Chap. 19: Our Life Has Its Patterns, But

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Our Life Builds Its Patterns
But, Once in a While…


Linda never had a problem getting a great looking tan every year, and the spring of 1972 was no exception. The fact that she had a slightly darker complexion to begin with only made it that much easier. That spring she started working on it the second or third week in April, from the first day dad had the pool open for the summer, just as she did each and every year since before we’d met.
Sometime in mid July, she and I went to a local restaurant to enjoy their dinner buffet as we’d done only once or twice before. Our budget was just tight enough that we considered eating out something of a mild luxury, and we tended to save those opportunities for days when it was obvious that Linda was not feeling up to the task of cooking, like the day immediately after a seizure, for example.
This particular evening, Linda wore a white, sleeveless summer dress that definitely flattered her figure as well as presenting an attractive looking contrast to her now obviously dark tan.
Quietly talking about a variety of things as we went through the buffet line, we approached the carving station. “Roast beef, please,” I said politely to the young black man with the carving knife in his hand. He gave me two good-sized slices and I moved my tray down the line a few inches.
“Roast beef for me, too,” Linda said to him. As we watched, he proceeded to give her three generous slices of the same.
We looked at each other, and we could tell that we were both wondering why he had given her the extra slice. To try to confirm one of our suspicions, we looked on as the woman in line behind Linda was given two slices, as I had been, and not three.
When we got to our table, we immediately began talking it, and could come up with only two related possibilities. First, he thought she was black. The contrast between her skin color and that bright, white dress easily could make her look as if she was. And second, he was interested in her, especially if he thought she was black.
We hadn’t been standing right next to each other at the carving station, so we figured there was a reasonable possibility that he thought she was by herself, which made the second possibility above a reasonable idea.
That was the only time we went to that buffet that we saw him at the carving station, but we never forgot the event. We talked about it many times after that, and every time we both ended up smiling when we thought of the possibilities that evening could have brought about. In a way, we wished we could have found out what that young man’s thoughts were as he gave Linda that extra slice. But at the same time, we never tired of considering what might well have happened had things worked out a little differently.

The fall of 1972 brought a new dimension to our lives. We now had enough cash for me to resume college. So, in September of that year I began my first term at U.C.'s downtown branch, majoring in their 2-year Associate Degree program in "Business Data Processing". The program coordinator, Mr. Compton, had worked out a curriculum for me so I could take the two-year course over a three-year period, to allow time between classes for homework, since nights were spent on the job.
It was an exhilarating feeling to be back in a classroom, doing homework, spending time with new friends and building friendships. I didn't feel the age difference I thought I would. It didn't seem to bother me that I was 3-4 years older than the other students. And, as you might expect, a typical male reaction made itself evident. Most of the girls in my class were not bad looking. Pretty attractive as a matter of fact.
With my prior and current on-the-job experience now spanning about 6 years total, it was not long before other students asked my assistance with questions and problems. So, when the D.P. Department manager, Mr. Hugo J. Hamberger (yes, you read it right... just don't spell it like the meat… he doesn't like that) found the co-op job of his assistant vacant, and asked me if I would be interested, I jumped at the opportunity. I wanted to see how I could handle a job of basic responsibility for an operations area, and the money the job paid would help offset my tuition cost.
As the second term began in January, 1973, I really earned that paycheck. The school had obtained final approval to replace its outdated self-contained second generation computer with a top-of-the-line "small business" terminal, connected via telephone to the main campus computer. And I had the job of implementing the changeover - everything from "getting the bugs out" to teaching the students how to use the thing. By the end of that term, things were running very smoothly, and I was having a ball.
As that second term drew to a close in March, the strain of so much time apart from each other began to take its toll on the home front. But only gradually. We tended to snap at each other over more "trivial" issues than before, and yet our intimate relationship grew as well. Looking back, maybe we knew that was one thing we'd always have no matter how tough everything else became. So, as the arguments continued to grow, so did our involvement with her fantasies.
Beginning with the third term at school, I relinquished the assistant manager's position to a fellow student, Evelyn Layman, another of our class' star pupils. She loved the job as much as I did, and needed the money more. With the "bugs" almost all worked out of the new terminal, the job was a "breeze" for a "rookie". Occasionally during those summer terms, Linda would meet me at noon, and we'd have lunch together, usually at Frisch's or B/G. Then she'd walk to school with me, I'd kiss her goodbye, and take off for class.
Sometimes we had a few minutes to spare, so we'd sit and talk in the lobby until time for class. On one such occasion, she had the opportunity to meet Evelyn. The two of them not only hit it off right away, but found a solid bond in the fact that Evelyn was a member of our local chapter of the Order of the Eastern Star, the adult version of the Job's Daughters group Linda had left, for me, in 1967. Linda's interest in the organization immediately came to life.

