dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with valentine's day

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
Tomorrow I’ll miss you,
Remember I’ll always be true.
And then while I’m away,
I’ll write home every day,
And send all my loving to you.

I’ll pretend that I’m kissing
The lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true.
And then while I’m away,
I’ll write home every day,
And send all my loving to you.

All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving, darling I’ll be true.
(All My Loving: Lennon & McCarthy – 1964)

For the past seven years I’ve written Valentine blogs to my wife Kathleen. Beginning in 2007, these essays and stories became a better alternative than agonizing over finding a suitable gift that would convey my love and affection. Chocolate candy and a card might have been fine when we were dating, but a wonderful wife, and great mother, deserved something more substantial. So, except for a slip-up in 2011, I’ve been writing love stories of past and present events. This year, as I prepared to write another, I was struck by the fact that Kathy and I are fast approaching a significant milestone. Next year, 2015, we will have been married for 40 years! This means that I have been in love with Kathleen for even longer – 42 years, to be exact. But, since I didn’t meet Kathy until after February 14^th of 1973, we’ve only celebrated 41 Valentine Days together. These numbers and dates again got me thinking about our first year together, how we met, the dates we had, and how we have changed over the years. I especially recalled the summer of ’73, when I came to fully realize that, for the first time in my life, I was completely and hopelessly in love.

Wedding Date

I have no memory of that Kathy-less Valentine’s Day in 1973. In fact, thinking back now, I’m pretty sure I did everything to ignore it. You see I was going through some major emotional convulsions at the time. A relationship with a female teacher at school had ended badly, and I was generally unhappy with the current course of my life. I fell into teaching quite accidently after being discharged from the Air Force. I took the job because a position as an instructor at my Alma Mater was eminently more desirable than one at the burglar alarm company I worked at during college. But teaching at a Catholic high school was never the ultimate vision of my future. After a year of teaching, I decided to return to UCLA, seeking an MA in Latin American Studies. My plan was to pursue a diplomatic career in the Foreign Service of the State Department after graduation. To refresh my knowledge of the language, history, and culture of Mexico, I decided to travel to Mexico City that summer and take some courses at the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico (UNAM). Plus, I thought it would be fun to visit and spend time with all my Mexican relatives, living in a city famous for charm, romance, and adventure. I even managed to convince my high school friend Greg to join me.

After graduating from the University of California in Riverside, Greg was teaching in a Catholic elementary school in Glendale, and contemplating a leap into public school education. He believed that qualifying as a bilingual instructor would be a wise career move and greatly enhance his prospective for the future. His thinking was to accompany me to Mexico and immerse himself in Spanish at the university and in the city. However, while these travel plans were moving forward smoothly, four long months of teaching school still loomed ahead. I found myself feeling more and more restless, and impatient for a meaningful relationship. In desperation, I sought out my friends Sister Carol and Sister Marilyn of the Community of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ) in the lunchroom one afternoon, and asked them to introduce me to a 23-year old student-teacher they had spoken about by the name of Kathleen. I wrote an essay of this first encounter with Kathleen in a previous Valentine blog (You Look Wonderful Tonight). While I got some of the details right, two witnesses to the same events didn’t recall my descriptions or my behavior in quite the same way. Both Kathy and Sister Marilyn had totally different pictures of the nervous and overly talkative young man who was clearly trying too hard to impress a certain young woman.

This brings me to the point where I have to confess that despite my best efforts, my recollection of many past events have slowly faded and changed with time. Although I can sometimes zero in on the dates and facts of some events, specific details become hazier and hazier. One would think that bringing together the people who were actually present would be a successful method for piecing together the true story. But I’ve found that even this stratagem can prove problematic. For example, I could never convince my friends Jim and Greg that they attended my graduation ceremony at UCLA in 1970. No amount of details could shake their firm conviction of never having been there. I finally had to show them a photograph taken by my father. It showed me standing in my commencement gown, surrounded by these two high school friends, and a third, Wayne Wilson, with Pauley Pavilion in the background. Only then did they finally concede that they must have been there. So memory can be uncertain and shaky grounds on which to base a supposedly factual story. Then, if you factor in volatile emotions, like love, anger, and depression, stories can become downright fanciful. You see, I’m no longer sure why I REALLY needed to go to Mexico. I seem to recall that I was all mixed up and dissatisfied with the current state of my personal and professional affairs. Sure I had friends in and out of school, and we would get together regularly on Fridays and weekends, but they were distractions at best. Friends and family couldn’t fill my need for something more, or someone special. I felt a great big void in my life, and there was nothing or no one to fill it. I’m pretty sure that I viewed my upcoming Mexico trip as an escape from my dilemma, and a romantic leap into the unknown.

The idea for this essay actually began with a silly spat Kathy and I had last year while watching television. I became angry and started scolding Kathy for persistently pressing me to explain myself. I’d done something that puzzled her, and she started questioning me about it, wanting to know my motivations and thought processes. I became annoyed over what I perceived as an overly aggressive, cross-examination.
“After all these years,” I concluded, impatiently, “you’d think that you’d finally stop asking me to explain myself. Sometimes I make thoughtless decisions, and the more I try explaining them, the more foolish I feel. I wish you’d stop it, because I feel you’re trying to indict me”.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Kathy responded, in a hurt tone. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh or critical. I just wanted to understand what you did, because I wanted to help. You know”, she added, as an aside, “you used to love those traits about me. I haven’t changed. And I know you felt that way about me, because you told me so in your letters”.

Those words brought me up short. First, I realized that she was right. Kathy hasn’t really changed in any significant way from the young woman I met in 1973. Yes, she has matured and evolved over the years, but essentially she remains the same girl I loved and married such a long time ago. She has always been curious about people and their actions, and interested in helping them. Secondly, she cited a source that I had completely forgotten about. You see, just 80 days after meeting Kathy in that CSJ convent in Westchester in 1973, I left for Mexico. Kathy’s remark about my letters gave me a window to my emotional state 41 years ago. That was the moment I decided that those letters would be the basis for this year’s Valentine.

Surprisingly, the 20-odd letters, postcards, and greeting cards, written and mailed during my 55-day sojourn in Mexico City, didn’t provide a lot of specific, day-to-day information. Instead they described how miserable and lonely I felt, and detailed how much I missed Kathleen; longing to be with her, talking to her, holding her, and kissing her. A quick synopsis of this correspondence reveals a lovesick young man who was constantly second guessing his reasons for going to Mexico. All my logical calculations and plans for the trip and the future had been short-circuited by a young woman. My lovelorn condition was obvious to Greg as soon as the bus left the terminal, and was confirmed throughout the tedious trip to Mexico City when I couldn’t stop talking about Kathleen and questioning my motives for leaving. Even though my grandmother, aunts, and uncles had been alerted to the existence of a novia (a “serious girlfriend”) by my mother, my obsessive need to write and receive letters, and arranging for long distance phone calls, immediately betrayed the depth of my feelings for her as well. Despite this lovesick malaise, I somehow managed to compartmentalize my feelings and emotions and followed through with our plans. My Aunt Totis helped enroll us into a full load of classes at UNAM, and then arranged Greg’s room and board with a Mexican family living near the university. We went to daily classes beginning at 8:00 am and usually finished by 2:00 pm, after which we usually traveled about the city, exploring the neighborhoods, the sights, mercados, cafes, and bars. When I wasn’t with Greg or in class, I also visited my aunts and uncles, and spent time with my adult cousins. In general, I came away with five impressions from those letters to Kathy:

First, these letters talked of my longings for Kathleen: how I missed her, longed to talk to her, be with her, hold her, and kiss her. Second, they described the uniqueness and strangeness of these feelings. I had never missed or longed for a girl like this before. I’d had girlfriends in high school and college; I’d traveled to Mexico twice before (after graduating from high school and college); and I’d written to these girls on those occasions. But those letters were callow and superficial expressions of what I was seeing and doing in Mexico, not betraying what I was feeling or missing. Writing to Kathy opened up whole new areas of honest expression and introspection. I spent less time reporting what I was doing in Mexico, and accentuated my love and longings. Third, the letters seem to describe one long period of absolute misery. Before reading these letters, I’d begun to nostalgically remember the trip to Mexico as a time when Greg and I youthfully frolicked around Mexico without a care in the world, cutting classes, traveling by bus and metro, and exploring the nefarious and risqué parts of town. It was only while I re-reading them that I relived the agonies I suffered, and realized what a lovelorn and boring travel companion I must have been for Greg. I noted that even my cousins mocked me throughout my stay, referring to my “novia, Kati” as my “prometida” (Spanish for “fiancé”). Fourth, and most shockingly, was my constant use of the “L” word. I vaguely recalled the first time I admitted to Kathy that I loved her. I think it was during a phone conversation (I doubt I would have confessed it face-to-face), prior to leaving for Mexico. I remember being very nervous and apprehension when I said something like, “Kathy, I think I’m in love with you”. But my letters left no doubt as to what I believed and was readily expressing in each letter and card I mailed – I loved Kathleen Greaney with all my heart, and wanted to be with her all the time. Fifth, and finally, I betrayed the insecurities and jealousies that plague men when separated from the object of their passion and desire. I confessed that I was hounded by visions of other men, more handsome, charming, and witty than I, who would benefit from my absence and sweep her off her feet.

