Twenty-five Years

Dear Readers: In case you haven’t been keeping track, here comes Friday Letter #107. Enjoy!

Twenty-five years

The first time I laid eyes on Laura Ellen Robinson was late in the summer of 1982.

“Lori,” as she was called at that time, had just landed a job as a hostess at “The Gemini” restaurant in Wheat Ridge.

I had just returned to work as the baker for Dewey Dutton’s wildly successful bi-polar vegetarian/steak eaters’ bistro. I’d been home recovering from a motorcycle crash when Laura was hired.

When Laura walked toward me in the hallway to the kitchen, I muttered under my breath, “There’s a sweetie for ya.”

Little did I know.

Neither of us would say necessarily now that we believe in love at first sight. Except in our case, it was pretty much love at first sight.

After what I thought was an appropriate “get acquainted at work” passage of time, I began following Laura around the restaurant, from one hostess station to the next, intent on asking her for a date.

Every time I approached, she would become startled and quickly dart away, an avoidance reaction that only increased my ardor.

Finally, I stepped in front of her and forced her to come to a standstill. I looked in those big beautiful blue eyes and asked, “Would you like to go have a cocktail after work?”

With a mischievous smile, she said, “I’m not old enough.”

She was 20. I was 40. Even though she was under legal age, after work we went to Etta’s Bar a short distance down Wadsworth Boulevard and had a cocktail. And no, she didn’t get carded.

Laura had come to Denver to stay temporarily with her sister and husband. She had gone into hiding to avoid a poor mistaken but dangerous young man she had met in California.

She and I went on several “dates,” not always to Etta’s. I have fond memories of visiting Buffalo Bill’s grave; Laura let me drive her sister’s Mustang up into the foothills and back. (Did you know that, Darlene?)

Because she was a hostess and not a waitress, Laura couldn’t make much money at the Gemini. She didn’t really want to impose on her sister for too long, but couldn’t really afford her own apartment either.

By and by, her parents suggested that she move back to Boise and live there again for a short time. They came from Idaho to pick her up.

The night before she was to depart, she and I went to Etta’s to enjoy a farewell drink. I managed to spill an entire glass of beer on her. She surely smelled like a brewery when she returned to her waiting family that night.

I definitely didn’t want her to leave at that point. I had become fond of her company. Very fond. Laura had obediently acceded to her parents’ wisdom, and I had resigned myself to that fact.

Hindsight shows it was appropriate for us to take a break at that point.

I was also acutely aware of the potentiality that I might never see Laura again. Hoping to continue in her acquaintance, I had given her my brother’s telephone number and my mailing address. Off she went to Idaho.

A Christmas gift

On Christmas Day 1982 the phone rang at Dick’s house, and Mary handed the receiver to me. It was Laura calling from her grandparents’ mobile home in Boise, where she had taken up yet another temporary residence.

She called me. I was floored. Dumbfounded. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. She called me.

We half-seriously discussed moving together to Flagstaff, where I had a standing invitation to work in a bakery at Little America.

I spent the rest of that holiday in a daze, a dreamy fog.

There followed an exchange of typed and handwritten letters and many phone calls. I remember specifically stopping to use the pay phone at Schwarz’s Market just down the street from my apartment in Brighton.

That long-distance courtship finally came to a close on March 15, 1983, when Laura arrived in Brighton – driving her own well-worn 1967 Mustang across Wyoming to get there.

Since that day, we’ve pretty much been constant companions. We are friends, buddies, business partners, lovers. And we benefit beyond description from the bond of Holy Matrimony.

We were married in Boise on July 21, 1984. Performing the rite was the Rev. Bob Wecker, Laura’s uncle. He was stern, to say the least. “If you can’t look me in the eyes and say you agree with my requirements, I will not perform this marriage,” he said. He meant it.

This next week, we celebrate our 25th anniversary. The success of our marriage has been dependent on intense effort and dedication from both of us.

We have not had an easy row to hoe. We have faced huge obstacles, including family problems (my family) and simply being able to make enough money to pay the bills.

We moved to California in 1986 for a “new start” and after a few months of motorcycling bliss we both got laid off our jobs on the same day.

Tails between our legs, we moved back to Colorado and with the help of family (my family) we opened our own business.

Only four years into our marriage, we started our own “destination niche” business. If that ain’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is. But it hasn’t been a disaster, it’s been a blast.

Why success?

Several factors have contributed to the fact that Laura and I have been able to remain married for all that time.

Primarily, Laura’s parents, Doris and Ellwyn, receive the credit. Doris was skillfully intuitive, and she saw through me immediately.

Years later, she told me, “Lori saw something in you. I simply supported her in what she saw.”

I know I didn’t look like a real bargain. I was twice Laura’s age. I was divorced. I was emotionally devastated, exhausted, defeated, ruined. Confused. Baffled.

I had this long hair thing, a beard thing, a Harley-Davidson thing, a leather thing. I was rough, coarse, rude, full of false bravado. I was listening over and over to Bob Seger’s anthem, “Against the Wind.”

In spite of all this, and following Doris’ lead, the Robinson family enfolded me. I wasn’t accustomed to that, and it felt good. It was the beginning of the making of me. They testified to me by their actions rather than by talk. Laura and her family became the light of my life.

One more thing

Late in 1999, a strange thing happened to me, to us. One night at dinner, out of the blue, I said, “We need to start going to church.”

We both looked around the room and asked each other, “Who said that?” It was I, but it wasn’t something anyone anywhere had ever heard me say before.

Suffice to say, I’d received a grace; I had been enabled; I could listen to the Holy Spirit. After some false starts and thrashing around, we found ourselves at St. Peter Roman Catholic Church on the first Sunday in this century.

Ten years later, we’re still there. We are hyperactive Catholics, and our marriage is blessed by the Church.

This event isn’t just an important thing in our marriage. It is THE important thing. Our union is still far from perfect, and we each make mistakes, but as married Catholics we share a fullness, a wholeness, a wholesomeness – yes, even a holiness.

The renewal of our vows, marking 25 years, is scheduled for 7 a.m. Mass July 19. We wanted this ceremony to be a public one so that we could give visible testimony to the priceless blessing God gives us humans, the blessing of Holy Matrimony, of Holy Matrimony Catholic style.

Be there or be square.

-0-

Word of the week: Conversion. It’s from Latin, “conversio,” change. Most commonly, it means a change from lack of faith to belief. It means adoption of a religion, especially Christianity. It means to change from one belief, religion, doctrine, or opinion, to another. I’ve never felt like a “convert” to Catholicism. I’ll write about that some time.

Next week’s word: Flabbergasted.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!