1973 also brought with it more changes in our lifestyle. One afternoon in June, I had just arrived for my shift when the Operations Manager, Cliff Geers, called me into his office. Typically, as I sat down opposite him, I was thinking, "Oh, shit! Pink slip time! But...what did I do?"
"Jim, I have a feeling that this won't take very long."
“He's smiling!” I thought nervously. Now I was just a touch confused. “I think I'm wrong about the pink slip, but what the...?”
"You said sometime ago that your ultimate goal was programming. Do you still feel that way?"
"Yes... sir." My mind was racing with thoughts like… you mean that’s what this is all about?” Or “That’s where I'm going?"
"Well, Dale has a spot on his staff for a trainee. He and I have been talking things over this week and looking at possible people. The job is yours if you want it."
"J...just like that?"
"Just like that. How about it? Do you want to think it over?"
I wasn't giving him a chance to change his mind. "No, Cliff, I don't have to think any-thing over. I'll take it." "I must look silly right now," I felt myself thinking.
"I thought so." He smiled again. "See? I said this wouldn't take long." We laughed to-gether. "Is your college term over?"
"Yes, it is. We finished last week."
"In that case you report to Dale on Monday morning at 8:00."
We shook hands. I was making the move without a raise, but I didn't care. I was doing what I wanted to do. I left his office, and joined my partner in the Computer Room. Our shift had started 15 minutes ago. But, in a funloving sense, I somehow didn't feel that sorry for sticking him with 15 minutes solo work. Not this time. Within five minutes, I'd blurted it out. Only not quite the usual way.
"Well, Don, it's been great working with you."
"You... uh.... leaving?"
I let him stew a minute. I couldn't help myself. Then I just had to finish. "Well, you might say that... I start working for Dale Monday morning."
"Hey, congratulations, Jim!" Now that the heat was off, he relaxed quite a bit. "And I gotta admit, it's been pretty great working with you, too. Now, at least, we'll have somebody in Systems that understands our point of view."
AMEN!" we yelled together, then went to work.
Linda was really happy about it: “Hey, TERRIFIC! Uh... now you'll have to go to school at night, right?" She was hesitant here.
"Yeah, but that can only be a couple nights a week. It'll take a little longer, but now we'll have more time together."
"Yeah, sorry I've been such a pain. But...well..."
"I know, honey. You've wanted me off night shifts ever since American Book Com-pany."
"Uh-huh. Thanks for putting up with me."
"Thanks for being so patient and waiting for me to find the spot I wanted."
"Deal."
We sealed that one with a kiss.

Two weeks have gone by. The job at Shillito’s was going great. As well as doing their in-house work in Assembler language, I was now responsible for maintaining their copy of the FASHION reporting system that Federated provided to all divisions. That was written in COBOL, which was OK, but being responsible for it meant that I had to have copies of everything related to that system kept at home as well as at work. Those fashion reports had to be on the buyers’ desks by 8:00 AM each weekday morning “come hell or high water” as the old saying goes. That meant if something blew up during the nightly run, I got the call. Midnight, 2:00 AM, you name it. I got the call. It sometimes took a minute or two to get the cobwebs out of the noggin after picking up the phone, too. But, I enjoyed the job, I was learning programming and adding to my experience for the future, so I wasn’t going to complain. Had to learn to take the “bad” with the good if I wanted to do the best job.
By then I’d also gotten to feel real comfortable at the office. I liked the small, personal atmosphere our Systems and Programming Department had to it. The Department’s title made the place sound bigger than it really was. In reality there were only six of us:
Dale Adkins, Manager
Sylvia Roth, Senior Analyst
Jim Perry, Programmer / Analyst
Mike Klaene, Programmer / Analyst
Mike Ryan, Programmer
… and me.