Kathy 1

I thought about those letters from Mexico, and Kathy’s remark about not changing, for a long time. My first reaction was that I could not possibly be the same man who penned those romantic sentiments – but then I stopped. While I’m certainly older, slower, fatter, and less passionate than I was in 1973, I’m still madly in love with Kathleen and dread the idea of long separations from her (Just recalling the occasions Kathy traveled to Ireland and Switzerland without me sends shivers of loneliness and desperation down my spine). So, what has changed? Well, I’m no longer the passionate suitor who wanted to learn EVERYTHING he could about this beautiful girl who had come into my life. Back then I wanted to know about her family and friends, her past, her character and personality, and her likes and dislikes. This desire continued well into our honeymoon period in Santa Monica, our time of greatest learning, exploring, and experimentation. It wasn’t until the arrival of children that my focus began to shift away from her to the new interests of family, home, and careers. I think that was when I stopped being curious about Kathy, stopped studying her, and started taking her behaviors and her love for granted. I think Kathy was right when she said that she hasn’t changed all that much. Time and the challenges and adversities of life have certainly modified our behaviors and worn us down, but we’re still the same people, the same souls. Familiarity doesn’t so much breed contempt, as it dulls curiosity and dampens out desire to learn more about our mates. Perhaps that should be the purpose of Valentine’s Day for husbands and wives, and longtime mates – not to simply exchange gifts and expressions of love, but to renew its wonder.

The Couple

So on this Valentine’s Day, I want to confess that while I will never know everything there is to know about you, I promise to start paying more attention, and begin learning about you again, so that you will truly believe me when I say:

“I love you, Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you”.

August 1975

Day after day I must face a world of strangers
Where I don’t belong, I’m not that strong.
It’s nice to know that there’s someone I can turn to
Who will always care, you’re always there.

When there’s no getting over that rainbow
When my small lusty dreams won’t come true
I can take all the madness the world has to give
But I won’t last a day without you.
(I Won’t Last A Day Without You: Paul Williams - 1972

A few months ago I heard a song that stopped me cold. The lyrics shot right to my brain and glowed, as if highlighted with a fluorescent marker. Don Williams’ soft baritone painted an image that slowly materialized into a picture of my wife Kathleen and our life together. By the time Years From Now was over, I was lost in a hazy mist of memory and emotion, remembering how much in love I am with her, and how much I need her in my life – especially after almost 40 years together.

Until that moment, I could name only five songs that I’d call my love songs of Kathy. These are tunes that instantly created scenes, images, thoughts, and memories of her. Strangely, I can’t think of one that I’d call “our song”, or “our songs” during the years we dated and courted in the early 1970’s. Oh, don’t get me wrong; music was always the background score to our times together. I remember the rock and roll, and folk rock sounds of the 60’s and early 70’s ringing in my ears when I think of Kathy: the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor, and Carole King. Music was my excuse for getting romantic, holding her hand, wrapping my arms around her, and kissing her. But I hadn’t found the lyrics of any particular song to provoke thoughts of Kathy until after we were married in 1975. The first song to really create such an image of Kathy, and my feelings for her, was Mary Travers’ rendition of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.

We were in the Van Nuys Tower record store on Ventura Boulevard when Kathy’s brother Greg called me over to the Used Records department. “You gotta’ buy this one,” he said, handing me a used album with the picture of Mary Travers on the cover. “It’s her first solo album,” he explained. I was already a great fan of the Peter, Paul, and Mary trio, and agreed with Greg’s assessment that Travers was their best singer. I think I paid two dollars for the record, and couldn’t wait to hear it when we got home. It wasn’t until I flipped the record over and played the B-side that I heard the tune I associate with Kathy even today. I could have dictated every word, because they described exactly how I felt when I first saw Kathy’s face, kissed her mouth, and laid by her side.

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gift you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love,
That was there at my command.

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heartbeat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth
And would last till the end of time my love,
And would last till the end of time.
(The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: Ewan MacColl – 1957)

A few years later, I heard the second love song on the car radio as I drove home from work. Paul Williams’ The Lady is Waiting was the sign-off theme of a radio program I listened to on my long drive home from West Hollywood, during our third year of marriage. We had just moved from our honeymoon apartment in Santa Monica to our first home in the San Fernando Valley, a few months before the birth of Toñito. I sang the lyrics to that song (as best I could) every workday for one year as I wound along the curving road of Coldwater Canyon and inched through the straight lanes of the 101 Freeway. I stopped only when I got a new job teaching at Van Nuys High School, which was only 10 minutes away from our home, and ceased listening to the program. The song went like this:

Brighter than sunshine reflected on water,
The smile of the lady is gracious and warm.
Though she’s a woman
She laughs like a child at play.
And the lady is waiting
At the end of my day.

Waits at the doorstep and says that she loves me
And wants me to tell her that I love her too
If I have troubles I know she will wish them away.
And the lady is waiting
At the end of my day.

Waiting to comfort me if I am weary
Eases my mind
Waiting to comfort me,
Ready to cheer me,
Ever so gentle and kind, and kind.

Sharing my secrets and wishing my wishes
A whisper of summer is there in her smile.
Softly reflecting our love in the things that we say
And the lady is waiting
At the end of the day.
(The Lady Is Waiting: Paul Williams – 1972)

That song made me a fan of Paul Williams – something few men would admit in the 1970’s. Williams was a pop singer/songwriter, the man who wrote many of the hits for Three Dog Night, The Carpenters, Helen Reddy, and Barbara Streisand. He came along just at the right time for me. Songs like We’ve Only Just Begun and You and Me Against the World, seemed to describe the new home and family Kathy and I were just starting. It was while listening to the three Paul Williams’ albums I purchased in 1974, that I also found Kathy’s third song, I Won’t Last A Day Without You. The truth of this song became apparent to me every day as Kathy and I experienced the problems and difficulties that came with new careers, raising two children, and dealing with unforeseen emergencies. I’d always imagined that the man and husband, with his “small lusty dreams” in hand, dealt with all the tough issues, while the wife and mother took care of the children. Well I quickly learned that I couldn’t handled those situations alone, and never had to. Kathy was always with me, leading the charge, standing by my side, or backing me up. We were beginners, lovers, and parents; we were a pair, a partnership – a marriage. Paul Williams’ songs best described those times and those feelings for me.

I don’t recall the exact sequence of events that brought Kathy’s fourth song to my attention. I think it was around the time of our 20^th Wedding Anniversary (1995), when we were driving home from Northern California during a get-away weekend. Toñito and Prisa were in high school at the time, and Kathy had borrowed a cassette tape of Eric Clapton’s Slow Hand album. I became a fan of Eric Clapton in a very roundabout way. While recognizing his early contributions to rock and roll in the 1960’s, I only really started liking his work, when I heard Tears In Heaven on the Unplugged album in 1992. My devotion to him only increased when I discovered his close ties to the Blues in albums like From The Cradle in 1994 and Riding With The King in 2000. Learning of my interest in Clapton, Kathy had borrowed an audiocassette from Liz Killmond, a daughter of her friend Mary. While most of the tunes in the 1977 album were only so-so, in my opinion, the lyrics of one song, Wonderful Tonight, had the same inexplicable impact as the songs of Paul Williams seventeen years before.

It’s late in the evening; she’s wondering what clothes to wear.
She puts on her make-up and brushes her long blonde hair.
And then she asks me, “Do I look all right?”
And I say, “Yes, you look wonderful tonight”.

We go to a party and everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady that’s walking around with me.
And then she asks me, “Do you feel all right?”
And I say, “Yes, I feel wonderful tonight”.

I feel wonderful because I see
The love light in your eyes.
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don’t realize how much I love you.

It’s time to go home now and I’ve got an aching head,
So I give her the car keys and she helps me to bed.
And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,
I say, “My darling, you were wonderful tonight.
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight.”
(Wonderful Tonight: Eric Clapton – 1974)

The song merely described one evening in the life of a husband taking his wife to a party, but it was a facsimile of the many times I’d gone on a date, to a party, or to dinner with Kathy. Inevitably she would ask, “How do I look?” And I would always answer honestly with, “You look wonderful!” Clapton set those simple words and feelings to music and forever memorialized how I felt about Kathy when we went out.

I heard the fifth love song on December 30, 2007, at Catalina’s Bar and Grill. Kathy had arranged the evening of dinner and jazz as her Christmas gift to me (and us). I’d been captivated with Catalina’s ever since our first time there in April of 2003, when I took Kathy to celebrate the 30^th anniversary of our first date in 1973. The food, atmosphere, and music had been magical, and the songs performed by Peter Cincotti, memorialized the evening. In 2007 we heard another singer, Tierney Sutton, introducing a song by Allen and Marilyn Bergman called On My Way To You. Until that moment, I had not been particularly impressed with Sutton, but I was riveted by the words of the song. They seemed to explain the importance of every choice and every event in my life, even the negative ones, and how necessary they were for my meeting Kathy in 1973.

So often as I wait for sleep
I find myself reciting
The words I’ve said or should have said
Like scenes that need rewriting.

The smiles I never answered
Doors perhaps I should have opened
Song forgotten in the morning.

I relive the roles I’ve played
The tears I may have squandered
The many pipers I have paid
Along the road I’ve wandered.

Yet all the time I knew it
Love was somewhere out there waiting
Though I may regret a kiss or two

If I had changed a single day
What went amiss or went astray
I may have never found my way to you.

I wouldn’t change a thing that happened
On my way to you
(On My Way To You: Marilyn & Allen Bergman – 1987)

I was so moved by those lyrics that I wrote an essay about the song and posted it for Valentine’s Day in 2008 (see On My Way To You). I thought that song pretty much closed the door on any new love songs I would find for Kathy. The songs I’d chosen over the years covered so many aspects of our relationship, and my feelings about Kathy, that I didn’t think there would be any new revelations after 40 years – but then I heard Don Williams.

Don Williams was one of the country western artists who was in the last group of vinyl records I converted for my brother-in-law, Greg (see A Good Day For Me). Although I liked all Williams’ music and songs, I didn’t pay attention to the lyrics while I converted them to digital form. It wasn’t until days later, as I was driving home late one evening, that I heard the words on my cars’ stereo:

Years from now,
I’ll want you years from now.
I’ll hold you years from now,
As I hold you tonight.

