Bad Dates: Wipe My Weeping Eyes

Pierre was a husky blue-eyed blond attorney whom I thought was just about right for me. We met on an afternoon hike in the nearby mountains, and he seemed to enjoy my sense of humor as well as my looks. He was just a little taller than I was, and he had a barrel chest and big mustache. And the way he looked at me sometimes left me weak in the knees. Even though he was heavier than anyone I'd ever considered dating before. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I wasn't dating him--yet.

Pierre asked me to go with him to an early dinner one day, and wondered if I'd meet him at his apartment. Of course, since he lived rather close to me. When I got there I asked if I could please wash my hands--I'd put gas in the car. In his bathroom, there was hair everywhere. It was between 3-4 inches long and it was in the bathtub, on the floor, in the sink, and over the back of the toilet. I wondered how long it had been since the bathroom had been cleaned. But then, I noticed hair all over the place in that apartment. They must have a dog.

We drove up to the mountains to have dinner at Laws, a landmark mom-and-pop restaurant that serves fresh apple pie made from the surrounding apple orchard. It was wonderful. Walking out of the restaurant, something fell out of an overhanging tree and went down Pierre's neck. "Yikes! Can you get whatever that is down the back of my neck?" he asked, leaning forward and pulling the neck of his shirt back for me to reach in.

Suddenly, I realized why there had been hair all over his bathroom. It was his hair. He had hair about four inches long all over his back. Withdrawing my hand quickly, I tried not to act too shocked. Oh well...you can't get everything you want in a man, I thought. He's hairy but he'd be a great provider and family man.

Driving home, Pierre told me that he had tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and if I would just make our dinner, he would know how I cooked, and he would also be happy to be in my company. How nifty--two birds with one stone. He cautioned me that he didn't like swiss chard, but that garlic was his favorite food. In fact, he showed me several heads of garlic and a garlic press that he carried in the trunk of his car just in case he ate at a restaurant that didn't have enough garlic in the food. The message came through clearly: make something with lots of garlic in it. Not exactly fare for a romantic dinner, but I'd do it.

I don't remember exactly everything that I cooked up for that next Saturday night, but I cooked up a storm. I even took pieces of my good china and goblets for our use. He was delighted. Our supper began with cream of garlic soup, french bread, butter, and sparkling cider. Pierre was utterly taken with the soup and finished it off. Wow. He would have really horrible breath after that.

Then we wrapped up the dishes and went down to our box seats near the front of the stage. It was an all Mozart concert and we were both thrilled. I noticed that Pierre leaned into me as we listened to the music--he didn't hold my hand, but to feel him right up next to me was very exciting. I wished the concert would go on and on. Pierre was delightful company, chatting between numbers, making witty comments, and being a very attentive date. Maybe this was going to go somewhere.

At the end of the concert, people came streaming out of the arena and headed toward their cars, boxing in our car. We could only sit there, waiting to be able to get out. Pierre put in a cassette of Handel's Messiah so we could listen to something while we sat there. We listened to almost the entire tape before we were able to creep out of there at about 5 m.p.h.

As we pulled onto the freeway at 12:30 that night, Pierre turned over the cassette and asked if I minded that we listen to it on the way home instead of talk. He must really love that music. "Of course, Pierre."

We drove for miles listening to the familiar music. "He Shall Purify," "And the Glory of the Lord," etc. Finally, I asked, "Does listening to music like this help you stay awake?" He nodded, soberly. "Are you sleepy then?"

He shook his head, no.

That was strange. He didn't seem like he wanted to speak.

Just then, the Hallelujah chorus started. He turned up the volume and settled back into his seat with a very somber expression on his face. I listened for a moment and started to very quietly hum. Pierre sniffled. He had tears coming down his face!

"Oh my goodness, Pierre, what is wrong? Why are you crying?"

He shook his head as if to say, "don't ask" and made no reply. Yet he continued to cry. These were not tears of joy. "Are you okay?" He was clearly upset about something but it was quickly clear that he was resolute about not wanting to talk to me. I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose, steering the car with the other hand. He turned up the music and continued to cry and drive, all the way home. We had nothing to say when he dropped me off. Pierre still refused to speak to me, and I was baffled about why he was crying with such sadness. But there he was, red-eyed, crying, all the way home.

As we pulled up into my driveway, I thanked him for the wonderful concert and for his company. He nodded mutely, and stayed in the car while I struggled getting out the box with my china and the leftovers in it. Pierre waved half-heartedly at me from behind the steering wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I climbed the stairs to my apartment and went to bed. There was something very wierd going on, but I doubted that I would ever get to the bottom of it.

I still haven't.

I ran into Pierre and his wife at a friend's house a few years later. He took me aside and told me how hurt he had been that I had not returned his calls after our wonderful date. He was his old charming self again, even though he kidded and joked with me and not his own wife. She was a very pretty and very pregnant girl, about 10 years his junior. I just remember him as a Jekyl and Hyde personality. Who knows what he would have done on subsequent dates?

What in the world?

Another dodged bullet.

Bad Dates: Loose Cannon

I was a young 25-year old nurse, still hurting from a recent breakup. No one would be interested in me, and I had what I thought was pretty good proof: my fiance had broken up with me because I would hold him back from meeting his life goals. So I was young, attractive, footloose and demoralized.

Trying to help me get over my wounded feelings, my charge nurse invited me to help her paint her new home on the day I was to have gotten married. I went, just to keep from moping. I didn't know that they had invited Sol, a single dentist friend of her new husband. Little did I know that he was awfully handsome and that he was on the make. Only a few strokes of my paint roller and we were laughing, talking, and eyeing one another. He certainly took my breath away. He wore white coveralls without a shirt, and he was tan and had a great body.

The afternoon went by very quickly and ended with an invitation to dinner. Sol said he'd come to pick me up at 6:00, and wouldn't I like to go down to the beach to eat? I was thrilled. I looked down out of my window at 6:05 just to see him walking up the driveway, pulling his shirt on over his bronze chest. I almost fell out the window.

We went off to Newport Beach where we had a sumptious supper overlooking the ocean. Sol turned out to be quite devout--speaking about his Christian experience in detail, hoping to go off on a mission to a remote part of the world, and quoting scriptures to make his point. In my naive, heartbroken state, he looked pretty good. Especially after my fiance had not been able to live according to his stated convictions. I was smitten.

