Today, a different kind of love story.
Last spring, we were on our way home from Montreal, and we had plans to stop at Aimée Wimbush-Bourque‘s house. She and I had never met in person before, but we’d corresponded over email a bit when my first book came out, and I’d sent her a note asking if she might want to meet.
I try to do this when I travel, even through it always feels a little scary. I don’t tend to go to blogger conferences because they’re always so pricey, and when I have managed to get myself to them once or twice, I just spent the whole time in the corner clutching a drink and not networking. I consider myself an extrovert-absolutely! But a conference cocktail hour makes a shrinking violet out of me. So I seek people out when I travel, and I go in search of conversation with writers I admire. It feels a little riskier, because meeting face to face with someone new can be such a vulnerable experience. But I’ve been grateful for every coffee, lunch, and walk that’s come out of it, and I’m always so happy I got it together to reach out.
We’d been in Montreal all week, and that last day, it poured. Aimée had told me she’d like to get a little lunch together to fuel us for the long ride home. I was a little nervous, because, well- the whole vulnerable first meeting thing, but also because we were throwing our families together. We got lost on the way to her house, and we were late and the girls were eager to get home, and I thought maybe this was a bad idea.
I was wrong. It had been a really good idea.
I got out of the van and Aimée came to meet us, boots on, spade in her hand. And then within a minute, I was behind her little house harvesting ramps with Clara. Back inside, the kids were playing, Joey and Danny were already sitting and talking, and the prep for one of the most wonderful meals I’ve had in a long time was underway. Aimée was in the final stages of finishing her book, and she’d taken the opportunity to test some of the recipes from Brown Eggs and Jam Jars. The table was set for nine of us, and we sat there for hours–eating, talking, drinking good beer from Quebec (they make my favorite beer in Quebec!) eating some more. We had slow cooker cider ham; maple cider baked beans; cabbage, carrot and cashew slaw with maple soy vinaigrette; and sticky maple pudding for dessert. For our second dessert, Aimee pulled out sheet pan of snow from the freezer and we made maple taffy right then and there. And then as it was getting dark, hours after we should have headed home, we said goodbye, promised more meals together in the future, and drove back to Massachusetts.
In the car, we couldn’t stop talking about the meal, the afternoon, and the family. We buzzed and blushed warm and recounted the dishes and marveled over how happy we were that we’d been able to finish our trip with such an amazing day. In truth, we fell in love with Aimée and Danny and their kids.
We’ve stayed in touch over the year since then. Next month, Aimée and her family will be down on this side of the border for a US leg of the book tour, and I get to feed them on their way home. The bar is high, and I’m hoping I’m up to the task. But luckily, I have a new cookbook.
I’ve been cooking from Aimée’s book since it arrived in the mail a few weeks ago. It’s a gorgeous book, and it has that hard-to-put-your-finger-on-it quality that makes me want to cook every thing in it. The book is both aspirational and accessible, and the recipes are so solid. I had the big pleasure of being able to see the book last year, and to share my love for it then, too. As I said then (now on the back of the book!), Aimée shows us that any home can be a homestead if we choose to see a space’s potential and possibility. I think this is a book you’re going to need in your kitchen.
We’re heading off on vacation tonight. The girls have never seen palm trees, and we’ve been itching for a road trip, so we’re driving down to visit friends in Miami. Freida‘s coming too, and we’re taking lots of stops along the way, and if you have any road food recommendations, send them my way. But I’ll be mostly away from the computer for the next 10 days, so if I’m slow to answer yogurt questions, that’s why. (I will, however, be keeping up with instagram, so feel free to join me over there if you need a few palm trees yourself.)
But before I go, I’ve got one copy of Brown Eggs and Jam Jars to giveaway! In the spirit of the season, and inspired by what my friend Sarah calls AKOL (all kinds of love), leave a comment and tell us an unexpected love story. It can be long like mine, or just a few words about someone or something you love. As always, it’s all fair game, and I’m just excited read the comments. Your comment will enter you to win this wonderful (very love-filled) book, and I’ll chose the winner when I get back.
Occasionally I teach workshops, and I have one coming up this fall. Join me and stellar novelist 
Sixteen is tough. And for an anxiety-ridden kid it is really hard. Hard for him and challenging for us as we try to keep his home time as stress-free and smooth as possible. Most of the time he flies under the radar of the world, quietly with his head down getting his work done. He is also in the high school jazz band. Four times a year they give concerts and on those days he is transformed. At six foot three with red hair he already stands out in the group. But once the trombone is raised to his mouth he is transformed–all swagger and swing. Hitting the notes and truly shining. Those days my heart practically breaks with love for him and his potential.
Jennifer, that was beautiful! Thank you for sharing!