You are my one true friend,
Always my one true friend,
And I’ll love you till life’s end,
As I love you tonight.

I know this world that we live in
Can be hard now and then,
And it will be again.
Many times we’ve been down.

Still love has kept us together
For the flame never dies.
When I look in you eyes
The future I see.

Holding you years from now.
Wanting you years from now.
Loving you years from now,
As I love you tonight.
(Years From Now: C. Cochran & R. Cook - 1981)

As the words and melody faded, I sat transfixed in the car. The singer told of the youthful exuberance of first love, the satisfaction of overcoming hardships together during marriage, and the hope of keeping the passions of love alive, many “years from now”. But I was luckier than the singer. I was able to be in the three places he described. I had expressed those same “lusty dreams” of keeping our love alive in the early days of our courtship, and when we raised a family. Now, as a much older man, the song filled me with the satisfaction of being able to look back at our life together and say:

“I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you.”

Travelin’ light, is the only way to fly
Travelin’ light, just you and I
One-way ticket to ecstasy
Way on down, follow me.
Travelin’ light, we can go beyond

Travelin’ light, we can catch the wind
Travelin’ light, let your mind pretend
We can go to paradise
Maybe once, maybe twice
Travelin’ light, is the only way to fly.
(Travelin’ Light: J.J. Cale – 1976)

Kathleen Mavourneen always likes to say that she and I travel well together. People who’ve known me for a long time, might consider that a strange thing to say, since I don’t really like traveling. By that I mean that I despise cruises, and I can rarely justify the expense of journeying to far off places in the world. Other people mistakenly assume that since I’ve retired from education, with a lot of free time on my hands, I must also be doing a lot of traveling. I don’t. I generally find traveling, and especially flying, to be a nuisance, troublesome, and expensive. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ll go to new cities and even a foreign country or two for a good reason – but those reasons needs to be personally compelling. Weddings, graduations, or anniversaries of family members or good friends are valid reasons to travel, as are funerals. I’ve traveled to see a bishop commissioned, and the opening of college-level, and Broadway-bound musical shows. Those reasons have taken Kathy and me to Washington D.C., Chicago, San Francisco, Savannah, Charleston, and New York – to name a few places. It was while visiting these locales over the course of our 36-year marriage that Kathy reached the conclusion that “we travel well together”. I’ve always agreed with the sentiment, but the words took on new meaning as I considered what to write about for Valentine’s Day, 2012. Suddenly the phrase seemed a fitting metaphor for our life together.

I discovered very early in my courtship of Kathy that she loved to travel – especially by car. When I first met her in 1973 she was driving all over the city (and state) in a bright orange Volkswagen Beetle. That was the last year she lived at home, just before moving into a Van Nuys apartment with her roommate Doris, a friend from college. She would drive from Sherman Oaks to graduate classes at Mount St. Mary’s College in Brentwood, then to Louis Pasteur Junior and Hamilton High School in West Los Angeles to do practice teaching, and then drop-in at the apartment convent of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet to visit Sisters Carol and Marilyn. However, it was only when I started dating Kathleen that I discovered how really important people, and traveling to see them, were to her. I found this out on the occasions I’d call to ask her out for a Friday night date, and then questioned her about what else she was doing that weekend. Kathy always volunteered too much information, but in those early days of our love affair I depended upon that naïve proclivity to spend more time with her. Innocently, she would tell me who she was visiting in different parts of the city that weekend, and where she was driving.
“I’d love to go along with you, if you’d like company?” I’d declare and implore in the same sentence. Thank God, more often than not, Kathy replied, “That’d be great!”
In that way I got to spend wonderful hours in close proximity to Kathy as we drove to see Jill and her parents in San Pedro, Nora and her parents in Los Feliz, or Frosty and her parents in Newport.

Another ploy I used to see more of Kathy on weekends would be to call and invite her for a morning or afternoon date someplace in the city, and then ask her what else she wanted to do that day. Kathy always came up with a place or person she wanted to see and visit. Sometimes she would play the “let’s drop-in and visit” game – which she still reprises today. No matter where we were in the city, I could always count on Kathy knowing a friend or relative who lived nearby.
“Jerry and Linda live near Echo Park, don’t they?” She’d ask as we drove along the 101 Freeway. “Let’s drop-in and say hello.” Or while driving through Inglewood, she might announce, “Sister Carol’s sister, Judy lives nearby, let’s drop-in and say hello.”
I’d always say, “sure”, and went along for the ride. I wasn’t lying or pretending. I truly enjoyed meeting Kathy’s friends and acquaintances because it let me discover more about this girl I was in love with, and also revealed more of myself to her and her friends. I think these excursions around the city were the beginning of our “traveling well”. The process was mutually enjoyable for both of us, and mutually revealing to each of us.

I suppose our first real trips together were our honeymoon to Carmel, and our one-year wedding anniversary to San Francisco. Those were the trips we spent exclusively together and they were fabulous. In many ways they were simply extensions of our dating conversations and our driving dates around Los Angeles. We would decide on the tours and activities of the day as we went along. Those trips were our first attempts at improvisational travel and spontaneous sightseeing. I loved constructing a day in a new city with Kathy. We’d usually start with a brainstorming session the night before, or during breakfast, spouting out the different places and things we’d like to see or do – including the activities we’d like doing alone. I don’t remember when the inclusion of those solitary breaks first occurred, because it seemed like they were always mentioned. They were our private times to sit and read, times to do crossword puzzles, or times to walk alone, thinking, while gazing out at the beach or scenery. I think our ability to be good traveling companions, as well as lovers, took root in those first two years of marriage and travel. I have passionate and wistful memories of both places.

On our honeymoon, we stayed in a luxurious cabin that was part of the Quail Lodge complex in Carmel Valley. The wooden ceiling soared upward, and a patio glass doorway overlooked the lush fairways and gardens of the golf club. There we lounged around in monogrammed bathrobes discussing where to go, what to see, and what to do in all the nearby areas. We never planned or predicted where our united lives would lead, but simply trusted in our new partnership. We took languid walks, hand-in-hand through Old Carmel, peering through windows and shopping in the cottage-like stores and boutiques that lined the cypress-shaded streets. It was while strolling on the white beaches of Carmel by the Sea that I confessed to Kathy that the Quail Lodge had not been my first choice for our honeymoon residence. I’d wanted to reserve a room at the famous Del Monte Lodge in Pebble Beach, but found the cost too prohibitive. Kathy smiled at my desire to impress her with such a luxurious hotel, and countered that we didn’t need to register to enjoy the accommodations and view. She proposed that during our 17-mile drive through Pacific Grove, we stop at the Del Monte Lodge for drinks or lunch. And that’s what we did. Lounging in elegant white deck chairs we surveyed the marvelous vista of the golf course and the Pacific Ocean, imagining that we were part of the Bing Crosby Clambake waiting to hear of the tournament’s results. The following year in San Francisco we stayed at the St. Frances Hotel in Union Square. There again we did a lot of walking, visiting Fisherman’s Wharf, exploring Chinatown, and wandering through the North Beach area. San Francisco would always remain my number one idea for a December birthday gift for Kathy. However, as the years progressed, and Toñito and Prisa joined the family, we spent more time holding our children’s hands than each other’s. But Kathy and I always made time every year for some kind of a weekend getaway – a weekend to Santa Barbara, San Diego, or San Luis Obispo, or just an overnight stay in Hollywood or downtown L.A. There we’d practice our improvisational skills all over again and explore the local cities as if they were exotic ports-of-call.

I think we first really took note of our spontaneous traveling style during our trip to Chicago in 2003. Toñito and Prisa had graduated from college by then and were pursuing independent careers. Kathy and I were just coming to grips with a life without children at home. She had received word that her nephew Jeff was performing in the Broadway-bound production of Stephen Sondheim’s Bounce at the Goodman Theatre. Although the musical would never reach the Broadway stage, the multitude of benefits such a trip offered were simply too good to pass up. We could explore the many sights of Chicago, see Jeff in a brand new Sondheim musical, and visit his wife Lynne and their two girls, Grace and Constance, at Northwestern University. I think Kathy first coined the phrase that we traveled well together during that trip. We stayed at the Chicago Renaissance Hotel in The Loop because it was close to the Goodman and all the great tourist locations. While only in the city for three nights we packed in an incredible amount of serendipitous sightseeing and travel. Starting on the afternoon we arrived, we walked along the riverfront’s Wacker Drive to Lake Shore Drive, and happened upon Grant Park just as it was hosting the Taste of Chicago festival. It seemed everywhere we turned there was something new and wonderful to see and visit, and since Prisa accompanied us on this trip, her company allowed more flexibility of movement. Together we all took the Navy Pier boat ride to see the Chicago skyline from the darkness and serenity of Lake Michigan. One day Prisa and I paired off to photograph Buddy Guy’s Legends while Kathy spent time alone, and on another day, she and Prisa climbed to the Sear’s Tower, while I wandered The Loop alone. We simply ran out of time to do everything we wanted.

However, the one trip that really set the benchmark for traveling well together was New York City. I’ve documented that serendipitous 2009 trip in this blog (see NYC 1: A Hellva Town and NYC 2: Start Spreading the News), and it still remains the most magical trip we’ve taken together. Everything just fell into place in Manhattan, and everything we did was perfect.