Sol asked me if I wanted to walk on the beach after dinner. What could be more romantic? Since I thought love happened like it did in the movies--30 minutes or less, and in one evening--this guy seemed like Prince Charming. We strolled down onto the beach and sat in the sand to watch the sun go down. It was chilly and he snuggled against me while he asked me about my life and smiled broadly at me in that man-of-the-world way that such older-and-wiser men did. He acted just a little bit oddly, because as I was talking, I noticed that he started to seem a bit distracted. He stopped listening and looking at me as we sat there. He was looking around over his shoulder at the houses on the edge of the beach. Squirming and looking in all directions. It had gotten dark and chilly. He still was wearing a shirt that was open at the throat--a little more undone than when we started out onto the beach.

I fell quiet as Sol stared off into space. He made a few summary comments and I suggested that we start home. It would take a good hour to get back. We slipped off the lifeguard platform where we'd been sitting, and started walking down the beach toward the car. As we walked, I was responding to a question he asked, and suddenly realized that he wasn't walking with me. Turning around, I saw Sol crouched down on the sand lighting a match to something.
"What are you doing?" I mouthed, just as he rushed toward me yelling, "Run!"
His eyes were twinkling but there was real urgency in his shout. I turned and fled just as the sky lit up behind us with a series of firecracker explosions. Big ones. Brightly colored, very visible, very illegal firecrackers. I fled, yelling back at Sol, "We could get in big trouble for this. Cut it out!" I am very conventional and conservative when it comes to observing the law and conventional rules about behavior. It seems narcissistic and disrespectful to do things like jay walk or drive 80 miles per hour in a 60 mph zone. So what he was doing, and in a state with such high fire risks, was both inconsiderate and foolhardy.

Instead of paying attention to my terror, Sol stooped to light another volley of firecrackers. Feeling like I was on the lam, I raced off the beach and up to his parked car just as the firecrackers went off--a whole string of brightly colored arching explosions, whistling through the air before it shook the ground with noise. Sol was nowhere to be seen and I was standing in the street next to an empty car, in an unknown area of a big town, after dark. It didn't occur to me that I could have gone inside and called a taxi. It seemed like my my only option was to lean against the car and look toward the ocean. Somewhere in the distance a siren could be heard coming our way. Great. Now I would be arrested for this kook whose behavior implicated me.

I had no idea what was going through this miscreant's mind, but I had had enough. For all his religious talk, he was a nut, and I knew that God wanted the fruits of the Spirit, not religious nuts. After what seemed like an eternity, Sol suddenly appeared and jumped into the car.
"Let's get home!"
Off we went, back to town. He had no explanation about why he had done that, and he wouldn't talk about it even. It was as if it had never happened. But he did tell me that he thought I was lovely, and couldn't he come up to my place for tea when we got back to town?

He got his tea that night, but nothing else. The gall of someone who thought he could act so irresponsibly and still expect me to want him.
Sol called a couple weeks later and told me how much he'd like to see me again. But not feeling up to being put in a dangerous position again, and acutely disappointed that he didn't seem to have his head screwed on straight, never returned his calls.
Another missed bullet.

Bad Dates II--Mr. HaySeed

Found here

I should have known something was afoot when my German professor called one Wednesday night after class and asked me if I would be willing to go on a blind date with a visiting student. "He's very musical, and I thought that since you aren't dating anyone, maybe you could encourage him to come to college here." Musical--how nice! Well, as I wrote in the last post, the guys weren't asking out the girls so I might as well go out with someone.
"Sure."

The plan was for him to pick me up at the dorm and we'd go over to the college auditorium to see a play. Then we'd go to Newton's in town for an ice cream afterward. Dr. B and her husband would join us so it wouldn't be awkward. I had nothing to lose. I just had to show up.

Saturday evening found me rushing back to the dorm after being out on a walk with a guy who I was truly interested in. He dropped me off and I ran into the lobby. What I saw should have prompted me to keep running right through the lobby and out the back door. There saw Charlie (let's call him that), sitting on the couch, legs akimbo, waiting for me. He had wild blond curly hair that hadn't been combed for awhile and he was wearing a bright red plaid hunting jacket over jeans tucked into galoshes. There was straw on the bottom of one boot.

"Hi, Charlie, I'm Barbara" I announced, reaching to shake his hand. "I have to change my clothes and I'll be right with you." He started to follow me down the hall. The desk monitor told him that he had to wait in the lobby. Oh dear. She later told me that he had wandered into the dorm through a back door and since he didn't know where he was in the building, he walked toward voices that came from a room with a door ajar. He knocked on the half open door and peered in. Girls screamed and pillows flew. They were lying around half dressed on their beds talking. Someone shooed him out and directed him to the lobby.

We hurried on over to the auditorium. The play was about to start. It was "Death in the Cathedral," which is a very meaningful and ponderous work. We were the last to be seated. As we hurried in to the FRONT ROW, it felt like everyone was looking at us and whispering, "Is that Barbara's boyfriend? Is he the reason that she isn't dating anyone here?"

I soon realized that Charlie couldn't follow the plot of the play. I was having a difficult time what with the old English language. It was way over his head and being in his company made me so distracted that I could hardly concentrate on what was happening. He leaned into me at one point and in a stage whisper asked loudly, "Do you get the gist of this?" I motioned for him to be quiet and told him I'd explain it at the intermission. He seemed satisfied with that and stared up into the rafters over the stage, and gawked around at the walls and at other people. Another time he asked loudly, "Do you follow this?" I cringed and made a face to show that I was having a hard time.

Dr. B and her husband were nice enough. They had saved our seats for us right in the front row, and thankfully, at the intermission they chatted with Charlie so I didn't have the whole burden of keeping things going. He didn't seem very bright or conversational. So I talked with Dr. B awhile, who directed me back to Charlie. "Charlie is very musical, Barbara. Charlie, tell Barbara about your musical interests." He smiled a toothy grin and said quite loudly, "I play the gittar. I strum it like a cowboy do." Oh good. And such an eloquent description, too. Musical, indeed.

We got through the intermission somehow. To put it simply and as kindly as possible, Charlie had almost no social graces and was in awe of his surroundings. He was truly "country come to town." I don't say that in a mean way. It was a fact that punctuated his comments that evening. But at my ripe age of 18, I was mortified and fearful of identification through association. It was going to be a long evening.