My friend and I decided to go to Los Angeles for the weekend. Linda went to UCLA and wanted me to meet her college friends. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area at the time so a weekend away to LA wasn’t such a big deal. I was ready to have some fun too. We were suppose to go earlier than summer, but I had come home from college with mono and need three weeks to recover. Linda had showed me pictures of who might be in town. No one special she said. Looking at the photos, especially of the dorky guy in the beanie propeller hat, I had to agree. Turns out, the dorky guy was pretty special. We’ve been married for 20 years now.
Last week my husband and I had our 21-year-old cat euthanized, and yesterday I brought her ashes home. We had had Ophelia since she was a kitten, but she was hard to love. Prickly and standoffish, she spent more time hiding than with us. Never was a lap cat. Never cuddled.
We pretty much ruined her life when she was 4 and we brought home a new (very easy to love) kitten. They never got along, and Ophelia never forgave us. Stubborn cat outlived my darling Angelo, and our beloved Maggie dog, and it seemed she would live forever.
In the end, we had to make the most difficult decision for her, and we tried to do it with love. Much to our surprise, we were very sorry to say goodbye to her and this past week has been a very sad one. It seems Ophelia was loveable after all.
A little corny – but I always thought that I’d fall in love with a tall, dark-haired prince. My husband, while tall, had bright green eyes and orange/red hair and the lightest complexion you can imagine. He hit me with his kindness and sincerity, something that is totally lacking in the men that I was meeting and dating. We’ve been together for 9 years now and married for 7.
I once met a bartender with a taste for reading philosophy on his work breaks. He moved away for a while, and when he came back, he had nowhere to stay. I said he could stay with me until he found a place. That was 15 years ago and I love him more than ever. I’d love to have that cookbook!
My sister and I sat down on a Christmas morning and learned to knit. She had received a “learn to knit ” kit from a friend and we decided to learn together. I knitted all day that day, and though that first wonky swatch is long gone and my sister did not stick with it, my love for the craft stayed. It has brought me through many rough times, a shawl for my wedding, and now socks for my upcoming little one!
I never thought I would marry before my late twenties – thirtyish. I was going to have my career and live in the city and make money and be a single, modern woman. But I picked up a job as a camp counselor after I graduated from college … sort of my last, sentimental, “job” before I really got down to establishing myself as serious adult in a 9 to 5.
And I met the boy who would become my husband.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was looking for one last summer of childish glee in the outdoors, teaching packs of little kids Bible stories. But he sat down next to me at lunch, the first week of camp and suddenly we were talking about poetry and books and Shakespeare and how odd it was that we knew everyone in common and had never met each other.
And then I was in love.
I married him when I was a few days shy of 24 years old and it was easily the best decision I ever made. We live in a little town in the Midwest. We have a little girl and baby boy.
Funny, how sometimes the things we think we want so badly aren’t really what we’re looking for at all.
I played softball growing up, when I was a teenager our “coaches” were a couple guys from the bar they would be coaching from 1st and 3rd base with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. (which nowadays would never never be acceptable)
I slid into 2nd base and this “ump” called me out.
I later found out he was the coaches brother, I called him a few choice names for the bad call and he asked me out! 4 years later we got married, we have 3 children (and have coached on that same ball-field in the Midwest for the past 16 years and have been very happily married for 23 years!
I am so amazed at how the deepness of our love continues to grow, I am so in love with our little family it hurts good!
When I was young we never went on vacation as a family. Our vacation was going to the shore house that has been my grandparents in New Jersey. This house was nothing more than an 800 square foot place to rest your head and make memories with family. Sandy feet, freezer pops, cooling off with a spray from the house, being reminded that my grandmother knew in fourth grade, that she would marry my grandfather and how fifty years later they were still married. As I grew older, my grandparents passed, and as my parents grew older they were left this amazing little house that is almost like a time capsule of simpliar days. My dad to this day still fixes up everything by hand, just as my grandfather did. When Superstorm Sandy came to New Jersey it totally wiped out over 85% of the little neighborhood where this tiny house stood. No matter where we were living in the country every summer I would take my children to this special place. When I was thinking about a love story I thought about how my heart was so affected after seeing all the devastation in the area. My parents were fortunate as the house still stood amongst choas. I discovered that this house which has been in my family for over 70 years has survived so much, that it did not take massive devastation to remove all the love filled this tiny home. I believe no love story is perfect, that it goes through phases and I am so grateful that this little house has served as a love story of legacy. From when I was a child, through when my parents brought us there as kids, and how I continue to go there with my children there is a story and a home that connects us. I still speak of my own grandparents and how my Poppy used to ring the bell for lunch and how that same bell is still by the doorway and how my children uncover the same treasures I did as a child. I will always be grateful for a little house that would stood a great massive storm and three generations….whose love is unrequited in bringing smiles and happiness to the lives of those who entered its doors.