As I conclude this Valentine essay, I should confess that I started it filled with trepidation. A Valentine’s Day card is supposed to be about LOVE, and I’ve spent this whole time writing about travel and improvisation. My four previous blogging efforts (see tag: Valentine) have concentrated on that one word, love. Those essays focused on the early years of our relationship when we were so passionately and ardently in love that it almost hurt to experience it. But children changed that. The love that was so exclusively reserved for each other was slowly spread to include one, then two more people. In some ways those middle years made our life comfortable and predictable. For 10 years Kathy was a stay-at-home mom, volunteering at the children’s school and carting the kids to the homes of friends, or to practices of soccer, swimming, and children’s theatre. I pursued a career in education and administration, making time to share and participate in all the children’s activities and performances. Later, Kathy returned to teaching, eventually becoming principal of the same school. Over time, the white heat of passion that consumed those first three years of marriage settled into the constant flame and warmth of family life. It was as though the amorous desires that erupted when we dated and honeymooned, had settled into a glowing and comfortable campfire that still shot off spontaneous sparks as we journeyed through life. We experienced those flashes on all our trips – especially in the moments we adlibbed. Improvisation has always been a hallmark of our relationship and our love for each other. We practiced it when we dated, when we traveled, and throughout our marriage. Yet, I decided to call this essay Traveling Light. I chose the title after recording and listening to a song from one of my brother-in-law Greg’s vinyl albums, called Troubadour by J.J. Cale. The lyrics seemed to fit what is happening to us. With Toñito and Prisa leading separate lives and our own career goals met, Kathy and I are experiencing some adjustments in our style of living and traveling. If this life is a journey, then we are surely traveling light into the days that follow, because there are only the two of us on that road again.

On this Valentine’s Day of 2012, I just want to say, “I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you.”

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command my love,
That was there at my command.

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heartbeat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth
And would last till the end of time my love,
And would last till the end of time.
(The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, written by Ewan MacColl: 1957)

The only time I was truly jealous of Kathy was when I saw her with Toñito in the days after his birth. She would be sitting up in her hospital bed, looking down at the blanketed infant with the black shock of hair, or later, sitting back on the couch in our living room. A radiant look of such intimacy and tenderness shone from her face as she looked down at her son that an invisible force field of loving exclusivity barred me from approaching. There was something physical and tangible in the connection I felt between Kathy and her first-born child. It was a phenomenon that I had never seen or experienced before, and it confused me. We had been married for three years, sharing the 9-month pregnancy, talking about the phases Kathy was going through, measuring the physical changes, and anticipating the discomforts. I held Kathy’s hand during the nightlong labor, releasing it only when she was wheeled into the operating room for an emergency Caesarian birth. At first I thought this unique linkage between mother and child had to be about breastfeeding, but that notion disappeared when Kathy gave me Toñito’s graveyard feeding so she could have an uninterrupted night’s sleep. No, I was seeing more than a nutritional moment between mother and child, I was watching an emotional and psychic bonding that I could never be a part of. From that moment, I knew that my exclusive hold on Kathy’s affection had ended forever. With the birth of our first child, the honeymoon, and my sole provenance to Kathy’s heart was over.

We had a two-year honeymoon. That’s the only way to describe the idyllic two years we spent in the two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment in Santa Monica. It was the perfect place to begin a marriage, discovering one another, and starting a family. The apartment was part of a grey, sun-bleached, 18-unit complex on the east side of Ocean Avenue, across the street from Palisades Park, and a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Our doorway exited into a narrow courtyard with decorative patio furniture arranged around two small, widely spaced trees. I never saw anyone sitting in those chairs, or using that area. When the residents wanted to relax or take in the sun (and sunset) they left the complex, crossed the street, and lounged on the lush green grass, gazing at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, or walking along the 5-mile gravel path that extended from San Vicente Boulevard to Colorado Avenue. I don’t recall ever being angry or unhappy there. Even during our second year, when I was struggling to acclimatize myself to the disciplinary trials of teaching troubled adolescents in an “opportunity” public school (I had taught in a Catholic high school the year before), simply crossing the street to breathe in the fresh, clean, ocean breezes, and absorbing the setting sun, erased all my worries and filled me with blissful tranquility. This was a time when nothing existed outside of our relationship, when Kathy was the whole focus of my life, and we did everything together.

Husbands and wives don’t like admitting it, but even after a long courtship (two years in our case) and countless formal and informal dates, family gatherings, and telephone calls, a man and a woman begin a marriage as total strangers. Everything before the public statement of vows was pretend, everything after is for real. In that apartment in Santa Monica, Kathy and I became WE. We learned to sleep together, wake up together, dress together, eat together, watch television together, walk together, read together, talk together, and be silent and comfortable together. We were two young people learning how to live together.
“Kath, I didn’t know you hated coffee!”
“Tony, I have a confession to make. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand refried beans. I can’t take their smell, taste, or sight. Do you forgive me?”
“Kathy, do you remember how I used to tell you how I loved your perfume? Well, I was pretending, because I can’t smell a thing”.
I revealed all the hidden skeletons in my family’s closets, both the Mexican and American sides, and came to learn that Kathy had not exaggerated her stories of kith and kin. In those first two summers of our young adulthood we began the process that continues today, only then it was bright and sparkling.

During the quiet times in the Ocean Avenue apartment, when Kathy was reading or busy doing something domestic, I watched and secretly studied her. It was a wondrous opportunity to watch this tall, lithesome, and longhaired beauty bend, walk, dress, and comb her hair. I never tired of seeing Kathy’s fluid movements around the apartment – from bedroom to bathroom, from living room to kitchen. If I had my wish, she would never need to dress while in the apartment and I could watch her in her natural state all the time. But that was impractical, and Kathy simply laughed with embarrassment when I mentioned it.

Kathy was naturally outgoing and social, and she forced me out of my solitary and isolating habits by simply modeling her friendly and engaging behaviors. She loved to visit friends and family members, and for them to visit her. In Santa Monica, we learned how to entertain as a couple. When she invited friends and family members to visit, she really meant it. Her sisters, brothers, and friends became regular guests. Hosting Frosty, Carol and Marilyn, and Kathy’s siblings became a regular part of our life. Greg, her youngest brother, was attending UCLA as a senior at the time, so he became our most frequent visitor – bringing along his family’s proclivity for laughter, self-deprecating humor, and excellent stories.

Dinners were the only meals we ate regularly together. Since we both worked at different schools, breakfast was an on-the-run affair, and lunch was something we did at work. Dinner was our time together, either at home or in a restaurant. Actually, in those early days, it was easier to drive or walk to a restaurant than to prepare a meal. The Bellevue Restaurant on Ocean Avenue was our favorite place to go. The French cuisine was light and tasty, and I loved experimenting with new dishes like bouillabaisse or frogs legs. We also learned to shop together for groceries, maneuvering the supermarket aisles of Santa Monica and discovering our gastronomical likes, dislikes, and preferences. Thankfully Kathy took the lead in the cooking department and I was happy to devour anything she prepared.

We did a lot of walking in those days. If there were a lull in the day, if conversations, chores, or lesson plans became tiring or annoying, someone would suggest a walk. Suddenly the complexion of the day changed when we exited the apartment, and walked, hand in hand, along the palisades, or up Montana Avenue looking at houses and neighbors. Our usual destination was the liquor store and pharmacy on the corner of 7^th Street. At that point we sometimes bought something and then doubled back on Palisades or Alta Avenue. Occasionally we’d see Don Ameche, the film and radio star of the 1930’s and 40’s, taking his afternoon constitutional along Palisades. Walking gave us a chance to air out our differences, discuss our opinions or disagreements, and plan a course of action – for that day or the week. The future we discussed in other ways.

We didn’t pay much attention to finances during our first year together, because it didn’t seem important and we found that the two of us could live as cheaply as one – especially with Kathy working in a public high school. Her salary easily covered housing, transportation, and living expenses, while my wages from a Catholic high school barely took care of restaurants and entertainment. We paid the bills jointly because I wanted to learn the process, and budgeting consisted solely of maintaining a balanced checkbook – a frustrating operation that I never mastered. It was only in our second year of marriage, when I was hired by Los Angeles Unified School District, that we seriously began saving money by depositing my salary into a savings account. The plan was to eventually buy a house, although the time frame for that transaction was hazy - but we were in no hurry.

We learned to depend on each other more than we trusted long time friends, or relatives. A less romantic mind would say that a “partnership” was forming based on honesty and trust, and grounded in love. This was the alliance that became especially vital in later years. I gradually learned to communicate my anger, fears, and disappointments (despite my initial reluctance and stoic tolerance), and we grew in love for each other. My only apprehension was raising children. We spoke of “having” children as though it was a natural by-product of marriage, but the prospect of actually raising them was scary. The difficulties of parenting were exaggerated for me in 1976 when I began teaching in an “opportunity” junior high school. All my students were adolescents who had been “kicked out” of at least two schools before coming to us. They were hardcore disciplinary problems, emotional kids who acted out in anger and defiance. These children were so complex and resentful that I came to believe that it was impossible to raise any child correctly. There were too many genetic variables, too many emotional pitfalls, and too many unforeseen circumstances to guarantee a successful upbringing. Child rearing and parenting seemed an impossible task. Luckily our professions allowed us to observe the children we were teaching and listen to their stories. As I came to know and care for them in the course of the year, and they grew to trust me, my students began talking and showing me the awful consequences of poor adult decisions. The actions of their parents were so childish and arbitrary, that by the end of the school year, I announced to Kathy that I was absolutely sure that – with her as my partner – we could do a better job. In fact, I told her, I was convinced that as parents we were an excellent bet, a sure thing!

When I saw how the mere presence of that tiny, black-haired baby changed the emotional equation of our marriage, I was shocked. I thought a baby was simply the addition of one more person to the family. Together, in love and partnership, Kathy and I were suppose to raise them, play with them, educate them, and care for them. I failed to anticipate the unique connection that exists between a mother and her children, and I felt left out. Kathy carried Toñito for nine months and he (and later Prisa) was a physiological extension of her. She shared a bond with our children I would never have, and never really understand. Until that first child, our marriage had been a tandem enterprise, an emotional monopoly between Kathy and me. Family and friends, apartments and houses enhanced it, but never changed it. The birth of our children rewrote the relationship between Kathy and me. Toñito’s birth was a revolutionary event, a life-altering occasion. A part of Kathy’s body became whole and independent. In a way she became two people – she and her child. This phenomenon repeated with Prisa, but by then I had come to accept this special bond and adjusted to it. Kathy has a unique tie with our children. It’s a tie I no longer envy because it carries an emotional burden I could never sustain. Her psychic ties to Toñito and Prisa make her think of them, worry about them, and feel for them at any moment of the day. I established different connections with the children – but they are pale imitations when compared to Kathy’s physiological ties. My relationship with Toñito and Prisa is close and loving, but it’s different. Women have a greater capacity for loving, I think.