After the play finished, which I didn't enjoy at all, we loaded up into Dr. B's car and drove over to Newton's. This was the local Saturday night hangout for students at our college. Everyone who was anyone on campus showed up there, and that night was no exception. We walked through the door at 10:40 and were shown to a table on an elevation up above some of the other tables--right where everyone could see us together. Horrors! I thought I could probably survive having an ice cream and then get home and away from this guy. But no. He ordered a steak dinner, much to the dismay of the waiter. "We close in 20 minutes, sir" he said plaintively. Charlie replied, "Well if I'm in a restaurant, I want a meal." And that was the end of the discussion. The waiter slunk off into the kitchen and we sat there looking at one another. I was plum finished with small talk. This was back in the day when I was so reserved and had such an awful time talking to people I didn't know, that I was in knots inside. I ordered a Sprite and began sipping it quietly.

Charlie furrowed his brows, looked right at me and out of the blue, loudly announced, "Your lips are chapped!" People at the surrounding table looked our way questioningly.
I slid down into my chair. "Yes, I think they are," I said quietly, smiling at him with a please-be-quiet pleading look.
He was not to be deterred. "You should do what we do to them cows when they get chapped tits" he bellowed. At the word tits, heads all around us jerked our direction. Someone dropped a fork in shock. My face turned deep red. He continued, "We just take some of that Raleigh Salve and just slap it across their tits and they heal up in no time." He made a sweeping slap motion with his left hand and knocked his napkin onto the floor.
Scooping it up, he remarked, "There's no need at all for chapped tits or chapped lips." He smiled smugly, realizing that he had almost just made a rhyme. Dr. B's husband was looking at his hands in his lap. Dr. B looked apoplectic and I was aghast. "Charlie," she said quietly, "Tell Barbara a bit about your church up North."
Without missing a beat, he launched into a loud monologue about the membership and composition of his congregation. I hardly remember another thing about being in Newton's, except how happy I was to be leaving. We left with Charlis smacking his lips. He had eaten his steak dinner in 20 minutes (we didn't leave until 11:30) and we were on our way to drop me off at the dorm.

Uh oh--the dorm. That was where all the couples were saying goodnight on the steps and up against the porch railings. Many were making out as if it were the last night of their lives. If he got any ideas or even laid a hand on me I'd spit bullets. Soon we were making our way up to the dormitory. He surveyed all the heavily breathing couples writhing against the porch pillars, standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets. What would he do?

It never dawned on me that I could just say goodbye and walk inside. But to his credit, he was a gentleman. He reached forward to shake my hand and with his trumpet-like voice announced, "It was great to make your acquaintance, Barbara." The heavy breathing stopped and several sets of eyes looked our way.
"Thank you, Charlie." And I hurried inside.

That was truly an awful date: Charlie with who knows what stuck to the bottom of his boot, looking like was going hunting, and me dressed to the nines in a nice dress and high heels. Bless his heart--he just didn't know how to conduct himself and probably had never been in a setting where he could have learned how to behave socially. He reminded me of Gomer Pyle except his accent was decidedly different. Gawlee!

The next year, our small sextet singing group traveled up to his church to give a concert. There sat Charlie, waving at me from the third row, proudly sitting in the church next to his grandparents. The British guy who stood next to me in the group teased me all afternoon about Charlie after he saw him looking appreciatively at me and pointing me out to his grandparents.

After church there was a potluck before our concert. Apparently, his grandparents had brought their own lunch but didn't join the potluck for some reason. Charlie invited me out to the car where they were sitting, eating sandwiches. He introduced me and they were very quiet and stoic. Almost suspicious of me. Maybe to them I looked like a hussie in my ankle length singing dress. Who knows. Charlie didn't seem to mind. "Want a tomato?" he asked, handing me an enormous Beefsteak tomato that he could hardly hold in one hand. How on earth could I eat it and not get it all over my dress? I wondered. I politely declined and commented on what a nice tomato it was. "It shore is," he agreed. Biting into it like an apple, tomato juice and seeds sprayed in all directions. He hung his head over the ditch and let the juice drip off his chin. It just seemed to typify everything about Charlie, as good intentioned as he was. I excused myself and got back into the church.

I've thought about Charlie several times over the years. He was probably a very decent young man without any social opportunities. He could have been a late bloomer--later than I was. He could have turned out to be a True Blue kind of man: dedicated, honest, hard-working, loyal. Maybe he thought I was uppity or cold. In fact, I felt wretched being around him. As many teenagers, I didn't know how to let him be Charlie, and focus on being Barbara.

So I wish this dear earnest young man the best and hope his life has been a happy one. I think of him every time my lips become chapped.
Does anyone have any Raleigh Salve?

Ivy of AUC

I went to college at a small liberal arts school in New England. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I loved it there and still think of it as a second home. So many interesting and formative things happened there and such important influences wrought change and growth. I was exposed to many things and people, the likes of which I'd never seen in my home.
When I went off to college I thought I'd probably meet Mr. Right, date him through college, then get married right after graduation. We would live happily ever after, right there in New England, hopefully.
After the first few months of school, my friends and I had scoped out all the guys with any potential, as far as we were concerned. We decided that the guys who we'd like to go out with wouldn't be asking us. And the guys we wanted to avoid, were going to pursue us. In fact, something very much like this did happen.

There was this big lumpy oaf--Phred--we'll call him, who had a very high voice and an even higher opinion of himself. He also looked like Mortimer Snerd. He showed up everywhere I went and I didn't like him even a little bit. But there he'd be, waxing eloquent about something he thought I needed to hear, all the while smiling condescendingly at me. Then there was Reggie, who had a lovely tenor voice, and who used to sing his heart out in the practice rooms in the music department. However, he wasn't a voice major, and wasn't even a music student. He would just go into a practice room adjacent to me and belt out the same song for an hour: If Ever I Would Leave You from Camelot:

If ever I would leave you

It wouldn't be in summer.

Seeing you in summer

I never would go.

Your hair streaked with sun-light,

Your lips red as flame,

Your face witha lustre

that puts gold to shame!

But if I'd ever leave you,

It couldn't be in autumn.

How I'd leave in autumn

I never will know.

I've seen how you sparkle

When fall nips the air.

I know you in autumn

And I must be there.

And could I leave you

running merrily through the snow?

Or on a wintry evening

when you catch the fire's glow?

If ever I would leave you,

How could it be in spring-time?

Knowing how in spring

I'm bewitched by you so?

Oh, no! not in spring-time!

Summer, winter or fall!

No, never could I leave you at all!