Learning to cook wasn’t something I really expected to love. Oh, I loved to eat, that’s for sure. But I was never taught growing up, and my mother hated to do it, and she wasn’t good at it. But when I was in college and working to pay my way through, I had been dumped by my boyfriend who was in college clear across the country. One day at lunch a new coworker sat down with me and listened to my heartbreak, and he made me laugh. He wasn’t my type really. He was shorter and skinnier than me, Hispanic to my whiteness. But he had soulful, bedroom eyes and he had depth, and flirted relentlessly with me. So when we started dating I suddenly had the urge to feed him. He needed fattening up, especially after I learned his story and how poor he grew up, his teenage years spent living on rice and beans, free fast food from his high school job, and popcorn. I started out easy, dipping my toes in the water and filled with excitement to become “domestic.” And while I learned, and got better, at making the foods I loved to eat and trying new things, I was taking him on an adventure and introducing things to him he had never experienced or tasted before. I fell in love with him, and I fell in love with feeding him my love through cooking. Cooking, and specifically canning, became the vehicle for my love and grief when the baby boy we made came 3 months early, a month behind in growth, and died at 5 days old, almost 2 years ago. My husband understood my need to make food, keep busy, and grieve while I was home recovering from my c-section that saw no baby come home from the hospital. Every morning, he would fill my big canning pot for me, very heavy, and put it on the stove for me so that when I was able to drag myself from bed, I could get started. I canned so much that summer I still have jars of things I haven’t used, even after eating loads and giving loads away. I think part of me doesn’t want to finish all of them so fast so I have held onto some. They contain so much sweat, endless sorrowful tears, and boundless love from a heart in shreds.
AKOL. I love that. An unexpected act of love is blossoming in my home. My 7 year old daughter has suddenly become terrified of the dark, of monsters lurking under her bed and tucked between her clothes. Meanwhile, my 10 year old, limping and arthritic hound with rapidly diminishing vision has suddenly found the world to be a very scary place with all kinds of unexpected sounds and movements. But together, they snuggle in bed each night and comfort each other through the worst of it. Everything is always better in the bright sunlight of morning. It completely melts me each night as I sneak into my daughter’s bedroom and snap pictures of this sweet love tableau. (On most nights, she reads him bedtime stories and one night they had both fallen asleep wearing princess tiaras. Seriously, it’s so very priceless and sweet.)
Always have a valid passport. It’s a lesson I learned at the tender age of 21, when Thom, a sports writer from Norway, crossed my path during a World cup skiing event in Lake Placid, NY. It truly was love at first sight, the entire 4 days our existences traveled the same path.
“Marry me and come back to Norway with me!”
If i had a passport, oh how my life might have been different…
We brought our newborn daughter home and I was so nervous about how our bulldog would do with her. And he loves her! He just wants to sit close to her and lick her feet. It is too sweet.
When my 5-year-old son learned he was going to have a sister instead of the brother he’d been asking for, he was quite angry. When she was born, he wanted nothing to do with her. But, now that he’s 6 and she’s 8 months, I’m pretty sure he’s her biggest fan. He’s written stories about her at school, he takes pride in the fact he can make her belly laugh like no one else can, he keeps her out of trouble. He’d never admit in word he even likes her, but it melts me heart to watch the two of them and KNOW he loves his sister.
I love seed catalogs, bright yellow flowers, and sunshine even as more snow threatens and my knee-high gaiters are no longer big enough to keep me dry. I love the shadows cast by the fire and the stack of books from the library full of promise and ideas. I love salmon and the likelihood my kids won’t turn up their nose at dinner plus the promise of salmon hash this weekend. I love homemade nutella and strong coffee with plenty of cream.
When I was 23 I came home from college for a long weekend to help out with the wedding of the eldest daughter of my ‘Other Family’. I was a liberal anthropology major from Portland. There helping out was the best friend of the bride’s younger brother. He obviously found me attractive but I was happily single and he was a farm and rodeo guy and so obviously not my type. Toward the end of the reception after having been run off our feet all day, he asked me to dance. I was none too gracious about saying no because I was tired and… he wasn’t my type. After going back down to school I found myself having dreams about him every night for 10 days, including ones where I was married to him. I felt bad about how short I had been with him and emailed an apology. And that started what has become an almost 12yr love affair that now includes children, a house, shared loves for the outdoors, early 20th century architecture, music, and a desire to grow old together.
A sniffling, germ-infested 2 1/2-year-old steals my heart every day. He is my adorable nephew and I am so thankful I moved back home to be able to watch him grow up. I honestly never knew my heart could feel so full of love.
When he hears music he loves, or wants us to put on music, my one year old will “dance” by swaying back and forth. It’s the sweetest, cutest thing. Almost as heart melting as his belly laugh and his smiling lunge towards me after playtime with a grandparent is over.
Eight or so years ago, two close friends went on a couple dates. In totally different “places” of life, no romantic relationship blossomed, however they remained happy and cordial acquaintances. Last summer, they were invited (as individuals) to go on vacation with the another family. Timing is everything- they completely (re?)connected and have been together ever since!!!