Our work areas were actual offices, not cubes like we have today. Walls went floor to ceiling and we all had doors. Communication was easy. Sometimes too easy. Our offices were lined up like cubes, 3 of us on each side of a central “aisle”, with our documentation area across the back at the far end of that aisle and spanning the width of the entire area.
This arrangement is what made communication easy, and at times, fun. We could ask each other questions without leaving our office: “Hey Sylvia, do you have a copy of the layout for the ticket stub file?” “No, Jim, it’s been updated. You’ll have to get it from the book.” On one particular day, Dale had made the “fatal” mistake of saying, during one of our more lighthearted punch-line-tossing inter-office conversations that he tended to answer to “almost anything”. As soon as he said that, the challenge started:
Mike Klaene: “Hey, you?”
Dale: “What?”
Sylvia: “Hey, boss?”
Dale: “That’s me!”
Jim Perry: “Hey Shithead!”
Dale: “ALMOST anything!”

As you may have noticed above, Jim Perry was our office version of the “Class Clown.” That would, in a fun loving way, catch up to him later in the year.

In September of that year, we'd finally had it with the Chrysler. It hadn’t taken long to notice it was an oil burner. I’d even gotten pulled over on Columbia Parkway on my way to work one afternoon and given a ticket for air pollution! Then again, it was a Chrysler, which back then meant automatic reliability, and ours had proven it had that. I’d taken it in for a tune-up a few months earlier as it had just started running a little rough. Zip called from Ernie’s gas station the next day and told Linda it was ready.
When I picked it up that afternoon, Zip said, “Jim, I want to ask you a question.” He held out his hand. In it were two spark plugs that were totally shot. Nothing left on the tips at all. “How the hell did you drive that thing in here?” he asked, laughing.
“How many of them were like that?” I asked, staring at them.
“All 8 of them,” he said.
“Beats me, Zip,” I said. “I’m just glad I was able to.” Inside, I thought simply, “Praise the Lord!”
But the maintenance was still not worth it. So, out it went. It was replaced with a 1971 Pontiac Granville, the closest thing to a new luxury car we would ever own. Full power except the seats. Beautiful dark green with matching vinyl top. And only 31,000 miles on it. Price? $2800. A bargain. Then again, we had a gas shortage on. And the big cars were going dirt cheap. I liked them for protection in an accident. Obviously, it was an automatic. But any car we bought would have been, and not because of our experience with the Chevy. We decided stick shifts made it difficult to handle any romantic inclinations. Both hands were tied up. And we liked to snuggle a little as we drove. Especially in winter. And at night.

The office Christmas Party was held on Wednesday night, December 22nd . I don’t remember where it was held now, but everyone had a really good time and we had a chance to get to know each other and the families quite well.
Thursday morning, though, we had an unexpected situation come from that party. When I walked into the area that morning, I saw a hand-written sign hanging over the doorway of Jim Perry’s office. It was written on the back of an 80-column key punch card. Walking down to take a closer look, I read:

OFFICE OF THE DEPARTMENT DRUNK
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

Needless to say, Jim was moving rather slowly that morning, and even Dale couldn’t resist gently razzing him about overdoing it the night before. I’d wondered why they didn’t do it on the preceding Friday, for things just like that. But I never did get around to asking about that. Oh, well…