Ick. I used to cringe listening to these dramatic portamentos (dramatic vocal swoops) up to, and down from, high notes. He would linger on certain meaningful words like lips. Yeech! He sounded as if he had his mouth right up against the wall between our practice rooms. I would crash louder on the piano and begin bellowing Verdi or Mahler just to drown him out. When he sang at the college talent show and won grand prize, he accepted his trophy and looked knowingly right at me, sitting in the third row. I wanted to fall under my chair.

Then there was Jack, who was a pre-med student. He was tall, gangly, and bearded guy who had a nice singing voice. We sang together in the two choirs of which we were members. I think he had an interest in me because every time I walked over to the music department, he'd come trotting out of the dormitory and walk with me. Jack was a very likable person, and I enjoyed chatting with him. He was considerate, kind-hearted, and very intelligent. But he was utterly clueless when it came to women. His mother had handpicked a tall, slender blond girl out for him and rumor had it that he'd have hell to pay if he defied his mother in any particular. Yet for an entire school year he continued to follow me around like a puppy dog. Once, when he took me ice skating, I asked him if he had any interest in dating anyone and he looked at me for a long time before saying that he wasn't sure. That was followed up with a complete change of topic onto something stimulating like quantum physics or calculus. We had just gotten into his beaten up old Ford station wagon for him to drive me back to the dorm. I was so irritated that I jumped out of his car and slammed the door rather hard. Amazingly, all the windows dropped down into the car doors from the force of the door being slammed. I marched off in indignation whilst Jack scurried from door to door of his car, rolling up each window. Clearly, he wasn't going to work out.

My friends commented that they were having a difficult time getting dates with guys. The men on campus seemed to have their feet firmly planted in cement and their head in the clouds. I managed to go on a walk to an old cemetery near the college with an Italian guy who was the heart throb of many girls on campus (me, included). But he was a theology student and seemed to have his mind somewhere else than on me. He was always pronouncing his triple-barreled name with great penache and wondering aloud if it didn't sound worthy of a leader high up in church hierarchy. I just liked his Italian name.
There were two absolutely dashing Canadian guy and a quite debonnaire Englishman. But I was followed around by a little Chinese math student who came up to my armpit.

There was also this guy on campus who was as crazy as a junebug. He always wore white: a white suit, shoes, socks--the whole schmere. And he had religious delusions. He believed that since the Bible said that Jesus will address "the goats" on his left hand on the Day that he is to separate the sheep from the goats, that he was never to turn to the left. Therefore, you'd see this guy walking down the sidewalk toward the cafeteria, which was on his left. As he'd get closer to where the sidewalk went left, you'd see him take three fast right turns and end up going left in that roundabout way. It was a most arresting sight. He was tall, skinny, and had a severe expression on his very good-looking face. But who would want to get involved with someone like that?

Clearly, we had to do something. My friend, Trina, and I put our heads together one day and came up with a plan. We'd antagonize all the desirable men on campus, since we couldn't get their attention any other way. Trina was well known and wildly extroverted. I was visible because of my singing, but I came across as very serious and someone who kept to myself. No one knew what my handwriting looked like, and I'd be the last person they'd suspect to do anything like this. As Trina dictated, I wrote 20 identical notes to the most date-worthy men on campus, using the most suggestive and salacious language we could come up with at the time:

Dear _______,

I've been watching you for several weeks now and have come to admire you. Actually, I can't keep my eyes off you. You have a wonderful mind, good personality, and great body . The problem is that I'm very shy and I don't know how to speak with you. But I'm very interested in forming a relationship with you and I think about you all the time. I think you would be pleasantly surprised to know who I am. If you're interested to discover my identity, would you mind wearing a plaid shirt and sitting at one of the back two tables in the cafeteria on Thursday during lunch? Then I will know that my advances are welcome and I'll make myself known to you in the warmest way soon afterward.

Looking forward to an intimate liaison (I can't wait!)

Ivy

We dropped the notes into Campus Mail on Monday afternoon and waited, feeling as if on pins and needles. Thursday morning around 11:00, we went into the cafeteria with our books and sat at one of the front tables, spreading out everything as though we were working on a project together. And we waited. Pretty soon, here came John galloping into the cafeteria wearing a bright red plaid flannel shirt. He looked like he was going hunting, which was strange, since he was very GQ and was typically preppy in his dress taste. He got his food and went to the back of the cafeteria. We almost died. In came Tim, wearing a very subtle window pane plaid in beige and white. You'd have to look at him closely to know it was a plaid. I guess he was rather uncommitted to this whole thing. He also went to the back of the cafeteria and sat at the table behind John. We kept our heads down and wrote all sorts of gibberish on our papers, trying to look studious and involved in our work.

This went on for nearly an hour as the cafeteria filled up. There, at the back of the cafeteria, was a cadre of about 15 guys in plaid shirts of every type. They were conferring together about something serious, but occasionally laughing rather loudly--the way guys do who have been had and are embarassed. We got our food, ate, and wrapped up our "project" and left. They remained in the cafeteria.

The next day there was a letter to Ivy in the school newspaper, pointing out that Ivy was essentially a ditz brain because the author's letter had been left off at the dormitory. If Ivy had been watching him as much as she said she was, she'd know that he lived with his parents up on the hill above the college. He also complimented us on our clever idea and wondered why we had to resort to insulting 20 guys instead of using our feminine charms.

We snuck down to the newspaper office late at night and slipped a note under the door. It was printed in the next newspaper that came out. I have no recollection of what it said except that the men on campus wouldn't recognize a feminine charm if it landed in their laps. Of course, it was in my handwriting. But since no one in this crowd of guys had ever looked over my shoulder, no one ever knew it was me.

Pete once cornered Trina and told her that he knew that she was Ivy, but she just laughed and denied it (truthfully) telling him that it was not her.

No one ever found out that I did this or that I was behind it in any way. I didn't get the expected results, but I had a lot of laughs.

Just as I have with all these bad dates over the years. If you can't change the way things are, reframe the whole situation by finding the enjoyable, funny, or intriguing aspects of it to focus on. This continues to be a major cornerstone of my worldview.

Bad Dates I Have Had

Seeing my college friend's face yesterday reminded me of a fiasco that we experienced together, and it prompted me to consider writing about something I--as someone who didn't marry until I was 44--know a lot about: bad dates. So here is the first in a series of several unfortunate and surprising experiences.

Back in college, the cafeteria opened up every Saturday night for entertainment purposes. It suddenly became "Henry's Hideaway," named after our cook, Henry Livergood. Snacks were available for purchase and movies or concerts would take place there (it was on the lower level of the girl's dormitory back then). One Sunday morning, my friend, Myrna, told me she had met a local man from town down at Henry's Hideaway. His name was Andy and he was 29 years old. She glowed over the fact that he liked literature and plays and so did she. They'd had a great conversation and he asked if he could see her sometime. She agreed. So he met her a couple times down there and they had good conversations more than once.