Glances at a coworker in a restaurant’s kitchen, have blossomed into a summer wedding. This time has taught me the love of a wonderful man, but also has taught me to cherish moments with my parents, sister and closest childhood friend.
I am incredibly blessed.
When I first became a wife and soon after, a mother – cooking and meal planning was a challenge. Not that I didn’t know how – I just had a hard time coming up with meals day in and day out. But one thing I have always loved is health and healing. It wasn’t until reading Nourishing Traditions by Sally Fallon several years ago, that it all clicked in my brain – I can provide healing and deep nourishment for our health through food and the meals I make. It struck a chord deep within. And it was that moment when I found a new, deep love of cooking good, nourishing food. And for that I am most grateful. 🙂
My daughter’s lacrosse team needed a coach. What started as a way to keep a team going grew to a joyful passion. I fell in love with coaching. Never would have dreamed it. Never will regret it!
An unexpected pregnancy. Starting to fall in love…
i heard my first grand child’s heartbeat this week. It’s love at first beat
Online dating. Really? Ok. I will try. Over a year later I decided to give up if this one last guy didn’t pan out to anything. Turns out he had just reactivated his account after about a year. Now we’re married with two kids. !
I love these stories of love. Like it says in the movie “Love really is all around.” I love good food; my best friends- near and far; my sister, with whom I laugh so hard that my stomach aches. I love my husband, who really feels like my other half, no matter how cliche that sounds. I love blue skies and dreaming about summer. I love how the cold air takes my breath away and reminds me that I’m alive. I love my family, big and boisterous and nosy. I love talking about having a baby and I love that baby so much already, even though my body is still empty and we are still just planning. I love diving into good books and resurfacing a different person. I love breathing deep and feeling my feet on the ground. I love life.
I fell in love and married an ex-amishman…did not see that coming except the straw hat should have been the first giveaway!
I remember telling my husband after several years of marriage that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have kids. He cried. I felt awful.
After a lot of soul searching, I thought, okay, let’s see what happens. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. It did, straight away. I ended up so much in love I quit the job, made all sorts of changes, etc so that we could all have more time together. It was still hard, though, and we both thought we were one and done.
In conclusion, #2 is due in 5 months.
I have two kids, one with special needs, and I am a single parent. Parenting is hard work for me and while I am in the trenches, I often don’t “see” my children or feel the love. We made Valentines yesterday morning sitting at the kitchen table. It was quiet, the kids were happily focused on creating cards- lost in the creative process. For a moment the world stopped, and I could feel the love. Thanks for the opportunity to reflect. Happy Valentine’s Day.
I wasn’t expecting love, just minding my own business working in the high school stadium concession stand to earn money towards the band program for my trumpet player. This guy also working towards his clarinet players band fees was always buzzing through the kitchen, carrying ice or whatever was needed to whoever needed it. One day I thought.. who is that guy? I could like him. So I investigated and, finding him single, I called him up and asked him out.
We’ve been married 10 years
the homeless man i encountered while walking the dogs this afternoon – he loved the dogs up good – they ate it all up and they put a smile on his face despite the fact that it was very cold and he had no mittens.
What I love is this blog, where you and others share wonderful stories that remind us to pay attention to our own small piece of the world!
Almost 34 years ago, I became pregnant. Never having experienced the ticking biological clock and being the oldest of 5 siblings, I was unsure if I even wanted children. A busy, work-aholic teacher, I was doing well in my career and committed to my students. A week before my daughter’s birth, I was still holding my belly and hurrying down the hall to get one more thing done during my lunch break. My plan was to take the three months maternity leave and return to work.
When I first held my lovely daughter in my arms, I was in love. She was tiny, born a month early, and she spent the first month very close to me in a Snuggli. I literally couldn’t leave her. I will never forget putting her in the front pack and walking down to the mailbox to mail my letter of resignation. All I felt was huge sense of relief.
Of course, I returned to my profession after several years. I continued to be committed to my students but have never regretted my commitment to being with my daughter. Being her mother is the best thing I’ve done in my life.
It’s not my love story but that of my parents. Eloping before he was drafted off to Vietnam from a small Massachusetts town. Together in love and compassion till he passed at the young age of 59. They taught me the joy of loving another.
An old friend I used to work with came into town for a mutual friend’s funeral. Over dinner afterwards she commented “There’s a woman I work with that I think you’d like.” A few weeks later we had a week-long marathon of talking on the phone instead of sleeping at night, at the end of the week I flew to meet her. Six months later she moved to L.A. to live with me, just under a year later we were married. Just over 15 years ago now.
My sister and her friends participate in a weekly vegetarian potluck. She lives in GB and I don’t see her very often, but whenever I come to town she arranges for me to see this group of friends because we have a similar passion for food and the purpose of it. The last time I was there, she took me to the potluck house and her friends were waiting for me with jars covering the entire table so I could try their latest ferments. I felt so honored that they would share their precious ferments and projects with me. I stayed for hours sampling and getting lost in the conversation and felt so much love and as though I really were a part of this community.