The year ended with little fanfare in our life, but, the seizures were still making their presence known. One night we were standing in the living room, near the middle of that room, both of us intending to sit down for a nice quiet evening. The seizure hit while she was still on her feet. After our five years of marriage I’d become thoroughly comfortable where dealing with her seizures was con-cerned. I put both arms out as if to embrace her but kept them about 8-12 inches away from her rapidly moving body so I didn’t interfere in any way with the seizure itself. Those five years had more than proven to me, first hand, what she had meant from the night she first told me about it being easier on her to just let her go through it. Any attempt to restrain her would simply put her in a position of going through massively powerful isometric exercises since her muscles would still contract. The end result would have meant sore muscles for days if not a sprain or two. In this latest instance, as always, she was stiff as a board, arms at her sides, like all the others. Difference this time was that since she was standing up when it hit, her legs couldn’t go back and forth as they would if she were on her back. With her weight on them they simply gave her body the appearance of being hit by a jolt of electricity. That kind of rapid, jerky motion.
I kept my arms in place because I had plans for when she stopped moving. I just didn’t know which way she would fall when the motion stopped. 30-45 seconds later, she stopped the physical part of the seizure. As soon as I saw her start to lean backwards, I said lovingly, “Nope, wrong direction, sweetheart,” and gave her a gentle but firm push on her left side, just below the shoulder. That sent her right over into the center of the couch. I followed her over there, and as her upper body bounced off the back of the couch I caught her so she wouldn’t fall on the floor, laid her down on the couch, then reached down, picked up her feet and placed her legs straight out so she was laying in a normal position on the couch as if she was taking a snooze.
They weren’t totally predictable, though she did tell me on occasion that there were somewhat rare times when she was able to feel one coming on and just didn’t have enough time from that first inkling to do something about how she was positioned before it hit. We always hoped each new year would mean fewer seizures, and some did. But with her having that emotional tension trigger for them we never knew for sure what each year would bring.

1974 was upon us, and brought the next two big changes in our lives.
Linda had petitioned for membership in the Eastern Star chapter in January. In February, the investigating committee stopped by our apartment and received answers to the necessary questions.
At the first meeting in March, Linda's petition was approved. At the second of their two meet-ings that month, on Thursday, March 21, 1974, Linda became a member of Ida Chapter, #416, Order of the Eastern Star.

Also that March, one gentleman I had numerous busride conversations with suggested I put in an application for employment with the company he worked for. I always liked to keep up on opportu-nities, salaries, etc., so I placed an application with them, primarily for informational purposes. The end result of that effort and an interview was an offer of $2000/yr. above my current salary. The job sounded good, and the money would help with the bills. So, before March was over, I began work as a programmer for a local bank. (Central Trust, now PNC – JAW 8/31/99)
However, it did not take long to discover the reason for the salary hike. I had been hired as part of a four-person team to convert the shop from an older form of mainframe operating system (DOS) to a newer one (MVS). Within 6 weeks the job had become one of 10-12 hour days, 6 or 7 days a week. I knew I wasn't the only one, but that didn't make it any easier to take. All work and no play. That sort of thing. I was irritable. Always short tempered. At Linda, my parents, everybody.
This went on for nearly six months. Then, like all volcanos, it erupted. Four of us (two couples) had box seat tickets to a Reds game one Sunday in August. I was working, but figured I'd be done early enough. When Linda called, I told her to meet me in the lobby of my building about 2:00 p.m. with the others, and we'd walk to the Stadium.