Thirty-two years have passed since that January day when I first saw Kathy and Toñito together. With Prisa’s marriage and my retirement this summer, I believe we are entering a new phase in our married life, a phase that again changes the dynamic of our relationship. It may be just as scary as when children were first added, because it seems to separate and isolate us. Our ability to respond to this new situation (Prisa married and I retired) really depends on the groundwork we laid over the past 35 years. I suppose the best way to describe it is by relating an incident that occurred on the first night of our trip to New York City. I remember it clearly because it was a moment of pure panic, and one I had experienced before. It happened in the Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle (see NYC 1: A Helluva Town), while Kathy was exploring the different floors looking for a jazz nightclub and museum in Time Warner Plaza.

Kathy had been very patient with me after our dinner at P.J. Clarke’s Restaurant. I was clearly slowing down her brisk walking and explorations of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Everything I saw at the Lincoln Center Complex for the Performing Arts, and along our walk down Broadway begged to be photographed and recorded. I posed Kathy by the fountain next to Koch Theatre, seated in front of the Museum of Biblical Art, and standing in front of the sign announcing Jazz at Lincoln Center in the Time Warner Plaza. Even though she didn’t show it, I felt that Kathy was becoming impatient to move quicker and continue exploring. This urge was amplified by the biting arctic winds that were penetrating our coats. When she scooted into a towering building at Columbus Circle, I thought it was to get out of the cold, until I gazed up at the dazzling lights and colorful displays in the lobby, and the multiple levels of shops, restaurants, and stores ascending up the glassed-in skyscraper. Everything fascinated me, especially the people. Instead of simply taking static pictures of objects, I found myself waiting and studying the actions and behaviors of the people around me, especially the tourists, and then taking their candid photos. This was hugely entertaining, until I spotted Kathy pacing and waiting for me to catch up. We ascended the building this way, Kathy looking for the Jazz at Lincoln Center club, and I people-watching and taking pictures, until I saw the Time Warner Office. The office was impressive enough, but it overlooked a balcony with a spectacular view of the Columbus Circle Monument and 59^th Street, with the illuminated Upper East Side skyline in the background. I was lost taking pictures and watching people, and when I turned to locate Kathy – she was gone. She had completely disappeared. “Okay, don’t panic!” I said to myself, as I felt my heart beating faster and the adrenaline surging through my body. “Kathy’s just around the corner”. But she wasn’t around the corner, or anywhere on this level. “Where did she go?” I repeated to myself, over and over. “Where could she have gone?” I was lost inside a strange building, in a foreign city, on the first day of the trip. Kathy on the other hand felt comfortable in New York. She had visited the city twice before and knew how to negotiate its streets, sidewalks, and buildings. My biggest worry was the temptation to rush around searching for her on other levels. She wasn’t on this floor, but I had not seen her going up or down the escalator, so if I guessed wrong, I only increased the distance between us. I fought down this flight behavior by reaching for my cell phone and calling her. No answer. She either couldn’t hear the ring, or there was no reception in the building.“Okay,” I said to myself, “calm down and think. What would Kathy tell me to do?” Thinking of Kathy, and the many difficult situations and problems we had discussed and solved together, relaxed me and allowed me to better review my options. I decided to stay exactly where I was and trust that she would find me. I marked the time and decided to wait 20 minutes. If she did not return by then, I’d walk back to the hotel and wait there. It seemed the logical, practical, and thoughtful course of action. The next 10 minutes were the longest in my life, and then I heard her calling my name.

We resumed our exploration of the building and floors as if nothing had happened. Kathy wasn’t angry or annoyed. She had simply been surprised when I hadn’t followed her up the escalator in search of her goal. When she noticed I wasn’t behind her, she calmly retraced her steps back to my location. I, on the other hand, was immensely thankful and relieved. The episode reminded me of the time I’d lost touch with Prisa and Toñito in the Northridge Mall when they were 8 and 10 years old. I’d left them at one location with directions to meet at another, only they weren’t there. Somehow my instructions had been unclear or muddled, and we were in different locations. To make matters worse, I started rushing about in search of them. Luckily, they heard my whistle and knew I was somewhere in the mall, so they stayed calm and located a security guard. We were reunited in the security office after about an hour separation – a nightmarish hour I will never forget. Besides the fear of loss and the emotional state of the children, what I hated most about both experiences was the sensation of being utterly alone with a huge problem. I have never experienced that panic and sense of isolation with Kathy. Life is a difficult journey to navigate, and we’ve been frightened and nervous along the way - for each other and for our children. But WE never panicked. Kathy’s presence or prayers always gave me solace and confidence, and I believe mine gave it to her as well. I breathed easier as we walked to the balcony and I showed Kathy the glassed vista along 59^th Street. Together we found Dizzy’s Club on a floor above, and moved effortlessly together through the corridors of the jazz museum in Fredrick P. Rose Hall.

I can’t imagine my life without her. The trip to New York was significant for two reasons. It recalled those idyllic early days in Santa Monica, when our life revolved around just the two of us, and it raised the fearful specter of how it would feel to face life’s paralyzing problems and dilemmas without her. What would my life be like without Kathleen Mavourneen? Brrrr, that’s a chilling thought. After 35 years, I plan to continue facing this life together – with all its unlimited expectations and endless possibilities - because alone I’d be lost.
“Kathy, if you were not a part of my life, I’d have to search for you - regardless of the level or floor I was on. I’d risk becoming The Flying Dutchman of the Time Warner Plaza to find you. On this Valentine’s Day of 2010, I just want to say, I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you”.

I’ve written Valentine’s Day blogs to Kathleen Mavourneen for each of the last two years. One was inspired by an old diary I found in which I described two months in 1974, during our maturing romance (see Valentine’s Day ). The other was prompted by the lyrics to a song I heard the day after New Year’s at Catalina’s Bar and Grill (see On My Way to You ). This year I had no “bolt out of the clear blue sky” inspiration for an essay. The old year came to a close, and the New Year began. As Valentine’s Day approached, I simply felt the need to create something for my wife, the woman I love. What do I want to say? What scenes or memories come to mind? Where do I begin? I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning.

The convent on the corner of Manchester Blvd and Stanmoor Drive did not look like a religious cloister. Although it was across the street from a catholic church, there was nothing religious about the two-story, beige colored, stucco structure. It was a copy of the many nondescript apartment houses that abounded in that neighborhood of Westchester. I had driven by this building hundreds of times. Going to, and coming from, high school and work, I never suspected that it was the living quarters of five or six nuns (depending who was in residence) in the religious Community of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ’s). I discovered its secret identity when Sister Marilyn and Sister Carol invited me to the TGIF which they, and their sisters, hosted periodically. Although I don’t recall who actually asked me, I do remember that being invited was a distinct honor. These were special invitations which required the consensus of all the sisters in the house.

I knew most of the CSJ’s as fellow faculty and staff members in the same catholic high school in which we worked. They were the largest of the religious orders, and they represented every level of the school hierarchy. They had an assistant principal (Sister Nancy), a department chair (Sister Marilyn), a counselor (Sister Carol), and two teachers (Sisters Margaret and Mona). Given their numbers and influence in the administration and culture of the school, I saw how the more paranoid priests feared some kind of feminine conspiracy or take-over. However, I also noticed that none of these decriers ever sought or requested additional responsibilities beyond their immediate classroom duties. The nuns were always ready to respond constructively to school problems and challenges. Until my invitation, I had no social or personal interactions with women in religious orders. From grades 2 through 8, the sisters who taught me were strict, unsmiling, militaristic martinets. I feared them. This simplistic view of nuns continued in high school, where I was taught solely by priests and male lay instructors, and I believed every prejudice they expressed about the pushy women on the other side of the co-institutional school. I also assumed the nuns who taught the girls were as boring and colorless as the male religious who lectured us. This view changed when I was hired at St. Bernard High School to teach history in January of 1972. Working closely with, for, and among nuns for the first time, especially the CSJ’s, was a mind-expanding, and a stereotype-smashing experience. In my first semester, I found the sisters to be inspirational leaders, conscientious and caring counselors, and skilled teachers. Marilyn, as Social Studies department chair, mentored me through my difficult rookie year. Carol, the consummate counselor, helped keep my humor and spirits up, as I struggled to motivate teenagers who were only 6 years younger than I, and who showed little tolerance for inexperienced teachers. As I became more confident and relaxed in my second year, Marilyn and Carol welcomed me to their table in the Teacher’s Lounge for coffee, cigarettes, and food during recess and lunch. It was during these open-ended chats, discussions, and joke-telling sessions that I came to know them better. When I was invited to their house, I realized I had passed some informal probation period. The moment I walked into their apartment on a Friday night, I knew I was being given an insight into their lives that most Catholics never got. Our interactions became closer and more personal. I became a regular guest, and developed an authentic friendship with Marilyn and Carol.

One evening at the convent, after a hectic week at school, I was regaling the sisters with stories of living at home with mom and siblings, and my adventures with three high school buddies who lived in an apartment nearby. Holding her stomach in laughter, Marilyn gasped that they wanted to meet these bachelor friends, who provided me a haven for continuous juvenile pursuits. As I tried explaining the importance of frivolous recreation, Carol interrupted with an apparent change of subject.