So it was just a matter of time before he invited her out on a date. He invited her to the Boston Ballet's Nutcracker Suite in Symphony Hall on a December evening. But realizing that she didn't know him well enough to feel comfortable going off with him by herself, he bought an extra ticket for her to bring along a friend. She came straight to me and asked me to be the third wheel. It all seemed pretty odd to me, but I wanted to see the Boston Ballet, so I agreed to go.

We waited together in her room to be called down to the lobby. When finally the call from the front desk came, we trotted down the stairs to meet Andy. I was wearing a dress with a matching vest and boots (okay--it was the 70s!) and Myrna was wearing a dress with high heels. We tripped into the lobby and there he was.

He looked uncannily like the Son of Sam Killer (David Berkowitz), who had recently been terrorizing New York City. Andy had a flat, white, waxy looking face with little eyes and a receding hairline. I knew it wasn't the serial killer, but he looked so much like him that I was speechless. I shook his hand and numbly followed him and Myrna out to the car. It was a huge boat-like car with one broad seat across the front. Of course, Myrna scooted in beside him and I was next to the door, so all three of us were in the front seat.

I should have known immediately that I shouldn't go off with this guy. He was 29 years old going off with two 20-year olds. And he listened to NPR talk radio all the way into Boston--almost an hour. Myrna and he chatted along happily all the way there. Myrna was an excellent conversationalist and I struggled with people I didn't know. We got to Symphony Hall late and had to watch the end of the first part on a TV monitor in the foyer. When we were finally seated, I heard two men behind us give what was to me, a chilling synopsis of the ballet: "You know," one said, "People think that this is just a children's tale, but the Nutcracker has very sinister sexual overtones." I shuddered. Great. And here I am with this wierdo on whatever kind of date this is.

After the production ended, Andy announced that he had reservations for an Italian dinner for us. At 10:30 p.m.? Yes, and it is in the Redlight District. How he knew about this place was beyond us, but off we went into hookerville. The sights were amazing on the way to this little hole-in-the-wall establishment that he seemed to know quite well. We were seated at a table by the window that looked out into a street with a storefront selling rainbow afro wigs. "If you girls want to powder your noses, there is a powder room just up the stairs" he announced in a monotone voice. Considering that women hadn't powdered their noses as a matter of course for at least 100 years, Myrna and I went up the stairs. As we stepped into the privacy of the bathroom she turned on me. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed. "You're hardly saying anything and it's rude. Andy has been very gracious in paying for both of us to be here for a concert and dinner and you need to talk with him."

"Myrna, he looks like the Son of Sam Killer and I'm still so shocked that I can hardly speak! I know he's not, but we don't know this guy and I don't trust him. He could take us out in an alley and kill us. I don't feel good around him. That's why."
Myrna's mouth fell open. "He does look like David Berkowitz, doesn't he?"
"But I'll try to do better."
"Just try to be more conversational with him."
"Okay. I'll try."

We went back downstairs and ate dinner. Myrna fell silent then and hardly said a word. I could see that my comments to her had scared her, so I started chatting up Andy. He was the most boring man I'd ever met. I have an image of him stirring his coffee while telling me all about the aluminum alloys that he worked with and what he did--in tedious detail. All the while I smiled and nodded, trying to be gracious. Among other things he talked about, was the annual ski trip he took with his family every year. Did I ski? Would I like to learn this year? I didn't like the direction of this conversation, but what was I to do?
I kept smiling and nodding.

Dinner ended at around 11:30. Our curfew was midnight and we never got a late pass from the Dean. So we were to get in trouble. We told Andy that we'd need to get back to school right away. But he had other plans.

For whatever reason, he felt that a stroll through Quincy Market at midnight would be just what we needed after that heavy Italian meal. So the three of us got out of the car and walked around in the semi-darkness. As he reached to put his arm around Myrna and pull her nearer to walk next to him, she linked arms with me and shot me a desperate look. Andy's arm was around her but without knowing it, he had his hand on my elbow. All the affectionate squeezes and pats were on my arm, not hers. It was so strange to feel that I was protecting her in this way.
What I remember about this wierd midnight walk was that there was a man on the corner hawking paper products. He shouted out, "Wrapping paper, wax paper, toilet paper..." Good grief.

As we got into the car we thought, Okay--now we can go home. We reminded Andy that we were already in trouble because it was curfew time. But he thought it would be a good time to drive past Old North Church. Then past the place where the Mayflower was docked. We could see the mast in the darkness as we whizzed past at 20 miles per hour. Myrna was no longer sitting up against Andy in the car. She was pressed up against me, who was smashed against the car door. Neither one of us felt comfortable with this guy now, who was decidedly eccentric, and who knew what else.

But finally we were on the freeway, heading back to the college. We had given up trying to converse with him, but he kept up a monotone monologue about really boring things. We nodded or gave one syllable responses and that was all he needed to verbally idle.

Suddenly he got off the freeway and headed off into the middle of nowhere.
"Andy," Myrna nervously asked, "Where are we going?"
"Oh--I want to show you girls something."
It was 1:30 a.m. by then. There were no lights visible and we were in the country. There were no houses, only open fields and woods.
"Andy, it is very late and we need to get back to the dorm."
He snickered. Snickered! And kept on driving--slowly down a snowy, dark road into the woods. The car came to a stop at the edge of a field.
"I think this place will do" he muttered, turning off the car. Myrna wriggled closer to me, as if that was possible.
"Just a minute." And he got out of the car.
"Lock the doors!" Myrna hissed at me.
"He has the keys. What good will that do?"
Myrna was almost crying now. Andy had popped the trunk and was rummaging around for something in there. We heard him drag what sounded like a heavy chain across the floor.
"Pray!" we both said in unison, reaching for each other's hands. Surely this guy had brought us out here to the middle of nowhere to rape us, slash our throats, and leave us to freeze to death in our own blood by the side of the road. No one would find us for days. We clung together waiting to see what our foolhardy behavior in going out with this guy would reap.

