for dinner and we stayed overnight at the hotel across the parking lot from it. My romantic husband planned a celebration for the forty-fourth anniversary of our first date. The night I had the good sense to grab the one who was meant for me and I haven’t let him go.

 

The Missing Thread

There are events that rip huge gaping holes in the fabric of our lives, like losing our parents, those we will never fully repair. Then there are events that leave little pin prick holes, like a favorite restaurant converted to a political headquarters so it will never serve you a delectable meal again or the fire that destroys the grill where the best cheese steaks south of Philly were made. Those little holes remind us of our loss when we hold our fabric up to the light.

Then there are the events that pull a thread out of your fabric the whole length of it leaving a long, thin gap you never expected. That missing thread is on my mind today.

For almost twenty years, I have looked for his truck under the University Blvd bridge on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. I never knew his name, only that “my produce guy” would be in his truck in his usual spot. (Except for the one year when the bridge was being replaced and he had to park under a tree down the street.) I’d intentionally take the route that went past his spot when I ran errands those days. My slight detour would be rewarded with young, tender pale yellow summer squash or luscious juicy peaches or the perfect box of red ripe tomatoes. He always had a smile and kind words for me, even in the sweltering Alabama summer where he worked all day without air conditioning!

One day when I stopped with my sister Ann, who was visiting from Wisconsin, she asked about the unusal grapes he had. He asked if she wanted a taste, she did. She quickly spit out the tart Scuppernong. Then he confessed, with a wink, that they weren’t really an eating grape. It was the only mischievious thing I ever saw him do.

It was a sure sign of Spring when the truck first appeared and a sign the harvest was over when it was gone once we were past the crisp apples and gnarled yams. I learned to make fried green tomatoes after buying a box of green ones in addition to my usual box of red.

Then several weeks ago, I learned his name. It was on the front page of the paper. It was Woodie. He was 86. He’d had been killed in an accident with a semi. He had seven children and a wife who was glad he didn’t die hooked up to machines and tubes in the hospital. The news brought tears to my eyes. My husband said if he had just died in his sleep we might have never known who he was, his truck would have just been gone. I guess that’s true.

Yesterday, I bought tomatoes in the Alabama summer from somewhere air conditioned. It made me realize, again, that I am missing the thread in my life’s fabric woven by “my produce guy”. I still take the same route to run errands and think of him as I go under the bridge without pulling off to look at his wares. I know I will never be able to replace his missing thread with any other that will come close to matching it.

RIP Woodie and thanks for all the tomatoes!