“Tony, there is a girl we know who I think you should meet”.

“Oh, you mean Kathy” chimed in Marilyn, cutting short her laughter. “She’s wonderful and you both have a lot in common”.

The topic immediately sobered me and brought a frown to my face. Working in an environment of nuns, I had become very wary of their matchmaking abilities. I didn’t have much confidence in their judgment when it came to predicting social chemistry and sexual attraction. I’d seen and met many of their female friends and acquaintances who occasionally visited the school. None of them looked particularly attractive or interesting.

“No thanks, ladies”. I said gently, not wanting to hurt their feelings.

“It’s not what you think, Tony” countered Carol. “This girl is different. We’ve known her for along time and we really think she’s wonderful”.

“I need you to stop this” I said firmly and impatiently. “I don’t want to be set-up. I appreciate your interest, but I’m fine – really”.

“We’re not talking about a blind date, Tony” Marilyn continued. “Kathy is just somebody we really like and we think you would too”.

“Again, thank you ladies, but I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’m dating someone right now”. I saw that none of my arguments were having any effect on my cloistered friends; but when I noticed that Carol was angling for another opportunity to weigh into the debate, I changed tack.

“Okay, look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll agree to meet this girl, but let me be the one to tell you when. Now is not a good time; but I promise to tell you when I’m ready”.

“You promise?” repeated Carol, warily, looking at Marilyn for support.

“I promise” I said, raising my right hand as if taking an oath. Unwillingly, Carol and Marilyn took me at my word and accepted the compromise. They dropped the subject and did not raise it again. I was very pleased with myself for having short circuited their plans. I had no intention of ever asking to meet this girl – but I couldn’t forget the promise I’d made to them.

Two months after this debate, my affair with a teacher at the school ended. The aftermath of this short-lived infatuation lingered far longer than the relationship itself. I entered a barren period in my life where a meaningful relationship with a woman became a ceaseless longing. I had the company of my family at home, my friends at school, and my three high school buddies, but they were no longer enough. After considerable inner turmoil and debate, I sought out Carol and Marilyn at the lunch table one day and sat next to them.

“Uh, do you remember that conversation we had a while back about the friend you wanted me to meet?” I asked, embarrassedly, as the two nuns looked at each other and then me.

“Yes” they replied in tandem, with secret smiles on their faces.

“Well, I’d like to meet her. Just remember, this is not a date. You are just inviting us to have dinner WITH YOU”.

“Okay” Carol said, “We’ll take care of it”.

The girl was already there when I arrived. She was stretched on the living room rug, leaning against the coffee table, in conversation with Sister Mona. Seeing and listening to her was something of a jolt. She was nothing I expected. I had visualized a medium sized, mousy-faced graduate student, who was polite, cautious, quiet, and shy. I assumed any friend of nuns had to have these demur qualities, never making the association that I was their friend, and did not share any of these traits. Kathy was exactly the opposite from the convent girl I imagined. She had sparkling, hazel eyes, and an enchanting, beaming smile. She was tall and slender, with shoulder-length, and sun streaked, dark blonde hair. She had long, flowing legs, arms, hands and fingers; and glowed with vitality as she exploded with humor and laughter. Kathy took over the room and captivated the guests with stories of her family and college experiences. I’ve since learned that the on-stage persona dominating the awkward moments of introductory conversation emerges out of nervousness, and the desire to put people at ease. At the time, Kathy made everyone laugh and feel comfortable, as she asked questions, elaborated on answers, and made jokes. I had always thought my family was weird and funny. I was born into a Mexican-American family of 4 boys, 2 girls, and a widowed mother who clung to nostalgic memories of her aristocratic, Mexican family who had been displaced and dispossessed by the Revolution. However, Kathy’s stories of her Irish-American family, of 2 brothers, 7 sisters, 2 in-laws, and surgeon father, made mine seem bland. She was a classic storyteller, who tickled your curiosity, built up suspense, and then surprised you with an unexpected twist or ironic ending. It was more of a performance, than a conversation, but I managed to join in as drinks were served.

At the conclusion of dinner, a pretext arose to change gears, and prolong the evening in another venue. Sister Nancy needed to return to St. Bernard to recover a forgotten report in her office. Kathy and I volunteered to accompany her on the drive to the nearby high school. This opportunity gave me a chance to be alone with Kathy. I gave her a tour of the school I worked in, and spoke of my days there as a student. I told her of my teachers, the time I ditched during a day-long religious retreat (only to be caught returning to campus), and my days as a soccer player. I suppose I was trying to impress her as we walked to the football stadium, down the bleachers, and onto the track. There she challenged me to a foot race. I don’t remember who won, but I do recall her long strides, her flowing hair, and the out-of-breath laughter that ended the contest. Her lack of formal constraints and inhibitions enchanted me. I knew I needed to see her again. The problem was when to ask. To do so then, on the same evening we met, struck me as desperate; too pushy and overeager. I let the matter lie until we returned to the convent for coffee. When I asked Marilyn and Carol what they were planning that weekend, they said they were driving to Coachella Valley the following morning to join a United Farm Worker’s demonstration. They were long-time supporters of Cesar Chavez’s efforts to unionize farm workers, and wanted to help. Kathy was spending the night and going along. Here was the perfect excuse for a second meeting without betraying my interest in her. I explained my support of the Grape Strike and the UFW and asked Marilyn if I could join them. “Sure” she said, “but we’re leaving at 6 o’clock, so you’ll have to get up early”. When I left the convent, I shook Kathy’s hand, saying it was nice meeting her, and I told Marilyn and Carol that I would “try to join” them in the morning. The next day at 5:45 A.M., I was parked outside, waiting impatiently for 6 o’clock to knock on the convent door.

The drive to Coachella was a test of sorts. I wanted to see if the spell cast the previous evening would survive the harsh glare of day, and the rigors of a long car trip. If anything, Kathy looked different and better. In the clear light of the morning, with none of the evening glamour, Kathy looked relaxed and lovelier. She was dressed in faded Levis and a long-sleeve, creamy-green, collarless blouse that accentuated her shape and stature. She had tied her hair back into a long ponytail, so her cheekbones, nose, chin, and neck showed a sharper profile. On the road trip to the demonstration, she again controlled the tone and tenor of the conversation, keeping it lose and lively. She solicited information and opinions from all of the passengers, and then expressed her own views with a mixture of jokes, witty observations, commentary on schools, nuns, priests, and her family. I learned a lot about her family on that journey, although I wasn’t sure how much was hyperbole or fact. I tried to join in, but found I enjoyed just listening to her voice, her laughter, and the way she made other people laugh. One would think that a trip to a worker-owner confrontation, at a time of violent encounters, would have been memorable, but all I remember of the trip is riding in the car with Kathy. The imperative to see her again increased steadily all day; but I wanted to see her alone, without the annoying presence of other people. I wanted to be with her, speak only to her, and she only to me. As we were unloading the car on our return to the convent, I suddenly found myself standing alone with her for a moment. Realizing that this might be my only opportunity before leaving, I blurted out my mentally rehearsed question.

“Uhhh, Kathy, can I see you again?” An eternity passed before she answered.

“Sure, that would be great” she said with a bewitching smile. “I’d like that”.

The euphoria of hearing the words “sure”, “great”, and “like”, all in the same sentence, accompanied by a gorgeous smile, sent me into ecstasy. I said goodbye, gave Carol and Marilyn big hugs, and walked to my car in a haze of delight. It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized I had not asked for her phone number; but even that oversight did not alter my mood. I would correct it later.

36 years have passed since that blissful Saturday afternoon when Kathy said “Sure!” I am no longer the arrogant boy who did not trust two friends who knew me better than I knew myself. I am no longer the slender and impassioned young man who tried so hard to attract and impress a lovely young woman. I’ve grown old, fat, and lazy; but sometimes the magic happens, and I find myself in a romantic time warp. This year I asked Kathy to accompany me to my school’s Christmas Dinner. No matter how one approaches them, large faculty dinner parties are difficult and awkward events for principals. They are incompatible mixtures of formal business and social festivities. Principals are never “just a guest”; they are always “the boss”. The principal must meet, greet, introduce, and chat with employees, their spouses, loved ones, and guests. It is a lot of work, and I usually don’t ask Kathy to attend. For the last two years, I had gone alone. However, this year I wanted Kathy’s company. This is my last year at MASH Middle School and I wanted this last Christmas dinner to be memorable. Over the last two years, my leadership team of administrators, coordinators, and counselors had really come together. They are a great group to work with and be around; they work hard, support each other, and love to laugh and have fun. I had mentioned them often to Kathy and I especially wanted her to meet them – and they her. I also wanted to have fun, and Kathy’s presence, conversation, and humor would distract me from the more formal and annoying aspects of the party, and allow me to enjoy myself.

The evening began in the usual fashion. We came home from work, dressed, drove, arrived, and greeted the hostesses and early guests. Then, while standing in the bar line to buy drinks, I heard a familiar and enchanting voice, with a touch of Irish humor, describing the upcoming wedding of our daughter. I looked around to see my radiant wife surrounded by a bevy of youthful coordinators and assistant principals gazing up at her in wonder. They were listening to every word and laughing at her stories of the nuptial preparations and difficulties. By the time I returned and handed her a drink, the coordinators were asking her questions about her school, her job as principal, and our family. As they listened to her responses, they kept smiling at the two of us, standing side by side, holding hands.

As we drove home that evening, I leaned over and kissed Kathy on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming along this evening. You were wonderful”.

“You’re welcome, babe”, she replied with a smile.

I looked sideways at her, and smiled back as the words of my favorite Eric Clapton song came to mind. They seemed to fit my mood perfectly on that Friday night:

It’s late in the evening; she’s wondering what clothes to wear.

She puts on her makeup and brushes her long blonde hair.

And then she asks me, “Do I look all right?”

