We met on a Saturday night in June 1976, about a week after I graduated from college. I was still in a post-graduation festive mood. I had decided to go out with friends to celebrate. The four of us ended up at a nightclub called The Pasta House. The place was already filling up and the music was blaring.

I asked my friends to do me a favor and buy me a drink as I had to use the restroom. When I rejoined them, I asked if they got my drink. One of them pointed to a cocktail on a small unoccupied table in front of us. I took it and started sipping as I looked out at the dancers on the dance floor.

I noticed one young, attractive gal looking at me oddly. I did not know what to make of it. When the music stopped, she headed straight for me. My friends were chatting behind me in low monotones but I wasn't paying attention. I was curious why this gal was heading my way. She crossly asked, "Why are you drinking my drink?" I was stunned. I turned to look at my friends. They were grinning from ear to ear. I had been hoodwinked!

I felt my face turn red. I apologized. I told her I had been tricked into believing her drink was mine. I thought the cocktail they pointed to was the one they bought for me. She looked towards my friends and saw that by now they were giggling. Before she could say anything more, I said I would buy her a new drink. I rushed off to the bar and ordered a 7 & 7, which was what she had been drinking.

I came back still feeling foolish. I handed her the drink, apologized again, and muttered a few choice words for “the group of idiots” I had come with. She smiled and said it was OK. She recognized my so-called friends had pranked me, and at least she got a new drink.

So that is how I met Helen, all thanks to my friends’ practical joke and my mistake drinking a cocktail I thought was mine. Once we officially introduced ourselves, Helen and I danced the rest of the night. We chatted away and got to know each other.

When the nightclub closed at 2 a.m., we walked out holding hands. My dateless friends looked on in astonishment. I was now the one grinning from ear to ear. I walked Helen to her car. I wasn't sure if she had come with a girlfriend or not as I never saw a girl come by to chat with her while we were in the club. It didn't matter. We stood by her car and continued to talk.

The night air started to chill so I asked if we could get in the car, either hers or mine. She wanted to see my car, which was a '68 Camaro, a classic-looking sports car with a black vinyl top and cream exterior.  I took her to my Camaro and we sat inside for several hours talking about her family, her two young boys, her mom and siblings. I learned she was working three jobs. During the day, Helen had her regular 40-hour-a-week job. In the evenings, she worked as a concession stand cashier at the local drive-in theater. On weekends she worked at a bar serving drinks. But she soon realized it was way too much, even with help from her mom to take care of her kids. To free up her time, she quit the weekend bartending job. After working so many hours a week, she finally had a free weekend to unwind and go dancing that night we met.

And that's how it went with both of us sharing our life stories. By then it was 5 a.m. I asked if she wanted to have breakfast. She accepted my offer and we headed to a local IHOP. I still remember what we ordered: scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, a side order of pancakes, a small glass of OJ and plenty of coffee. When we were done we headed down the boulevard back to the club and her parked car.

Driving back I heard church bells ringing. I looked to my left and noticed several people walking up the steps to a huge church. I slowed down, turned and looked at Helen. I asked, "Do you want to go to Church service?" “Yes, that would be nice,” she responded. I turned into the parking lot. A few cars were already there. “It’s a Catholic Church,” I said to her. “That’s okay,” she replied. “I’m Catholic.” So we sat there for Mass and went to Communion.  Afterward, I drove her back to the Pasta House where her car sat by its lonesome self. I walked her to her car and thanked her for a magical night.

I realized I did not have her phone number, and I asked if I could call and ask her out. She said “Yes, of course.” She wrote down her number and address.  “Would you like to go out with me this afternoon?” I asked. “After we get some decent sleep,” I added. She gave me a smile and chuckled and said “Sure, I would love to.” 

After courting her for two years, we married in Long Beach, Calif., in 1978. It was a blissful life of 42 years.

One fall day, Helen was diagnosed with an incurable disease and I became her caregiver. In the final days of her life, a chaplain came into her hospital room and we prayed together. He asked how we met. I told him the story of how one mistaken drink changed both our lives for the better.