"Should we run for it?" Myrna asked.
She had on high heels. We didn't know where we were, and the snow was at least a foot deep. We would be visible against the white fields of snow. Where would we run to?
"No," I advised. "We'll fight to the death if we need to. I have brothers and I'm not afraid to brain this guy if I need to."
"I have a brother, too" Myrna reminded me. "But if he has a gun, it makes no difference. What is he going to do with that chain?"
Andy slammed the trunk and was chuckling about something. It made the hair go up on my arms. He had a huge spotlight kind of flashlight that he was shining down into the snow as he walked into the ditch and up onto the other side, next to a tall wooden fence. He shined the flashlight into the field on the other side.
"Come here, girls. You'll want to see this" he beckoned.
We looked at one another. Should we go? There was something clueless but not sinister about his invitation. We may as well face the music.
We got out of the car and into the snow, into the ditch with its two-foot snow drift, and up on the other side next to Andy. Our feet were cold, wet, and Myrna's shoes were full of snow.
He beamed the spotlight down onto something on the other side. "Here, look at this!" he enthused.
We peered over the fence straight into the eye of an American Bison that was lying down and trying to sleep. It was in a field with about 50 other buffalo, all of whom were lying down but regarding us with great interest. Why in the world do we need to see this at 1:30 in the morning, in the snow? This guy is nuts.

We made some appreciative murmuring sounds and climbed back into the car. What a relief. We were still alive. We were just with a very strange man. Off we sped, Andy happily regaling us with more factoids about metal composites all the way back to campus. As we pulled up in front of the residence hall, he jumped out to come around and open my door.
"If that guy tries to kiss me I'll beat him into the ground" Myrna announced.
Oh my goodness, kiss her? As a third wheel on a date, what was I supposed to do at a time like this? Stand there and watch? Avert my eyes? Shake his hand? Give him a peck on the cheek? What? This was one time when doing the conventional thing won out over common sense that told us to run out of the car and into the dormitory.

Myrna is a very gracious person. She took his arm as we walked up to the dorm. I trailed behind. Think, think...
As we got to the top of the steps, I could see June the Dean, sitting on the couch facing the door. She was wringing her hands and looked very worried. Uh-oh--June is on duty. She is probably afraid that we're frozen to the snow somewhere. We thought she was such an overprotective, Victorian prude. Her eyes lit up as she saw us come to the door.
Myrna stepped back against the wall of the porch, out of June's line of vision. Andy leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
"Thank you, Andy, for a wonderful evening," I heard her say. I had averted my eyes and was pressing the doorbell, just to be doing something other than watch them.
Andy suddenly stepped toward me. "It was wonderful to meet you, Barbara. I hope I'll see you again," I heard him say, as if he were miles away. In slow motion, I saw him lean toward me and plant a kiss on my lips. I looked up from him right into June's disapproving face as she was opening the door for us. "Come in, girls" she was saying, as she eyed Andy suspiciously, his hands on my shoulders.
Yuck. And I'm the third wheel on this date. He didn't have to do that. Great--now he's taken a shine to me. I looked over at Myrna and she looked somewhere between ill and bemused. We stumbled into the dorm's foyer.
June started right in. "I want a full explanation of what happened and why you're so late, girls." We were laughing and groaning all at once.
"Oh please let us go to bed. We will tell you everything you want to know tomorrow morning, first thing." She agreed and we went off to my room where we reviewed the whole disastrous evening, with howls of laughter and shudders. We were up talking and laughing with relief until nearly 3:00 a.m.

Needless to say, we never went out with Andy again--not together, not singly.

When I see my stepdaughters going out on dates, I remember Andy and thank God that he was just a backward sort of person, not a menace. We were the lucky ones who got away, when I think of all the women who get duped into going out with ax murderers and serial killers. It could have been us.
Thank God...

Melancholy Musings

Today is my church's 80th anniversary. There is a huge commemoration service going on right now at the church, complete with the last four pastors making speeches, pipe organ "wows," brass quartet and mass choir. Everything has a celebratory flair to it. I know, because I watched it on the internet this morning, sitting up in bed in my pajamas.
Sam went over to the church today because he is a producer for the televised broadcast of the events. I fell back asleep after he left.

It seems that my body is telling me to stay still and do nothing for awhile. Indeed, I don't want to go anywhere, see anyone, do anything. There has been too much hoopla of late: Grampa living with us for three months; Stepdaughter #1 moving in with us; difficulties with Mother; a reminder that my family is more distant than I considered them to be. Now I just want to sit on my bed and look out the window at the snowy mountains. During the week I've been very busy putting up curtains, shelves and hooks in the garage, rearranging boxes of everyone's stuff in storage, raking leaves and putting them in the garden where they can turn to mulch. Given how much rain we've been getting, it won't take long for them to decompose. There is just so much to be done around the house, which has been really enjoyable. But I haven't even started putting together two of the three syllabi for my classes that start on January 5th, nor have I revised two articles that are due at the end of the month; nor signed Mother up for Medicare Plan D.

Yesterday, the Christmas tree came down and all the ornaments went into boxes and back out to the garage. It was the first time I've felt too old to do this kind of thing. I gloried in the "Bah-Humbug!" feeling that came along with it all and I made a silent vow not to bother with any of it next year. The ornaments and colors seemed to add sadness to some internal nagging I've had for several weeks now. I suppose it's because I miss my father, am tired of a demanding mother, am heartsick that none of my siblings called over the holidays, and now have an irritated stepchild in the Marshall Islands who doesn't think Sam and I have done enough for her from afar, especially over the holidays.

Last night I climbed into bed at 5:30 p.m. to read and surf the net until 9:30 or so. Sam joined me and read for awhile before he drifted off. It was as I was idly doing a search for college friends that I read that the sister of a very dear friend had died. Her husband wrote a heartbreaking tribute to her through the form of a CD (he is a musician). It moved me to tears and only added to my sense of internal discomfort. (I was so disturbed that I even dreamed about her last night). My friend appears to still be teaching at a Christian high school, leading out in her community and church in very significant and meaningful ways. I was very proud of her and delighted to see a picture of her. We had such fun times in college and I wish I could see her again. I think I'll call her on Monday.

Then I wondered if I could find anyone else from college. Yes--I found three of the intelligencia of our college--one of whom wondered aloud why I, "an intelligent girl," he called me, was studying nursing instead of something "more intellectually stimulating." I could have beaned him and asked him if he'd like to have a dumb nurse or an intelligent nurse to take care of him, should he ever be hospitalized. He was mute with a superior air in response to my question. As I looked at the pictures of how these guys look now, I was surprised at how they have changed. But more than that, it was apparent that for all the outward intellectualism of this group of guys, the most vocal one does not appear to be doing a great deal with himself.