And I say, “Yes, you look wonderful tonight.”

We go to a party and everyone turns to see

This beautiful lady who’s walking around with me.

And then she asks me, “Do you feel all right?”

And I say, “Yes, I feel wonderful tonight.”

I feel wonderful because I see

The love light in your eyes.

And the wonder of it all

Is that you don’t realize how much I love you.

It’s time to go home now and I’ve got an aching head,

So I give her the car keys, and she helps me into bed.

And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,

“Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight”.

On this Valentine’s Day of 2009, I just want to say, I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I saw you.

So often as I wait for sleep
I find myself reciting
The words I've said or should have said
Like scenes that need rewriting

The smiles I never answered
Doors perhaps I should have opened
Songs forgotten in the morning

I relive the roles I've played
The tears I may have squandered
The many pipers I have paid
Along the roads I've wandered

Yet all the time I knew it
Love was somewhere out there waiting
Though I may regret a kiss or two

If I had changed a single day
What went amiss or went astray
I may have never found my way to you

I wouldn't change a thing that happened
On my way to you
(Lyrics by A. Bergman & M. Bergman)

“Nice to meet you, Tony, can I fix you a drink?”
With those words I met Kathleen Mavourneen’s father, the surgeon, as he swept into the family room, dressed in a golf shirt and sweater, and wearing trim khaki slacks. He situated himself on the edge of the sofa chair, which Kathy and her mother said was reserved for him, and awaited my answer. The question surprised, and then quickly seduced me. I had never been offered a drink when meeting the parents of a date for the first time.
“Why sure”, I replied. “I’ll take a scotch and soda”.
The words were out of my mouth without thinking. Scotch and soda; where did that answer come from? I liked the song, but I’d never ordered that drink before. I’d tried it a few times and liked the dry, unaffected taste, but I’d never requested it. Was it the right drink to mention in the home of the parents I wanted to impress?
“Great”, announced the doctor, as he bounced off the sofa and moved quickly to the bar that was cornered at the other end of the family room, “that’s my drink. I’d be happy to fix you one too”.
“Edwaaarrddd”, scolded Mary, his wife, from her position across from Kathy and me. “Kathy and Tony have a dinner reservation. They were just leaving when you arrived, don’t fix a drink now”.
“Nonsense Mary”, he growled back, “I’m sure they have time for ONE drink. I’d like to talk to the boy. What do you say, Tony, can you have a drink with me?”
“A drink would be great. We have plenty of time”, I confessed, knowing that I had given myself more than adequate time to meet Kathy’s parents and make our reservation at the restaurant. But Kathy shot me a wide-eyed look of panic that worried me. It seemed to query, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!

“So Tony, what do you do?” the doctor asked, bending under the counter with two large tumblers in his hands.
“I’m a history teacher at St. Bernard High School,” I replied, curious at the noises emanating from behind the bar, “but I’m starting graduate school next year.” I heard clinking, clanking, banging, and sliding, followed by the sounds of gushing water echoing off metal.
“Really”, he announced, straightening up and placing the two tumblers, heaping with ice cubes, on the counter. “What are you studying?”
“I graduated from UCLA in ’70 with a BA in History, and I’ve been accepted in their Latin American Studies program”. My eyebrows raised in surprise as he filled a fist-sized, copper shot glass from a bottle labeled Johnnie Walker Red. He splashed it, first, into one glass, then refilled it, and splashed it into the second.
“And you’ve been teaching at St. Bernard since then?” he asked, unscrewing a small bottle of soda and sprinkling it in the direction of the two tumblers.
“No, actually, I was in the Air Force for awhile”, I said. “I’ll use the GI Bill for grad school.”
“Oh, you were in the service?” he said, coming out from behind the bar, holding an ice-topped drink in each of his glistening hands.
“Yes, for a year” I replied, looking at his moist hands and water speckled slacks, and wondering how he had gotten so wet. “I was discharged when my father died. My brother and I were both serving when it happened, and they allowed one of us to leave”.
The doctor handed me a glass, raised his slightly and toasted “Up the rebels!”
“Salud”, I replied, lifting my glass in salute.
He took a long drink and resumed his seat across from me, while I took a measured taste. The scotch exploded in my mouth.
“Holy Shit” I thought, “what is in this drink!” It was the strongest mixed drink I’d ever had. Was there any soda in this drink?
Glass in hand, the doctor reclined in his chair and said, “I was a lieutenant j.g. in the war. I served with the 3rd Marine Division as a naval surgeon.”
“Oh, really”, I added, taking another drink, “my father was a Marine in the war”.
“Where did he serve? I was at Iwo Jima.”
“He didn’t see that action. He fought in the Philippines, and was in the Battle of Leyte.” With another swallow, the fumes and liquor began seeping into my body, relaxing my worries about meeting Kathy’s parents for the first time. This scotch was pretty good! I’d never considered the beneficial effects that an extra shot of scotch had on a drink before.
“Ahhh, the Battle of Leyte”, reminisced the doctor, “it was the first battle in the reconquest of the Philippines. The attack was the largest amphibious operation at the time, and Douglas MacArthur was the supreme commander. The Marines didn’t have much use for him, though, they called him Dugout Doug. It was a derisive name”.
“Hmmm”, I responded. I was about to add my own opinion of MacArthur, when a sharp glance from Kathy stopped me from fueling the conversation. I’d heard these facts before, when my father and his brothers spoke of the war and discussed the merits of MacArthur as a general and leader. Contrary to most Marines, my father respected MacArthur, and his ability to keep American casualties low by “attacking where they ain’t”. Most Marines, however, could never forgive Dugout Doug for abandoning his command at Corregidor.
“Iwo Jima was the largest action I saw. The landing and battle lasted from February 19 to March 26, 1945. After 35 days of fighting, we suffered 28, 000 causalities, with about 7,000 killed in action. That’s where I learned to be a surgeon. ‘Meatball surgery’ they call it on the TV show MASH. That’s where I learned my trade, on the beaches of Iwo Jima”.
I nodded my head at the doctor, and noticed that Kathy and her mom were trading apprehensive looks at this extended monologue.
“Lieutenant General Holland Smith was the commanding general”, the doctor continued as he rattled the ice in his glass before finishing the drink. “Howlin Mad Smith’, he was called, and he deserved the name. He was 6 foot, 2 inches, 280 pounds, and the meanest sonofabitch on the island”.
Kathy again caught my eye. This time she began staring, alternately, at my glass and then moving her glance toward the doorway. I finally got the silent message and concentrated my efforts on finishing my drink, and not encouraging the doctor to elaborate further on the story.
“On the second day of the battle” he added, “I was ordered to tell ‘Howlin Mad’ that he was running a fever and should be in bed. I was the most junior medical officer on Iwo Jima, and everyone was afraid to face him. I walked up to him, saluted, and said, ‘My compliments, sir; it is my duty as medical officer to inform you that you are running a temperature of over 103 degrees and need to be placed under a doctor’s care in sickbay, immediately’. Well, he walked right up to my face and screamed, ‘I am not taking orders from a goddamn j.g... No shave tail medical officer is going to tell me that I have a goddamn fever and take away my command. This battle is my moment in history, and you will not take it away from me’. Needless to say, he didn’t go to sickbay.”
He rose from the couch and pointed his empty glass at me, “Would you like another drink?”
“Edward! Dad!” chimed in Mary and Kathy, simultaneously.
“No thank you, doctor”, I said quickly, putting my glass on the coffee table, “we really should leave. That’s quite a story”.
“Well, it’s a shame that you have to leave right now” he grumbled. “We were just starting to get to know each other”.
“I’m sure you’ll have many more opportunities, Edward”, Mary said, as she took my elbow and led me away from the doctor. Kathy joined us, and we walked together to the front door.
“Well let me walk you out, then” the doctor said as he hurried to catch up as we passed through the door and onto the asphalt driveway. “You’ll have to tell me more about your father’s Marine experiences the next time we talk.”
“Sure”, I replied, cognizant that Kathy was walking faster, trying to get us to the car as quickly as possible. I was puzzled by all the haste; what was the hurry? Despite her cautionary warnings to me about her father’s legendary impatience and intolerance as a surgeon, he seemed a very pleasant man, and I thought I had done a good job of being respectful, solicitous, and interesting. I was convinced that I had succeeded in making a very favorable impression.
“So Tony, I didn’t have a chance to ask you before, but what do you think of doctors?”
I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was carelessness, the double scotch, or my overconfidence at believing I had already won his approval as a suitor. Whatever the reason, I responded quickly and unthinkingly.
“Well doctor, I believe they killed my father”.
Kathy stopped short, turned and stared at me with a horrified expression.
“What”, choked the doctor in surprise, “do you mean?”
“He died from a myocardial infarction, one year ago, on November 1”, I recited automatically, with an edge of irritation; as though the meaning should be obvious. “My mother and sister took him to the doctor that morning, complaining of chest pains. His doctor examined him, told him to take his medicine, and released him. He had another heart attack later that afternoon and died. As far as I’m concerned, the doctor did such a poor job that he might as well have killed him”.