*****
Note: A shorter version of this story was featured in the SW Washington newspaper, "The Columbian", on Feb 13, 2022.

https://epaper.columbian.com/infinity/article_popover_share.aspx?guid=6fb65359-144c-40a2-9d1d-0972c973945f

After that magical night at the Pasta House, Helen and I were inseparable. We went to the movies, had dinner dates, dancing at clubs, played miniature golf, went hiking and picnicked with her two young boys. Other times we would just spend a leisurely afternoon entertaining ourselves with a Frisbee or flying kites.

One weekend all of us went to the Long Beach Pike, an amusement center on the boardwalk. We played in the arcade games. Helen and I took pictures in a photo booth. To this day I only have one photo of that fun-filled day. That was my life, a blissful pattern of family activities.

However, after close to two years of dating, Helen expected more. She wanted a commitment.  As much as I loved her, I felt I wasn't ready for marriage. We amicably ended our relationship.

Yet, as much as I tried, it was a love I could not forget. Her cards and letters kept coming frequently. I didn't respond until one day a short "Dear John" letter arrived. She wrote that a co-worker who had been interested in her for several years, had proposed to her! She had been dating him since our break up. It had been three months and I thought that was very fast. "Loved ones can be stolen." I had read that in an essay. And this guy was the one just about to do it.

I called her. "We need to talk," I said. I suggested we get together for dinner. She agreed. I told her I would call her back once I had the reservations. But I had no idea where to take her. I ended up talking to one of the same fellows from the group I went out with the night I met Helen. I was, of course, a bit leery I would get a bum steer—another practical joke. He assured me it was not the case. He told me he wanted us back together. He recommended a restaurant called the Chart House in Malibu. It was over an hour away. Despite his reassurances, I still worried it might be another prank.

But once I called the restaurant for reservations, I knew it wasn't a trick. The place existed. The person on the line said that they have a “jacket required” dress code. That wasn't a problem so I made the reservations. I called Helen and told her it was a "dressy dress" place and that I would be wearing black slacks, a light blue shirt, a tie and a sport-coat. I arrived at her house in the late afternoon. When she opened the door, I was completely stunned. She wore a revealing black dress. She looked lovely.

We drove to Malibu chatting as if we hadn't ever been apart. Neither one of us brought up that pending proposal. But I knew at the restaurant we were going to talk about it. We knew each other well enough to know that at the moment we were deferring that conversation for our dinner table talk.

We were pleasantly surprised to find the restaurant situated next to a pier with sweeping ocean views. We stepped inside. I gave the hostess my name and she escorted us to our table. Each table was draped with beautiful white linen table cloth and the chairs were exquisitely upholstered in tan decor. The restaurant was completely surrounded by floor to ceiling bay windows. Although we didn't have a window seat, from our center table the panoramic view was still impressive.

We looked at the menu and I decided to order a bottle of wine. The tuxedoed waiter arrived with the wine bottle. He showed me the label and pronounced the name of what I ordered. I nodded in approval not knowing what to say as this was all new to me. He uncorked the wine and poured it into a glass and then handed it to me. I took it and in one swift movement, I downed it like a shot of whiskey. I saw his surprised face. Oops! That was certainly a major "faux pas." I mumbled it was good wine. He turned and left the bottle in a bucket along with two glasses.

I looked at Helen's face. She was amused, shaking her head. I said to her, "I guess I wasn't supposed to do that!" She just smiled and said "No you weren't. But don't worry about it." That was just like her. Her voice was tender, not reproachful. She did not make me feel like an utter fool. I could only imagine what the waiter was telling his co-workers in the kitchen about me. But with Helen reassuring me that all was OK, that thought escaped me as quickly as it had entered.

At long last, the moment arrived. The food was great. We sat there comfortably in each other's company waiting for dessert. I finally broached the subject of the "proposal." She explained that her suitor was 12 years her senior. "He's always shown an interest in me, but was respectful as he knew I was dating you," she said. "One day he noticed I was sad and I told him we had broken up. He started talking to me and asked me out and we started dating."

I felt a sharp pang of jealousy.

"He's a quality control inspector at the plant," she continued. The thought immediately entered my mind that he was always at her work station a bit longer than what was required. But honestly, could I blame him? I didn't share my thoughts with her.