At 2:00 I was still working. Last minute change in work plans.
"Shit!" I said under my breath as I headed for the lobby. "Decision time."
I explained the situation to Linda.
I know what I'd like to do," I continued. "We haven't done hardly anything together since I started this damn job!"
"Well? she questioned.
“This wasn’t the decision I'd originally had in mind," I thought to myself. But something had to give. And I didn't want it to be us. I put my arms around her neck, 'cos I knew this wouldn't be what she was expecting either. "How do you feel about unemployment?" I asked, very honestly concerned, but with a touch of sarcasm where the boss was concerned.
"It scares me," she admitted. Then, still looking me straight in the eye, she finished, “but not half as much as what this whole thing is doing to us."
That was all I needed. I felt the same way. Family comes first. "Hell with it,” I said. "Let me get my coat and we'll get out." I kissed her.
The boss had left about 15 minutes before. So I didn't have to worry about running into him until tomorrow. Shortly thereafter, the four of us were on our way to the game.
The likelihood about what would happen tomorrow really bothered me. I didn't relax until around the seventh inning. Then, not totally, but 95% was better than zero. A hell of a lot better. The thing is, I was so uptight for most of the game, I don't even remember the outcome.
Monday morning. 10:00 a.m. The boss called me into his office.
"Jim, we have a problem. You haven't been keeping up with the schedules."
I said nothing. I'd tried more than once before to show how impossible their timetable was. They wanted to convert everything in the shop in 18 months; and with the number of applications they had running that was not about to happen. They didn’t lease their mainframes like many companies, they owned them. And they ran 7 days a week. With that amount of stuff to convert, an 18-month timeframe was a pipe dream.
"And then there's this thing yesterday. I understand you left here, work incomplete, and went to a baseball game."
Linda and I figured it was coming. So we were prepared as a family. And by then I was so sick of the place I had no trouble with honesty. "Yes, sir," I replied.
"Well, under the circumstances, we have no choice. Do you want to quit, or do we fire you?"
"If I'm right, if I quit I'm not eligible for unemployment."
"Would you like me to check on that for you?"
"If you would, please."
At 2:00 that afternoon, Ken called me on the phone.
"Jim, you were right. If you quit, no unemployment."
"So fire me."
When I walked into the apartment at 3:30 that afternoon, Linda immediately knew why I was early. She finally broke down and cried. Mostly out of fear for our immediate future, I think. And maybe a good bit of relief at the end to all the tension. The decision to be fired (officially) turned out to be one of the best I ever made(?!) I was out of work for 7 weeks. But, between the severance pay and unemployment, we kept the rent paid and food on the table.
Praise the Lord! Before September was out, I'd found work. At a job that was beautiful. A nationally known chemical firm, Emery Chemical, headquartered here in Cincinnati. Salary increase, little or no overtime. And still downtown, yet!!

(I was to learn, about a year and a half later, in other busride conversations that the "impossible timetable" I'd had to deal with had never been met at all. Their originally projected timetable of 18 months had stretched to well over 2 years. The remaining 3 team members had all quit and returned to their old jobs. And the guy I knew on the bus, where it all started? He was a veteran of about 15 years with the bank. And he quit, too! Looks like I really started something back there).

Linda’s love for the Reds, and her zeal for baseball itself, really came out in the spring of 1975. Since she wasn’t on a team, I have no idea, now, how she “wangled” the invitation, but one Saturday in May, she attended the 1975 Spring Baseball Clinic at Riverfront Stadium. Needless to say, she had more fun that day than even she could have thought possible. Batting practice, pointers in fielding and running, the whole “ball game”, so to speak. Rubbing elbows with all the players she’d followed for what seemed like ages, and had dreamed of playing alongside for just as long a time, was the best part of that day for her. And talking one-on-one with her hero, Johnny Bench just topped the whole day off.
I’ve commented before in these pages about her avid love for baseball, and the Reds in particu-lar, and also how she often dreamt or fantasized about traveling with the team, or even playing on the team. Following are some of the letters she wrote during some of those moments. Note that these were written well AFTER we were married:

August 4, 1972

Dear Mom, Dad and Everyone,
Hi there! How’re things with you there in Cincy? Fine, I hope. Hey, did you listen to the game yesterday? Cork is some hitter! Two grand slammers! I only had one. Oh, well. I guess you can’t win ‘em all even though I did. Ha! Ha!
Nux says he wishes he had been able to pitch like I do. He says that if he could have he would have won 100 in one sea-son because they would have used him more often. Johnnie says that I shouldn’t throw so hard because I’m liable to hurt my arm. The thing is, I really don’t throw hard.
I can imagine what Nux sounded like in the 7th when Cork made that fantastic play to let me keep my no-hitter. As I told her after the game, I’m grateful.
I hear that it’s raining in Cincy. You should see it here. The sun is so beautiful and the sky is so blue. We’ve been having temperatures from the upper 80’s to the mid 90’s. Too bad you can’t use that big hole in the ground out back after it cost so much!
Sparky is standing over me like my good father would and is trying to convince me that I should be serious. I’ve just been accused of going swimming. Sparky says he saw me out in the pool here yesterday, but I wasn’t anywhere near it. What’s a girl to do?
I bet the water is cold as ice there. Well, if it is,
it’s a good thing Cork and I can’t swim without Sparky’s per-mission. I hope you two are having fun do[ing] all sorts of crazy things. We miss you.
I’ve been told that we, Cork and me, are going to get a chance to appear on a show here. I’m thcared.
We did it again!!!!! We won both games 6-5 and 3-2. Bobby did it by hitting his sixth homer to tie it in the first game. It made us all leap up off the bench. We hadn’t thought we had a chance in that one since we were trailing 5-4. Wow!!! What a thrill.
Bobby made a great catch in one inning and I think that was a turning point in the game. He really was the star tonight.
I finally had a chance to rest in the second game. You know that since I took Johnnie’s place I really haven’t had one night’s rest. Well I finally got the chance, and Sparky didn’t call on me to pinch-hit either. Whew!!!
Well, I guess I had better say good-bye for now. See you soon.
Love,
Lin (Johnnie Bench)


