First Comes Love

2nd Lieutenant Linda Nevills

USAF

Mom and Dad were married on September 12, 1970.  They were both 26, but Mom was six weeks older than Dad, a fact he brought up each birthday when he was making his point that she really had robbed the cradle.  They were in the Air Force, stationed in Biloxi, Mississippi, he a Captain, she a 2^nd Lieutenant.  Mom had been concerned that a judge would not marry them since Dad was Filipino and she was Caucasian, and this was the South during what was still the Civil Rights Era. 

They officially met on a blind date, but Dad later confessed he went to check her out before hand at the Officers’ Club.  He must have liked what he saw.  Anyway, they were married not long after.  By Mom’s own admission, it was love at first sight, but she tended to play that side of it down.  When I asked her how they each knew they’d met “The One,” Mom replied, “Well, I guess we just figured this was our last chance; who else were we going to marry?”   But I remember they held hands often in the car, that they swayed together in the kitchen when there was no music, and enjoyed their coffee together in the evenings.

Mom sewed her own wedding dress and veil.  Her mother was there, but not her father.  Her sister, Nancy, was maid of honor, and her brother, Joe, gave her away.  Within a year, she was cheerfully pregnant, out of the military, and inclined to believe she was the luckiest woman in the world.  I know because she told me so.

September 12, 1970

I clearly lack Mom’s gift for taking life as it comes.  I am a planner, an organizer, a “bossy pants” as my brothers and sisters might say when they are being generous.  My junior year of college, I was an editor on our school newspaper and I had it all figured out; I was returning to Seattle to work as an exotic food and travel writer for Gourmet magazine, and to live in a little loft apartment above a French bakery where I would spend my time when I was not traveling, writing late into the night and being famous.   Never mind that I’d never written about food; I was fairly skilled at eating.  Never mind that I had no job offers; something would happen.  Something did.

I met James in October of that year.  He was a lanky pre-med student from Arkansas, and he was discussing plans to go to a Halloween party with Katrina, my vivacious, redheaded roommate.  As was her custom, she was talking a mile a minute, finalizing the details about their costumes as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.  “Wait,” he interrupted frowning.  “Now, you would be Dorothy, right?”

I had never met anyone quite like him.  He was smart, but never took anything too seriously, least of all himself.  James was a sophomore then, a biochemistry major who drove a soft-top Amigo, listened to Pearl Jam and U2, but knew all the words to Abba songs.  He was wary of new foods, had no desire to travel outside the United States (having done that already), and – the ultimate blow to my ego -- didn’t even know our college had a newspaper.  In those days, he could eat an entire extra-large pizza and still be hungry, but he offered me some anyway.  He studied, but not overly hard, and still made decent grades.  His idea of a romantic date was a Jim Carrey movie followed by a drive to the kiddie park at Oklahoma City’s Lake Hefner, or else a professional hockey game where he would stand up and do the YMCA all by himself between periods.  He sent me dozens of red roses for my birthday with the note, “The white ones are for all the times I don’t think of you.”  He was very persuasive.  He was hoping to get into med school in either Oklahoma or Arkansas, a commitment of eight years and then some.  He didn’t fit into my plans at all.

A month after we started dating, I called Mom and told her I thought I’d met someone I could see myself married to for the rest of my life.   Mom seemed happy and oddly relieved, and now that I also have a bossy-pants daughter, I know why: because James, who took nothing too seriously, would hardly allow me to take myself too seriously.  He certainly had no intention of doing so.  

One of our first arguments as a married couple centered around the fact that James would never return his toothbrush or the soap to their respective holders, but allowed them to rattle around the sink bowl whenever he finished with them.  I can’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was scathing.  The next morning I walked into the bathroom expecting to find matters aright.  Sure enough, the sink was empty.  The toothbrush was laid neatly across the soap dish and the soap was balanced delicately on the toothbrush holder.   

Subsequent arguments boiled down to my inherent belief that I knew everything and we should do things my way.  James’s problem resolution relied more on a positive-action-oriented approach: basically, that of saying, “Yes!” to any crazy idea.  Problem resolved.  The more ridiculous the plan, the more enthusiastic he was.  Buy miniature donkeys and let them roam free on our 70 acres?  DONE!   Completely gut and renovate an 1865 train depot into a guesthouse ourselves?  Bring it on.  Miniature horses?  Chickens?  Goats?  Rabbits?  Why not?  Dig our own pond with heavy-duty equipment that could easily roll and kill the operator?  Who wants to drive first?  Disney World even though Martha loathes theme parks?  Let’s go twice!  In one year!  Build a firing range and get guns for everyone?  Yee-haw!    

Granted, not all of James’s ideas have been unqualified successes.  I have tentatively titled a paper on one such abject failure, “Blankety-Blank Blank Donkeys,” or something like that.  Ever the optimist, he is quick to point out, “There are no failures.  Only learning experiences.”  I haven’t figured out what we were supposed to learn from the donkeys yet.  But since donkeys can live up to 25 years, I should have ample time to discover it.

Martha and James

Oddly enough, and in spite of the fact that I sometimes feel I might have a legitimate point that's being overlooked somewhere, I don't think I've lost too much.  Sure, I live with more animals than Noah did.  I sweep up enough dog hair from my kitchen floor every day to cover a whole other dog.  Travel is limited to road trips to Kansas City where they have a Costco, and our 16th anniversary dinner was at Freddy's Steakburgers.  Life is good.  In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion I might be the luckiest woman in the world.

Of course, I couldn’t help myself.  I asked James once when he knew that he loved me.  He grinned and said – with all the romantic devotion I have since come to expect from him, “When you told me I did.”