"Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity." ~ Gilda Radner

Friday, March 04, 2011


Once upon a March 4th dreary
Two folks pondered, weak and weary,
How love had mistreated them thus far
And soothed their loneliness at a local eatery.

I know.

The words "far" and "eatery" don't rhyme.

But is it really wise to splash across the blogosphere that my husband and I met 31 years ago today at a bar?

Granted, it was 1980. Rural Iowa. I was a news reporter.  He was a construction worker. The local tap was where people went to unwind after a long day's work.

I was there chillin' with a couple news reporter pals, and John was playing pool with his best friend, Les.  


He, a carpenter, strong and able,
Happened by the writer's table
Where she, an ornery but kindhearted lass,
Spilled gallons of tears into her glass.

Shoulda been a red flag for John. But love at first sight is often blind.

He had noticed from across the room
That a phonecall, indeed, had caused her gloom.
Guessing what it had been about
He simply said, "He's not worth the pout."

We didn't have cell phones back in the old days.  Apparently he had spied me standing at the nearby payphone earlier.  I know. I know. One should never call their ex-boyfriend after a toddy or two. But I was young and naive.

Slowly, the writer gazed up at him --
Longish hair, wire glasses, slim;
In an instant she recognized his face!
He was her cute neighbor!  Her heart did race!

John was also wearing his Army jacket. Combined with the wire rims, he reminded me a little bit of Radar O'Reilly from MASH.  So earnest. Well-meaning.  And from Iowa, to boot.

Suffice to say, this Cincinnati Kid was immediately smitten.

A couple of Cokes the carpenter ordered.
They bared their souls 'bout past relationships assorted.
Each had played love's game and lost,
Both tired of the battles' cost.

Cue Pat Benatar's "Love Is A Battlefield".

The hour grew late; the clock struck two;
A bond had formed like Crazy Glue.
Made a date for the next day as they departed.
Bloom in love, and oh, so lighthearted.

Three years later to the day,
The couple celebrates in their favorite way.
They toast their meeting, their friendship, their life.
He, her husband; she, his wife.

"Three" is not a typo.  I originally penned this poem 28 years ago.

Needs a little updating as to how we now observe our anniversary of the day we met.  Goes something like this:

Thirty one years later to the day
The couple would celebrate but they can't stay awake.
She's bloggin' on the 'puter; he's making sure the dishes are clean.
Tonight he'll be firing up the CPAP machine.

Original ending:

The bond holds strong, so goes the lore.
"Will it last?" some folks ask.
Quoth the carpenter and the writer,

Current spin:

It's been a long three decades
Since the day we met.
Does the bond still hold strong?
Quoth the carpenter and the writer,
"Like shoes of cement."

But in a good way, right honey?

Love, Bunny.

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