I think you are a part of that community ; )
I’ve always loved my grandparent’s love story. Gram always had a calendar when I was growing up and she was meticulous about keeping all life’s details recorded. I asked her about the calendar one day, and here’s what I found out. My Gram was notoriously nice – she couldn’t say no to any request, no matter how big or small. That got her in a huge pickle when she hit her twenties!!! She was engaged to (and I promise I’m not exaggerating) SEVEN different men. They kept asking, and she didn’t want to hurt their feelings, so she just kept saying yes, assuming it would all work out eventually. And it did. Enter the calendar: in order to keep the men (and accompanying engagement rings) in order, Gram would record what gentlemen she was seeing and on which days. And she was very successful at it! Until one day when she had stopped for a soda wearing one ring when a different fiancé stopped in by chance. She immediately threw herself at the mercy of the sailor next to her, begging him to hide her. He did and when she told him why shortly thereafter he laughed like a lunatic. That was my Papa and he always said Gram made him “laugh like a loon.” They married three days later and Papa returned all the rings to the unlucky suitors. They were married for 63 years until they passed within six months of one another. He called her his “pussy cat” and she called him “Papa bear.” She sat on his lap to watch tv and they held hands everywhere they went – all the way until the end of their lives. I’m so blessed to have seen such a strong example of marriage.
Gram couldn’t cook – at all. It was a family joke. Sure she’d love her granddaughter to have this book so that I can improve on her culinary efforts! 🙂
Seven years ago, my husband and I were selling blackberries at a farmers’ market. We’d heard that there was a puppy rescue nearby, so we went to see them. We’d talked about getting a dog, but never seriously.
We walked up to the cages. Most of the puppies were barking. But this one little white puppy with brown spots just stood there. He didn’t make a sound. We reached in and scratched his nose with our fingers, we petted his soft little ears. Then we got up to leave. As we did, the woman running the rescue asked if we wanted to play with him.
This sweet little guy with a skinny wagging tail came over and we were goners. We didn’t have a choice. He needed to be ours.
The whole ride home I held him on my lap. He had his little paw resting on my forearm, as if to claim me as his own.
His siblings were named Greta Garbo, Clark Gable, and Humphrey Bogart. He was named after Marlon Brando. A perfect fit for our little classic movie loving family.
He sleeps on the floor beside my chair as I work. Often running in his dreams and snoring. He’s still the sweetest thing. He hardly barks, loves to play, and wants nothing more than to be with us. We’re happy to oblige.
I get caught off guard by how much I enjoy cooking. Growing up, I had home cooked meals for dinner every night, but cooking was always a chore for my mother. It was a necessary evil in the equation of providing properly for me. I really enjoy the process as much as the final product, and it surprised me how often I crave being in the kitchen.
I met my husband when I was engaged to someone else. It was love at first sight for both of us. I broke the other engagement, married my new love, and this June we will celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary!!! And we have 2wonderful children, a 20 yr old daughter and 23 yr old son.
There have been a few people in my life who I didn’t like upon first meeting; but they have turned into life-long friends. Amazing how that works if you give someone a chance.
I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I feel differently about cookbooks. The cover and its name make me FEEL like I know what kind of food it will be– the best kind, the home-y kind, the feel good kind, the “jam jar” kind.
Whiskey-colored eyes looked straight into my heart and I knew he was mine. Nevermind the filthy black fur, slimy tennis ball, and the stink that just wouldn’t wash out for the first few weeks, he clearly was exactly where he belonged.
This love story began one of the times I was visiting my now husband, Pete, when he took me along a road called, “Fernside”. As we made the turn onto the road, he proudly mentioned that this was one of his favorite roads in the Berkshires. This was a road well traveled for him. Memories of his youth flashed before his eyes as mine widened from the sheer beauty that was tapping me on my shoulder as we gently meandered down the roadway.
We paused as a brilliant burst of sunlight consumed the stand of trees and offered an invitation, a welcoming. I remember holding my breath, filling my lungs with a pureness and a contentment that I had only dreamed of. In that very moment, the word “home” was all that resonated with me. It tickled my core and danced up to my throat. I quietly, but with certainty, inquired to Pete, “Who owns this land? This is where I want to live some day.”
It took sixteen years to map out our great escape. There is no doubt that we faced obstacles along the way, but without fail, that brilliant burst of sunlight would invite us through the trees again and again, luring us to continue on. And, now, the word “home” has replaced the phrase “great escape”. It hums in our ears, grows in our fields and resonates through a neighbor’s smile. There is joy and contentment, possibility and understanding. The end of a search for true love has brought nothing but infinite beginnings.
