I read somewhere that if I really wanted a husband I should write out a list of what kind of man I was looking for. It’s a prayer in writing and probably an exercise in reality: what do you really want in a soul-mate? The idea is to bare your soul in writing to God, like a letter to Santa.
Only God probably reads and we all know Santa hires other people to read his mail.
I still have the list somewhere inside a journal inside a box, but I am not even going to try to look for it. I remember that I wanted a soul-mate who was a good teacher: someone who would challenge me and help me learn about things I had never before considered. He had to have a good sense of humor. He had to love the outdoors. He had to be open to living with a free spirit. He had to be patient.
I wrote the list in early November, if I recall correctly. It was a long time ago: 1979. Almost Christmas.
We have different versions of our story, but I like mine better than I like his. He tells everyone we met in a check-out line at the grocery store. I tell everyone that I picked him up in a bar.
It was another Thursday and I was stuck in the check-out line at the local grocery store, putting in my hours. Smile at the customer, ring up the groceries, watch the clock.
I looked up and he was standing in line. Not my line. He was in line at the only other open check stand, holding his paycheck. It was another Thursday and I was debating on going out dancing again. But he was in the wrong check-out line.
So I picked up the intercom phone and called the other grocery clerk up. “See that guy in your line?”
“Don?”
“I don’t know his name. Moustache. Wants to cash his check.”
“Yes, Donald. I know him.”
“Tell him you don’t have enough money to cash his check but I do.”
She was married. I knew she’d do it.
So he came over to my line and presented his check to cash. I no longer remember which one of us brought up Ladies’ Night. I do remember we both said we’d see the other person there.
On my way to Ladies’ Night, however, I stopped by my friend’s house to visit. And they got busy trying to set me up with a mutual friend who was a very newly divorced father. A really nice guy who needed a friend to go dancing with, they urged. I couldn’t lie: I was going out. But I couldn’t say, “Well, I plan on picking up this other guy there…” because I didn’t even know if he would actually show up. And the newly divorced dad was sitting in the same room at my friend’s house. I felt fenced in.
Once we were alone, I explained to the newly divorced dad that I was looking only to be his friend and that I was hoping to meet someone downtown. Someone specific, I said.
He didn’t seem to get the hint. I know: he was hurting, lost, and lonely. But I was not The One to fix him. So there I sat on Ladies’ Night, hoping to pick up this certain OTHER man while sharing a booth with a lonely divorcé.
And that guy, Donald, was downtown. He was with his friends. Across the bar, across the dance floor, could have been across town.
I guess he had enough to drink because after awhile he came across the floor and asked me to dance despite the fact I was sitting at a table with another man. Keith – that was the other man’s name. I hope Keith finally found the right woman. He was a very nice guy and gracious when I ditched him to go dancing with Don. He never held it against me.
Two weeks later, it was Christmas and I found myself invited to Christmas with the Presley’s. It was not unlike Christmas with the Griswold’s (but without the lights). Boisterous comes to mind. We drove down to Huntington where Don’s dad and grandmother lived. His sisters came and his brother and the assorted in-laws and all the cousins. The whole fan-damily on the Presley side. And then some.
Sonny cooked the turkey. We played stupid games sober and then we played the same stupid games not-so-sober. We had a wonderful crazy Christmas and everyone brought gifts for “the woman Don was bringing home to meet the family.” Apparently, Don had never brought anyone home to meet the whole family before. I was definitely special…
I really hit it off with Don’s youngest sister. I think I ditched Don to sit and drink with his little sister. We laughed so hard. And while I love Julie to pieces, I will never, ever touch rum and coke again. Never. (Julie: write that down. No Rum. You know why.)
By New Year’s Day Don and I were talking marriage. Six months later, we made good on all that talk. I don’t believe in long engagements.
Don is a lot of things (including a very good teacher) but what he really has is a good sense of humor. He has to have one to live with me.
Just tonight as I was putting the dogs out, he said, “I need to take a photo of you.”
I said “why?” before it dawned on me what I was wearing: a green sweatshirt, green camo pants tucked into my pink rubber boots with the brown horses stamped all over them. If he would have taken a photo, I would have posted it.
Thank God he did not. It would have rated up there with the best of People of Walmart.
His discretion has kept us married.
Happy Christmas – but wait for my next installment when I get a horse for Christmas. Yes: every little horse-crazy kid’s dream come true.
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Jaci Dawn 