Then, there was this letter, written earlier, when fantasy got mixed with a little reality:

December 9, 1971
Mr. Bob Howsam
Cincinnati Reds, Inc.
Riverfront Stadium
Cincinnati, Ohio 45201

Dear Mr. Howsam,
I realize that you will probably discard this letter without even looking at it. If you should open it you will toss it out as soon as you read what my request is. Perhaps I should write the Players Asso-ciation instead. Oh, well. Here goes nothing.
This probably doesn’t seem so strange. I would like to have a chance to try out for the Cincinnati Reds who have been first with me ever since I can remember. Now for the hard part. My name is Linda Lee Hart. I will be 23 years old on March 18. I am a very recent widow as my husband was killed in an auto accident on November 31. He was 23. Hart is my maiden name. I feel I can be freer about my newly acquired single life if I use it instead of my married name of Williamson, not that I didn’t love my husband because I did. Oh, well. If I were to take my case to the Players Association they might help me to acquire a position on a ball team. By the way, I am not, nor have I ever been or will I ever be a member of Women’s Lib. I can’t stand what they stand for. I’m actually just writing this just to get a few things off my chest. I’ve always wanted to play ball but I’ve always been too afraid to ask.
Now that I’m asking I’m not expecting an answer. I guess I really don’t want one. Oh, well.
I’m 5’ 2½” tall. I have played all nine positions with no one in particular. I guess you’d class my hitting as average. I weigh 145 pounds and I’m losing five pounds at least a week. I hope to be down to 115 by the middle of January. Everyone says I have a good figure but I wouldn’t know.
Well you probably have thrown this away by now but it doesn’t matter. At least I tried. Perhaps someday a woman will play ball. The fact that it won’t be me doesn’t bother me much because I believe a woman’s place is taking care of the house.
Well, thanks for listening to me.
Sincerely,
A true Reds fan,
Linda Lee Hart

The letter collection also includes, among others, one she had written to Johnny Bench, written as if they were married and she was on the road, playing for another team:

Dear Johnny,
It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you. How are you? You know I miss you. I need you and want you badly. Every night I dream of only you. Oh, how I wish we were together all the time.
Yesterday was my turn to start. I pretended you were behind the plate and you’ll never guess what happened. I pitched a perfect game throwing 81 pitches, all strikes, striking out every batter. I also had a per-fect day at bat. I hit the cycle once plus two more homers, one a grand slammer. So that you’ll believe me I’m enclosing the second copy of the official scorer’s score card. That was excitement. Nothing like the two of us in bed, though.
I’d write a longer letter but curfew is on me now so I’ll have to run.
Love,
Lin

(The letters above are another example of what I loved about her, and what ultimately was her “open door” to the Kingdom. She never lost her dreams, and more importantly, never lost that childlike quality that endeared her to all of us who knew her. She kept the child alive in me as well. I try to live like that now and can’t remember how. I’ve searched for the but-tons she used to push so easily, and so freely that kept that child alive in me. I have yet to find most of them. JAW 9/23/00)