Oddly enough, I am trying to start a love story right now. I am an introvert by nature — made more so by motherhood. Yet with a toddler and pregnant again, I know that I cannot pull my family inward. Instead, I need to start hosting individuals, couples, and families. Welcoming another into our family for an evening. We have done so twice this month and I watched my nearly two year old come to life. I am working to make my home a place where others come and feel welcome. I am working on loving other people by feeding them — and teaching my children the many ways that we can help to nourish others.
When I went back for my second semester of college, I promised myself I wouldn’t study quite so much and I would make some friends. I put off leaving the opening celebration as long as I could, being an introvert-big parties just aren’t my thing. Feeling discouraged not making a single connection I decided I’d had enough socializing and would try again at the next event. On my way out I met two young women who would become fast friends. We talked for hours and hours and now over ten years later we still have great conversations and affection for each other even when we live far apart.
So lovely for you to share the love about Aimee and all, and to share the mutuality and your food/family presence. Thank you from somewhat ore eastern Massachusetts.
Winter of ’96 my first part-time job. I was 16 he was 21. We fell in love+ they said we were to young. We’d never make it. 20 years later my heart still skips a beat for him. He’s my husband, my lover, my champion,and my best friend.
I’m not sure how different our love story is, but it’s certainly special to me.
It was the summer before my sophomore year of high school. I had taken a liking to this boy that was completely not my type (does one have a type at 15?), and who had very little in common with me. I was completely smitten. We had your typical whirlwind teenage relationship that led to us proclaiming our love for each other in weeks, and perhaps a not so typical engagement six months later. Our parents thought we were insane, and laughed at our immature ignorance. As a mother myself now, I can most definitely see their point, but regardless our ignorance paid off. It’s now almost 11 years later, and that boy I had nothing in common with and that was definitely not my type, still has me pretty smitten. We’ve been together for 11 years, married for 6, and are currently expecting our fourth child. As naive as I may have been then, and may still be now, I fully expect to be just as smitten over this man when I’m 75. Apparently, opposites really do attract!
Seven years ago, I brought home a very sweet and terrified coon hound mix I dubbed Phoebe. She had been in the shelter since she was 7 weeks old, dropped off by an irresponsible breeder, and was nearly two years old at adoption. Everything scared her: the car, the outside world, carpeting, stairs, furniture. All she knew was concrete and other dogs’ barking. She immediately bonded with Max, my labradoodle, and decided the cats were her babies…but me? She decidedly did NOT trust me. Visitors would get tail wags and offers of belly rubs, but I would get nothing. A turned aside head, a sidelong look, a terrified shiver was all I got for weeks. We went to training in an effort to get to know one another better, without home distractions, and it was heart-rending. Week after week, she’d howl in terror the whole drive there, freeze up on arrival, and usually need to be carried in, peeing all over in fear. Once inside, she’d be glued to my leg and sweating puddles around her feet. My trainer took me aside after a particularly rough session, a woman who never gave up on a dog, and advised me that my Phoebe may be a lost cause. My heart nearly broke in a million pieces at that…but I refused to give up. You see, this terrified dog had caught my attention at the shelter because she had decided to be friends of a sort with one of the workers there, a young man who was performing court ordered service due to drug offenses She had looked at me, scared witless, but when he said to her in this tender little voice, “hey girlie” she looked at him and wagged her tail a teeeeeeny bit…and he was one scary looking kid. But she saw something in him, and I thought: now that is a dog I need to help. So she came home, and the saga began. After 18 months of steady training, we were still not getting anywhere, until one day at agility class (which I signed her up for to build her confidence) she climbed the nearly vertical A-Frame, wailing the whole way to the top. Once she got there, everyone began cheering her on and clapping…and she looked around, her ears and tail perked up, and you could just see her thinking “hey, I DID IT!” She rocketed down the other side, hit all the tricks three times over in a racing scramble, and then stopped…looked for me…and then raced to me at a dead run, ending with a leap into my arms. My dog, my lovely Phoebe, finally was looking for ME.
Ever since, she’s my girl. Stubborn, yes, but my lovely lovely girl.
She still doesn’t like the car too much, though. 🙂
Teddy Chronopoulos. New England Revolution, circa 1997. Teddy Chronopoulos, he of the Greek god jaw and dark flowing locks, pulled me in; but it was the rag-tag, ugly jerseyed, horribly-coached ’97 Revs that made me fall in love. 18 years, four World Cups, five MLS Cups and so very many pints of beer later, I’m still head over heels for the beautiful game.
My mom married my dad who had a hunting bungalow on a lake which the family loved to get together at every weekend. For us kids there was lots of swimming, boating and fishing and some chores like watering the garden and burying the fish heads in the veggie garden for fertilizer. My grandmother led the adult into many wonderful family meals outside on the large picnic table. The favorite was polenta cooked on a wood fire outside. My grandmother and mom were both born in Valle de Cadore, Italy so this was a traditional staple meal from her growing up years. We would always dream of the next weekend family time together at the lake house with the bell on the porch to call the guys fishing in and the kids swimming for dinner. The house had to be sold but my cousins and I still talk about all the memories the place held for us.