This reminded me of the work of Terman in the 1950s. He studied young men whose IQ was 140 and higher to see what had become of them. The prevailing idea at the time was that the higher the IQ, the more successful the individual would be. He was surprised to see that this was not at all the case. It seemed to tie in to Daniel Goleman's idea that success has more to do with emotional intelligence (EQ) that intellectual intelligence. I believe it, thinking back on the college acquaintance who, as my British friend would say, "Fancies his lemon drops!" I wondered though, after looking intently at his face, if he has found joy in life, and if life has become what he had hoped it would be. Life takes all of us in such different directions. Some of us are early bloomers and some people--like me--are very late bloomers. But there's no way to know this when you're a college student. There is no way to know that for us late bloomers, life will have much more than we ever dreamed it could hold for us, and that the ignominy of being the class nerd or oddball, will no longer hang over our heads. And some who were the cool ones, fizzle out or live their very mundane lives, or marry someone with a terminal illness lurking inside of their body. For many of us, grace has worked its miracle in our lives so that some of the hardness and exactitude that marked our younger lives is softened. We have found that we are not that much different from the next Joe, only our circumstances have prevented us from being in their shoes. There is just no way to know what has happened in my friend's lives. As I looked at my classmates, I wished so much that there was a way to see them and to ask them about where life has taken them and what they have learned along the way.

And so life moves on. I've not felt this low in many years. It has been a very hard season and I'm exhausted for many reasons. So it is a good day to stay in my nightclothes and watch the two hawks slowly circling over the nearby golf course. Some sleep, some talking with Sam, a nice lunch, a good walk in the bracing air and sunshine, a lazy afternoon--these will be the antidote I need. I miss my friends here and abroad; I miss my father; I miss my easier, sunny college days; and I miss having what felt like an intact family.

As I was writing this, my cell phone rang. It was Stepdaughter #1 who excitedly told me that she just found out that she passed her nursing boards. Congratulations! What a wonderful step for her. But even nicer, how wonderful that she would call me to tell me. Me, the stepmother. Maybe there are good things on the horizon in that arena.

So life goes on with its ebb and flow of ups and downs. I am grateful for what I have and delighted for how life is moving forward. I will join the forward flow tomorrow and see where it takes me.

Merry Christmas!

It was a quiet Christmas day for us. Mother, Sam, and I sat down to a turkey dinner with cranberry jelly, garlic mashed potatoes, portabello-zucchini fricasse, and brussel sprouts. There was fresh home made persimmon pudding with Brandy sauce for desert. It was yummy.
Mother and I watched a couple Laurel and Hardy videos, laughed our heads off, and then chatted for awhile. It was raining cats and dogs when I drove her back to her apartment. She was laughing and happy, delighted to have been with us. That was a wonderful Christmas present, right there.

When one takes the time to think about life in this world, it doesn't take long to eliminate all the things that don't really matter in the larger scheme: Christmas presents, notoriety, wealth, the latest countertops in the kitchen. These are lovely things, but you can't take any of it with you when it's time to die. But to have a spouse who love me, a Mother who is happy, a warm and inviting home where people love to come be with me--these are wonderful. A peaceful heart, warmth and understanding with Sam, having done all to be at peace with my family members, contentment because of the work I do--these have been wonderful gifts that I paused to thank God for this day.

So on the day that we celebrate the miracle of God With Us, may you also pause to consider all that you have that really matters, and give thanks to God for these things.

Traumatized

Found here

Work with traumatized individuals can traumatize the therapist, too. Hearing about blood, gore, loss of safety, life threatening experiences, witnessing hideous sights that play and replay in the mind--all of these are the stuff of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

I can't talk about my clients or say anything that would give away their identities. But I can tell you about my response to what I see and hear over the weeks and months that I work with my them. In the beginning of my work with a new client who has been traumatized, I typically have secondary traumatization symptoms for a day or two. There are unwanted dreams, preoccupation with what was heard in session, and a lull in my mood. I tend to want to be left alone and not talk to anyone until I can work it through in my mind and separate their story from my personal story which doesn't include the threats to safety that they have had.

So today I heard a story of incredible bravery in the face of danger. Heroic acts were performed that most of us wouldn't even think of. Lives were saved and death averted. But it emotionally disabled the heroes. They are afraid to burden their families with the horror of their story, so they come talk to me about it every week. I know the course of treated PTSD: initial exhiliration that they have survived (several weeks) followed by awareness of fear and vulnerability (few weeks), followed by major symptoms and relational difficulties due to intrusive flashbacks, nightmares, panic, dissociation, etc. If they are faithful in working it through--which is a daunting and frightening experience for many traumatized people--the symptoms will start to fall away after about nine months and they will be functional without crippling fears or memories. My client is just getting to the major symptom manifestation stage and is particularly anxious.

Most of the time in therapy I'm listening for exceptions to the hopelessness, pain, vulnerability, and negative symptoms so I'm focusing on something other than the sensational details they spill out. I think of what I'm hearing as a piece of a larger puzzle, and I'm thinking about what needs to happen so clients can think about their trauma in a less pathologizing way and move on with their lives after they work it through. Maybe I'm listening to the way they are expressing themselves: what isn't said or acknowledged? What is the focal point of their comments? How does this tie in with their interpretation of their value as a person? Where are the entry points to the story where new interpretations can be explored?

But there are times when the rawness of the story takes me by surprise and I carry it away on the inside of my soul. Today was such a day. It was a session that left me feeling as though I needed to come home and soak in a hot tub until I was like a piece of warm taffy. All these little bits of trauma, sadness, and pain that I pick up in therapy have to go somewhere. Since my worldview is that awful things do happen to good people, and that it's not safe here and that good-hearted people are placed in untenable situations, then I'm typically not shocked by hearing too much. But alas, I am human, too. My clients' panic as they explored another facet to their story, the horrifying experience that was endured, and the way they were reduced to survival behaviors--all of this impacted me more than usual. Perhaps I wasn't emotionally prepared for our session today. I noticed that as they spoke, I was struggling to step back and see the forest rather than the leaves on the trees, and I wasn't fully successful. A good night's sleep will rearrange all the facts, impressions, and story fragments in my head so that the stories of my clients will become part of the story of my life without eclipsing the future. I am grateful that I will wake up feeling considerably better and more clear-headed. They will wake up frightened, disoriented, and struggling to recognize that they are living now, December 22, 2008--not back when their trauma occurred.

God bless all these good folks.