She said she was considering marrying him for security and stability. "He told me he was going to inherit a ranch in Fresno. He invited me so I spent the weekend at his ranch."  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. She sensed my discomfort. But before I could say a word, she said, "Don't worry. Nothing happened. I took the boys with me."

I nodded. She continued talking about the ranch.

I finally asked her, "Do you love him?" She cast her head down. There was a long pause, a trace of apprehension on my part. But before she could utter a word, I said, "I guess that answers my question." She raised her head and I could see her teary eyes. She met my eyes and said softly, "No, I love you." I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I reached across the table and held her hands. After paying the check, I took her outside.

The restaurant had a railed wooden walkway. Holding hands we saw the sun setting in the ocean, a bright orange ball in the horizon. The motion of the waves and the sound they made striking the shore added to the scene. It was majestic. "Doesn't that look beautiful?" I asked.

"Yes, it is very beautiful," she said. I then pulled her towards me and we embraced. I whispered in her ear, "I missed you so much." And before she could reply I said, " I love you Helen. I will never leave you again. Will you marry me?"

Her eyes welled up. "Yes," she replied. "I will." We kissed. I don't know how long we stood there in each other's arms, but we were both tearfully happy. 

We married in December 1978 and were together for 42 years until Helen died in December 2020.

I am forever thankful the love of my life was not stolen.

****
Note: A shorter version was featured on the Feb 12th edition of the SW Washington newspaper  "The Columbian."

https://www.columbian.com/news/2023/feb/12/everybody-has-a-story-a-love-that-could-not-be-forgotten/

I can never claim having had a brush with a celebrity. My wife, Helen, came close.

Her story begins in the late ‘50s as a pre-teen. Imagine her in front of a black and white TV, her adoring eyes locked on a teenage singer, Ricky Nelson, performing on “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” sitcom.

That adoration never wavered for Helen.

One day in 1984, I came across a blurb in the newspaper that Rick Nelson (he dropped the “y” on his 21st birthday) was on tour.  In the coming week, he was scheduled to perform at the Orange Show Fairgrounds in San Bernardino, California, which was near from where we lived.

I called and purchased two tickets to be picked up at the will-call window. I didn’t tell Helen. It was going to be a surprise for our date-night.

It was an early evening venue and as we drove to the event, I knew the secret would unfold upon our arrival.  There was no way I could keep her eyes away from the signage at the event center.

Sure enough as she saw the marquee she was giddy with excitement. She was like a pre-teen girl ready to meet her teenage idol!

Once we were seated, she could hardly contain herself. The emcee came on stage, said a few remarks and introduced the opening act, a country singer named Joe Stampley. 

Finally, the moment arrived. The announcer was back to introduce the main attraction. Middle-aged women cheered in delight when Rick Nelson strolled on stage with his guitar. He stood there and his band members took their place behind him.

He launched into his old hits and by the time he was belting out “Travelin’ Man” several ladies rushed to the front of the stage. A few danced freely while others had their arms in the air happily swaying back and forth. The response grew larger and several others moved to the stage.

Helen threw a look my way. She was unsure if she should join the group.

“Should I?” she implored.

I met her eyes with a smile.“Go ahead,” I said. “It’s your night.”

She brimmed with excitement and off she went.

I wish I had taken a camera. We had no smart phones back then. But the remembrance of her close to the stage dancing in mutual connection with other adoring fans is ingrained in my mind. 

When the concert was over, Rick Nelson thanked the group near the stage and shook several hands. He kissed a few ladies. Helen was too far back and missed shaking his hand and stealing a kiss.

Outside we walked back to our car locked in arms.

“That was a nice surprise,” she said. “I had a wonderful time, thank you," she added. “You’re welcome,” I said. “I’m glad you liked it.”

She gave me a dreamy smile. She leaned toward me and kissed me.

I still think fondly of that evening and the memory of a wonderful date and a kiss, that Helen meant for her teenage idol, that I stole.
       ****

Note: A slightly modified version of this story was featured in the SW Washington newspaper, "The Columbian," on their weekend edition Feb 10-11, 2024.

https://epaper.columbian.com/infinity/article_popover_share.aspx?guid=00102a65-c949-4093-bb70-3bd2882d476b&share=true