He was 16, I was almost 20 working at The Sweet Tooth making ice cream and cotton candy. Two hot summers at that amusement park making below minimum wage. We kept in touch for 15 years or more as the best of friends. In our early 30’s something dawned on us that maybe we were more than just friends. Married 19 years with two teens and still the very best of friends!!
I again felt such love for my husband (of 20 years) today when he surprised me with a beautiful little breeding pair of ornamental chickens for our yard-simply because he knows I adore them.
I am a love cynic. True love and Prince Charming exist only in fairy tales and there is no such thing as ‘happily ever after’. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.
I met my future in-laws when there was absolutely no thought that these people would ever be my in-laws and certainly had no idea that this couple, then in their early seventies, would so markedly change my life.
The phone rang and she answered, beaming as she announced that he was on his way home from work and would be there soon. I watched as she made her way to the kitchen window, gazing up the street, waiting for him. I watched as she dropped what she was fiddling with and ran to the front door to meet him. I heard the excitement in her voice as she greeted him, as if they were still in High School and he was her first crush, come to pick her up for her first prom. I sat in the kitchen, marveling at the sight before me as he scooped her up and swung her around, laughing and kissing, oblivious to everyone but each other. That image was burned into my memory.
Fast forward a couple of years and this time when I visited, I was there as their son’s girlfriend. Again the phone rings and again I watch as she waits to be to be reunited with the man I now know has been her husband for forty-nine years. Forty-nine years? And they were still that crazy about each other? Unbelievable! I would see this scene replayed many times without fail over the years. Their laughter, the love, the fierce loyalty and affection never wavered. It was true.
They were New York Italians, transplanted to the prairie states. Noisy and loving, yelling one minute and dissolving into hugs, kisses and laughter the next. They embraced me as if I were their own daughter from the beginning, insisting that I call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Pop’. Mom is a tiny little thing, beautiful, warm, friendly and intensely protective of her loved ones; Pop, tall, handsome, charming and kind with a ready smile and mischievous twinkle in his eyes. They are inseparable. Mom tells the story of how, as a young woman, she would gaze from her family’s apartment window down to the street below, watching this dashing young man as he hung out with his friends and decided that he was going to be hers for life. He tells they story of their first date, how he gave her a beer with a straw in it in the hopes of getting her tipsy and stealing a kiss. He story ends the same as hers, she was THE ONE for him. In their wedding portrait they look like movie stars, glamorous and very much in love.
I was there when, in their eighties, Mom sitting in Pop’s lap, her arms around his neck, looking into each other’s eyes as he asked her to marry him once again for their sixtieth wedding anniversary in the spring. I imagine that her excited ‘Yes!’ was much the same the first time he asked. These two wonderful people have given me such a gift by allowing me to share their life, for showing me that true love exists, fairy tales can come true, that Prince Charming is alive and well and there is ‘happily ever after’. Pop always laughs when I say that I tell everyone about them and that everybody should be fortunate enough to witness such a love as theirs.
Epilogue…I am visiting again, Pop is battling cancer, Mom, a bit forgetful. He is in his wheelchair and I watch as she kneels in front of him, he reaches out as she reaches up to him. As they held hands, I could almost hear each one willing the other to be okay and conveying a love that will never end, yet neither of them uttered a word. With these few moments etched forever in my mind, I quietly prayed that Pop would be able to have his spring wedding. Then, not wanting to intrude, I retreat unnoticed.
A few more months pass and it’s almost Christmas. Mom and Pop’s favorite time of the year, they transform their home into a wonderland. The yard is dressed in a cheery Christmas montage, a Christmas village that seems more like a city filling the dining room, the tree dressed in ornaments that have been cherished through many Christmases. It is lovely and much loved. I thank Pop once again for the gift he has given me. He laughs before I finish the sentence because he knows what I’m going to say. As we laugh, I promise him that the legacy that he is leaving, not of material things, but of the example of love that he and Mom share will never be forgotten.
I thank you, dear reader, for allowing me to share that legacy with you.
Oh, I am having a great time reading all the love stories. Mine started over 38 years ago. I met my now husband at a birthday party. He is 3 years older than I. We dated the last 3 of my high school years. We were married 2 weeks after I graduated. Still remember that ceremony as vividly as on that day. We have 3 grown children and 5 young grandchildren and my life couldn’t be any more blessed. Just melts your heart when your grandchildren beg their parents every weekend to come and see Grandma. Any way I just love to cook for my family and I have a passion for good cookbooks and would feel blessed to win a copy of Brown Eggs and Jam Jars.