I received an email from my cousin last week, who lives in Fitchburg Massachusetts. This came after the terrible snow storm that swept through and knocked out all the utilities and shut down almost the entire city. Here are parts of my cousin's letter:

Just an update as to our lives these days. Last Thursday at 8:30pm the power went out due to an ice storm we were having, and it continues to be out until MAYBE this coming Friday -- the electric company isn't sure. It depends on two snow storms that are about to hit us. One storm is coming in this Friday and dropping 6+ inches of snow, the other one is coming next Monday and they are calling it a severe Nor'easter. Currently, since last Thursday, we have no power, no heat, and EVERYTHING in both freezers and both refrigerators is gone. I had a bag of blueberries in the fridge downstairs that I was going to use for a blueberry cobbler, but they ended up fermenting and exploded in the fridge, so I'll have to clean that mess up. We have an ice chest that we keep bags of ice in, our milk, soda, or bottles of water. It was 28 degrees inside the house, and 10 degrees outside. Everything had an inch or more of ice on it, and when the worst hit last Friday night, you could hear the snap of branches or trees for miles around as they broke off or fell over and hit other things. It was also like the 4th of July as we watched the electric transformers at the bottom of our hill explode. Thank goodness for the fireplace which is certainly getting a work-out. We're just about out of seasoned wood from our pile under the deck, so we've been cutting up the limbs outside and trying to mix the green wood with the seasoned wood. So far so good. We borrowed [our children's] camp stove so we could heat water to at least take a "spit" bath and wash our hair. Our campstove made a lovely home for a bunch of field mice, and we had to throw it out.There are no generators to be had in the whole state. If you want to travel to Connecticut you could get one. Rhode Island is out, as well as New Hampshire. There are NO "D" batteries to be had anywhere -- grocery stores, hardware stores. We wanted to at least listen to our radio, but that didn't happen. I got the last 2 bags of ice that Hannaford's grocery store had. All cold lunch meats, yogurts, butter, etc. have been removed from the shelves in all stores. Our large cherry tree in the front yard was toppled over because of the heaviness of the ice. Our big arborvite (sp) at the corner of the house cracked and fell over. Our maple tree at the front of the driveway split in half and broke. Big branches in the back yard cracked and fell pulling down my clothes line. All the Chinese hedge trees we had across the side of our yard have broken so they will have to come up in the spring. Three of them have fallen on top of my lilac bushes. Massachusetts, NH, and Maine have been declared disaster areas. We have utility trucks from as far away as Tennessee, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and we also have the National Guard helping to clear away the debris. We have been able to go to work every day by carefully maneuvering down the hill and under wires that are hanging down. It looks like a war zone. There's about 250,000 people still without power. And now another 2 storms loom on the horizon. [We] have been going out to breakfast and meeting for supper every night. It's fun, in that I don't have to do dishes or clean the kitchen, but it's getting expensive... Anyways, we're OK. The dogs are OK, but I'm so very tired of the cold, and it's really starting to get to me. We keep telling ourselves that we're not alone in this disaster. We've been taking our cell phones out to the vehicles every night and plugging them into the charger - mine in the car, his in the truck - so they'll be ready to go the next day because we have no phone service.Oh well, this is life in the Northeast!! Just wanted you to know we're hanging in there.

When I spoke to my cousin this morning, she was standing in a foot of new snow and expected to get another 12-18 inches today. They have obtained a generator and now have heat in part of the house. She was able to have her first shower in 10 days, which was wonderful, as you can imagine!

I remember this kind of weather from when we lived back East. There was an awful winter storm in the early 70s that snowed us in completely. There were snow drifts up over the edge of the roof on our two-story house. We had to shovel a path through six foot snow just to get to the chicken house to feed our hens and collect the eggs. The dog used to run out onto the back porch and bound out into the snow, completely disappearing. My father and brother walked four miles into town to buy groceries one morning, and brought them back in a backpack in the afternoon. It was a freezing, blowing snow. When I think of the bravery of my father, I wonder how many of us would do that for our families nowadays.

It all is part of the New England soul--surviving extreme cold and snow, being prepared to be without food, water, and electricity, and still loving it because it's one of the most beautiful places on earth. I wish I were there.

Just not this week.

Bon Voyage, Dad!

Sam's father flew back home today after being with us for over three months for medical treatment here in Southern California. He has done very well here and has had a wonderful time reuniting with old friends from his younger years. He even got to meet his great-granddaughter, who, as you can see, only has eyes for him.

So we were up at 5:00 and out the door at 6:00 to get Dad to the airport. He cried as he said a departing prayer for us. He will miss being with us more than he can say. He truly felt at home here, and he was very easy to have in the house. I became the daughter to him that he never had, and as such, treated him with old world Puerto Rican respect and care: putting breakfast out for him, serving him meals while he patiently sat at the table waiting, laundered his clothes, changed his linens, and suggested matching tie and shirt combinations when he was dressing for church. I even gave him a haircut and a trim. I loved cooking for him and serving up good meals to him (he gained 11 lbs here!) We sang duets out of a Spanish songbook, him with a tolerant smile and determined glint in his eye, leaning back to belt out the high notes. It warmed my heart to be able to be with him, as I miss having my own father immensely.

We will miss hearing him sing "Besame, besame mucho" while he is shaving. I will miss picking him up at the hospital and darting off to a restaurant for lunch, him grinning mischieveously as though we were doing something forbidden and great fun. Perhaps it was that Sam wasn't with us and we got to do these things without him.

Sam loved to walk into church with Dad taking huge steps to keep up with him. Sam glowed in a way that I have not seen him glow before--the love for his father and his delight to be in his company. It was lovely, warm, and endearing to see them talking together about old times.

Dad loved it when I linked arms with him and walked along with him, talking close into his ear. It amused us both that people who had never met Sam thought that I was married to Dad when they saw us together. Good heavens! I tower above him, and he's a mere 34 years older than I am! We had many laughs about this.

He did well with his treatments, and went home looking considerably more happy and comfortable than when he came. His energy level is wonderful and his face shines. We are very grateful.

Dad missed my mother-in-law terribly. Although they spoke on the phone a minimum of twice each day, they did not see one another for over three months. Their anniversary was just yesterday and he sent Mom flowers. She sent him a beautiful, touching card. They will be celebrating their years together today, but also the fact that they can be together. We are waiting for him to call us to give us word that he has arrived safely. Perhaps after he and mom have a good smooch, he'll remember to call us.

In the meantime, his smiling face and stacatto accent are imprinted in our hearts. It was a delight and a treat to have him.