Another month has passed since she attended that baseball clinic at Riverfront. It's now June, 1975.
The frequency of Linda's seizures had leveled off some time ago. To roughly one every 14 months or so. But they were still there.
One evening, right after dinner, as we were about to go into the living room and relax, she stopped me. “I have a better idea,” she said teasingly. Saying no more she quietly took my hand and led me to the bedroom.
“Whaa…?” I started to ask. She quickly put her finger to her lips, kissed it, then touched it to my lips to silence me, and motioned for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I obeyed. She stepped up to within 3 inches of me, looked at me with that loving, devoted look she always got when she was thinking about me not walking away like all the others, and she began undressing. I knew better than to say anything; I’d already been silenced once. I just left my eyes glued to her as she stripped. Always did. Never could resist watching her. Not the way she did it. No, not the bump-and-grind thing. That wasn’t her style. She did it slowly, teasing me every step of the way. She knew I never tired of watching her, and she never tired of knowing that her body was just as appealing to me now as it was that night in the woods so long ago.
Naked now, she reached for my hands, took them in hers and pulled me to my feet. Then she simply stepped up to me, took my hands and placed them on her chest, just as she had done so teasingly during those late-night dips we had shared in her parents’ pool during their vacation trips the two years before we were married. I began massaging her breasts.
“I’ve always loved the way you’re so gentle with me at times like this, Jim. It lets me know that I’m still that important to you.”
Before I could respond, she took my hands from her chest, put my arms around her, then embraced me, pressing her warm, naked body firmly, lovingly, and most willingly against mine. My thoughts immediately went back to that day in my first apartment, above Judy’s parents, when she met me there wearing that brown, wool dress that she so teasingly unzipped, then dropped to her waist, offering herself to me without saying a single word. “This time, we aren’t so shy, though, AND there’s no reason we have to hide anything or be careful,” I said to myself as I squeezed her and ran my hands over her.
She pressed herself against me even harder, and whispered, “Thank you, Jim, for making all my dreams come true. I love you!”

We didn’t make love that night, but just the same we were certainly both reminded of just how close we were, how devoted we were to each other, and how deep our love and af-fection really was. And we cherished every moment of it.

The following night, she was washing the supper dishes. The water running, I heard the occasional clink of china and glassware, and the equally recognizable clang of silverware as she worked. I was peacefully reading the paper in the living room, some 25 feet from where she stood.
Suddenly a plate hit the floor. CRASH!
I laid the paper down in my lap momentarily, waiting for the usual "nuts!" or maybe even "damn!", if she happened to cut herself. Instead I heard that all too familiar yell of "Ahhh...", rapidly increasing in volume from just a whisper to full blast. I dropped the paper to the floor as I stood, and raced to the kitchen. As I ran that 25 feet, and in the midst of that yell, she hit the floor with a loud thud.
Just then I turned the corner. She lay before me, on her stomach, going through the usual motions. Both arms were beneath her, in strange positions. Her jaw was tightly clamped shut, her teeth biting unmercifully into the tip of her tongue. Again.
Her breathing was again rapid and deep, like a marathon runner who had almost reached her limit of endurance. Her entire midsection rose from the floor each time she in-haled. I rolled her over onto her back so that she could breathe easier, making certain not to leave any limbs in awkward positions, or underneath her, to avoid injury and maintain blood circulation. Her motions were now the same as always. Soon she began to slow down, head-ing for Phase II.
It was then that I noticed that her lip was bleeding. Lightly, but steadily. By now she had ceased moving about. I got a warm washcloth.
She lay there, breathing through a small amount of un-swallowed saliva which bub-bled up through her clenched teeth and around the tongue, as always. That had even become an extremely reassuring sound to me over the years. Hearing it let me know that she was still breathing and would be OK as always. That nothing going on in her head had changed the way her body reacted to a seizure, especially where the crucial position of her tongue was concerned. I wiped her face and cleaned away (2 or 3 times) the saliva from her mouth to help breathing. And I wiped off the blood that was coming from that cut lip. She had cut it on a piece of that broken dinner plate when she fell. I gently pulled the fragment from beneath her lower lip and discarded it.
I suddenly remembered that seemingly overly affectionate mood she’d been in yester-day evening and realized that there might be a pattern here. I resolved to try and watch for a seizure within a day or two of the next time she acted that way.

As I’ve said earlier, by this time I'd overcome my fear of her seizures, and had even become pretty adept at protecting her. It would stand us in good stead, but it was a talent I would rather have not needed.


This work is taken from “A Once In A Lifetime Love: An Autobiography of Two High School Sweethearts”, copyright 2000, as yet unpublished, by the same author.