I managed the on-campus coffee shop in college, run by volunteers. One of my new volunteers was a transfer student who wanted to get to know people. I’m still surprised he picked the coffee shop, since he doesn’t like coffee. I trained him and we became fast friends. Friendship blossomed into more, and now we’ve been married for almost 8 years.
I have three kids and I love them all. From my 13 year old daughter with an attitude one day and crying the next, to my 5 year old son who loves cuddles and hanging out with Mom and Dad no matter what we’re doing. But love can be hard. Our 9 year old son is autistic. We do love him, with all our heart, but he makes it difficult. Oh, he doesn’t mean to, and we know that. We all do our very best to hug him and tell him we love him, encourage him, just the same as the other two kids. But he doesn’t reciprocate the affection, he’s uncomfortable with touching and emotions. He sits quietly by himself and works on his various projects from building elaborate Lego creations to folding beautiful origami for me. The only time he shows emotion is when something in his little world changes and he gets angry and upset because he feels out of control. Everyday is a struggle for him and us. But our love for him is so fierce that we do everything we can to start again and tell him he’s special and work through the bad times. I know it’s not cool to say you have a hard time loving one of your kids, it’s not what a good parent would say, but so often parents of special needs kids feel this and feel alone in that feeling. But it’s okay. It’s hard work and we aren’t perfect, we’re trying so hard to navigate this world with him and we forget that he is trying hard too. So love is hard, it can be a struggle, but truly worth it in the end, if just for 1 occasional squeeze back out of 100 hugs!
I know it’s hard from experience, but I will pray that one day the occasional squeeze will open into a flood of affection! God bless you…don’t ever doubt yourself, you sound amazing!
I’m a little late to the game, but this story is worth telling! When I was 16, my brother moved to college and graciously left his car behind for me to drive. Winter rolled in, and I took it to the mechanic with my dad to get the tires rotated. As we waited, my dad began chatting with another customer, and elderly woman with a British accent. When he asked how she’d ended up in Cedar Rapids, IA, of all places, her response nearly knocked me over:
“Well, I was a nurse during the War, you know, and there was a unit of Americans stationed near our hospital. We got to know the soldiers well, and I became very close to one of them. You know, dancing and going to movies with friends, but he was already engaged to a girl in Iowa, and anyway he wasn’t there very long. We did stay in touch for a while after that, maybe 8 or 10 years.
“Well, one day about 3 years ago, shortly after my husband died, I ran across a postcard of Cedar Rapids this old friend had sent after the war. On a whim, I called the operator and – it took them a while, but they found him, and we talked and talked. As it happened, his wife had also recently passed.
“Well, back in the old days we’d talked of my visiting Iowa, and so I came to Cedar Rapids and stayed for two weeks. A couple months later I came back, and we got married, and I’ve been here ever since. A year ago, my husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but so far he always knows me. That’s him out there, waiting for me.” She pointed out the window to an old man sitting in a boat of a Chrysler. Then she turned back to me and said, “Young lady, make sure you only marry a man who puts you on a pedestal. If he doesn’t put you on a pedestal, don’t marry him. My husband is the kindest man I’ve ever met, and he adores me, and Alzheimer’s or no, this is the happiest time of my life.”
And then she paid for her car and left.
rewind 25 years ago..before marriage,2 babies, 2 houses,divorce and being a single mom…
I was dating a fellow for four years..in a nutshell I fell out of love..in our last year together he was diagnosed with crones disease..
His brother was married to a woman I really liked but my ex boyfriend took it very hard that I didn’t wish to be with him and stalked me..
I spent the next 25 years making sure I did not have my name in a telephone book and no contact with anyone we knew together
One day 5 years ago my dad said that someone had called their home(my parents had lived in it for a very long time)
The person calling me is married to my ex boyfriends best friend.
They were looking for me ,wanting me to know that my ex boyfriend had passed away and did I want to come to his funeral?
They left the location,time and date in the message.
I thought about it in the days leading up to it and decided I needed to close the chapter of hiding away from someone that it was safe now
And so I took some time off work and set out to the funeral only to have trouble finding the location and being very late on arriving
I crept quietly into the church and sat in the back.. The service was almost over and the last few words of the pastor was that the family members would be standing up at the front for us all to come up one at a time and speak to them
The pastor said we will start with the girl sitting at the very back
I froze..but tried hard to compose my nervousness as I approached the first person his dad
I walked up to him and said I don’t know if you remember me.. He said I know exactly who you are..(he was pleased to see me)
I went down the line of people stopping to say hello and my condolences.. The last person was his brothers wife
In conclusion our friendship began again the moment I said hello to her
I had often thought of her over the years and missed her..she had thought of me too
We talk often …live quite the distance apart but still manage to keep our friendship alive..
She is a wonderful person and as I go through my diagnoses,surgery and recovery of my illness she is right beside me…yet so far away..the one that when I was finally wheeled into my hospital room after surgery..there was flowers from her already waiting..
I am blessed