There was a lonnnggg silence, as we all stood together in the driveway. It slowly dawned on me that I had gone too far with this unanticipated, emotional outburst.
“I’m sorry about the loss of your father, Tony” the doctor said quietly. “I’m not familiar with his case, but I can tell you that doctors aren’t perfect, and they sometimes misjudge the seriousness of symptoms.” His voice had changed from the lofty, professorial tones in the family room, to a softer, bedside manner.
“Doctor, I’m not blaming you”, I explained, trying not to look at Kathy or her mom. “I really should not have brought it up”. How was I going to get out of this? I had a sudden vision of all the goodwill I had secured in the family room slowly sinking into a sea of unconscious issues and hard feelings. My slip of the tongue gave him more than enough reason to dislike me, if he chose to take offense.
“No, no, it’s alright. I know you’re not blaming me”, he said, as we resumed our walk toward the car. “The death of a father is tough, and doctors are supposed to keep them alive”. He paused again, and added “You know Tony, doctors can’t beat death; they can just try to prolong life. They diagnose the illness, treat the symptoms, and operate when they can; but death is outside their control. My parents died in a flash flood; a random and accidental death, with no apparent rhyme or reason. All dying seems that way”.
Kathy and her mother said nothing throughout this exchange. They simply stood there, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. I took advantage of the next pause to extricate myself from this situation as best I could.
“Well, thank you for understanding, doctor”, I said as I approached my parked car. “I guess I’m still not over my father’s death. I hope I didn’t offend you”.
“Not at all Tony, I admire your honesty. I know how it feels to lose a father”. He extended his hand and said “If you ever feel the need to talk about it, I’d be honored if you called me”.
I shook his hand, and then opened the passenger side door, waiting for Kathy to enter. She quickly kissed her mother and father on the cheek and stepped in.
“Goodbye, now”, I said waving, as Kathy’s parents stood side by side, waving back. I turned on the ignition, put the clutch in gear, and drove off.

“What was that about?” exploded Kathy, with a mixture of concern and wonderment. “Why did you say that?”
“Kathy, I honestly don’t know where that came from”, I confessed, shaking my head. “I am really sorry. Do you think he was mad? Did I really insult him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem angry”, she admitted, sitting back into her seat and staring straight ahead. “I’ll have to check with my mom when I get home”. After a long silence, she added, “I can’t believe he told you about his parents. He even offered to discuss your father’s death with you! What got into him?”

I met Kathy’s parents on our second “official” date. Kathy was so nervous and anxious about this first meeting, that I was confused. I couldn’t figure out what this seemingly fearless maiden could be afraid of. At first I mistook it as a lack of confidence in me, and my ability to charm older people (or at least to make a decent impression). I learned later that the anxiety was a manifestation of her childhood accumulation of remembered embarrassments and frustrations with her father’s words, actions, and attitudes. What she didn’t know during my first encounter with her parents was that I was already falling in love with her, and her father’s idiosyncrasies were inconsequential. I was more curious about him than judgmental. I wanted to learn everything I could about Kathy, her past, her influences, her mother, father, sisters, brothers, and friends. I believed that the more I knew about her, the better my chances at winning her affections; and that was becoming very important to me. My remark about doctors killing my father crystallized that desire, by putting our future in jeopardy.

The story of this first meeting has become somewhat apocryphal in the family (hers, mine, and ours), through countless telling and retellings. Added to that, because of the presence of four people, there are many discrepancies in each of our particular versions (although by virtue of being the first written account, mine may win out). While she lived, Mary acted as the designated arbiter and judge whenever it was told in her presence, reigning in exaggerated details, and deflating the “tall tale” aspects that crept in. The story has always fascinated me, because it stands out as a clear crossroad in our lives - a place in time when the trajectory of four lives intersected, paused, and then intertwined. And it has always raised the nagging question, would our lives be different today, if I had responded in another fashion? What if I had given the “right” answer, the diplomatic response, to this otherwise innocuous question? Would it have changed the direction of our lives? And who was this 22 year old girl, when we met 42 years ago, with the ability to create such a nexus in my life?

Kathleen Mavourneen was (and still is) the whole package; the perfect amalgamation of all the feminine qualities I had seen and admired in different women throughout my life. She was beautiful; a statuesque, clean-limbed maiden, with sun streaked, blonde hair and sparkling, hazel eyes. She was smart, funny, fearless, independent, caring, empathetic, and charismatic. She had a beaming, open face, with a smile that would inspire poets to dream, and singers to croon. She had a way of making people feel that they were the center of her world. Her questions and caring interest in friends and acquaintances were heartfelt and sincere; and her sympathy and advice was always thoughtful and wise. She was the “best friend” to countless people, who felt no jealousy at her equal attention to others (I was probably the most uneasy about this characteristic, because I wanted to be her ONLY boyfriend). She became angry and indignant at meanness, cruelty, and injustice, and would challenge it fearlessly through words, actions, and attitudes. She led with her heart, and backed her actions with brains, will power, and determination. By our third “official” date (after countless phone calls and “spontaneous” visits to Sister Marilyn and Carol’s apartment convent whenever I saw Kathy’s orange Volkswagen parked in front), I knew that I was in LOVE for the first time in my life, and the possibility of marriage entered my consciousness. What was unusual about this sudden development was the fact that I felt no panic or bewilderment at the speed of this realization. Falling in love with Kathy, and accepting the possibility (inevitability?) of marriage was the most natural feeling in the world (like falling off a log). There was a “rightness” about Kathy, our relationship, and the trajectory it was taking. With her in my life, I did not look back.

These thoughts and memories of long ago came to me on the evening of December 30 (New Year’s Adam), 2007, as I listened to Tierney Sutton explain her connection with the song, On My Way to You. Kathy had arranged the evening (dinner and jazz entertainment at Catalina’s Bar and Grill) as her Christmas gift to me (and us). I’d been captivated with Catalina’s ever since our first time there in April of 2003, when I took Kathy to celebrate the 30 year anniversary of our first date. The food, atmosphere, and music had been magical, and the songs sung by Peter Cincotti memorialized the evening. So Catalina’s Jazz Club already had a special place in my heart with its links to Kathy, and our first date (on Holy Saturday, 1973). Now, here was another singer, again highlighting that link, with her interpretation of the lyrics by Allen and Marilyn Bergman. Up until that moment, I had not been particularly impressed with Sutton. Her jazz style and delivery was very technical and she did a lot of “scat singing”, using her voice as a musical instrument to improvise melodies with her piano, bass, and drum accompanists. But I was riveted by her words, because they seemed to hint about the significance of every action and event in our lives, even seemingly negative occurrences. Listening carefully to her song, I finally heard the lyrics that had prompted the thoughtful introduction:

“If I had changed a single day,
What went amiss, or went astray,
I may have never found my way to you.
I wouldn’t change a thing that happened
On my way to you”.

A wave of emotion rose from my neck, covered my mouth and face, and crashed over my head and scalp. I was flooded with a kaleidoscope of pictures from my past: my living quarters at Norton Air Force Base; being told that my father was dead; driving at night from San Bernardino to Venice to be with my family; the wake, funeral, and burial; teaching at St. Bernard High School; breaking up with a girl I was dating; telling Sisters Carol and Marilyn to go ahead and arrange a dinner with a girl named Kathleen; driving to a Farm Worker’s rally in Coachella Valley with Kathy, Carol, and Marilyn, the very next day; taking Kathy to Pieces of Eight restaurant in the Marina del Rey on our first date (then taking her to Holy Saturday services at St. Bernard); standing in the driveway of her home telling her father that doctors killed my father; walking out of the original Godfather movie because Kathy became nauseous at the horse head-in-the-bed scene; and watching Kathy walk toward the front door of her house on Weddington Street, after our third date, and remembering a scene from Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and thinking, “if she turns her head to look back at me, that will be the girl I marry”. I remembered as if it were yesterday: Kathy stopped as she grasped the doorknob, turned her head to look back, and smiled at me before she entered the door and disappeared. The ground quaked beneath my feet, and I knew my life had changed forever.

On that evening at Catalina’s, despite 35 intervening years, I could recall every significant event and encounter leading to our marriage. I was struck by the idea that if my life had progressed “correctly”, I would never have met Kathy, married her, raised a family with her, and spent a life together. My father should not have died. I should have stayed in the Air Force for four years as an information specialist and newspaper correspondent. I should have completed a tour of duty in Vietnam and then been assigned to Spain before being discharged. I should not have returned home to look for a job, living with my mom and 4 siblings. I should not have developed such a close friendship with Eddie and Alex, playing board games, going to parks and beaches, watching TV, and buying comic books. I should not have spoken to a pregnant high school and college friend, who was leaving her teaching position at St Bernard. I should not have become a teacher there. I should not have met Carol and Marilyn, and become friends. I should not have been invited to dinner to be introduced to a girl named Kathleen. We should never have met. It should have been impossible for us to meet; and yet I somehow made my way to her.

Those lyrics by Allen and Marilyn Bergman gave me my moment of clarity. I could suddenly trace my life with Kathy backwards in time, to the point of my father’s death, and realize that I had nothing, and everything, to do with my fate. My life had been a series of external events and personal decisions. I had no control over most events, especially my father’s death, but I could control how I perceived and understood those events, and I could choose how to react to them. I always felt guided toward Kathy, but it was my choices that got me to her. Once I met her, I was overwhelmed by a certainty of rightness that I have never lost. Kathy was the one, the right one, the only one. Until I heard that song and those lyrics, I believed the only sadness in my life was the fact that my father never met or knew Kathy and my two children, Tonito and Prisa. I now saw, for the first time, that his death was a crossroad sign pointing me towards them. Along with my birth, it was the greatest gift he gave me.

As Tierney Sutton ended the song, I squeezed Kathy’s hand, and turning my head sideways to look at her, I whispered “I love you”. She turned to face me and said “I love you too”.

On this Valentine’s Day in 2008, I just want to say, again:

“I Love you, Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I Loved you”.

I found a diary that I began on February 26, 1974. The diary described 22 days in February and March (during the first oil crisis), when I was crazy in love. I was 27 years old, and in love for the first time in my life with the most enchanting and beautiful girl in the world. How could I not fall in love with this lovely, young beauty, named Kathleen Mavourneen? She had Las Vegas Showgirl legs and figure, with a gorgeous, beaming, Irish-American face. She was smart, fearless, caring, and funny. I knew I was in love after our third date.

The daily entries described how I missed her, and longed for her, but, at the same time, refused to show it, or admit it to myself. I called or visited her almost every day during those 22 days. I missed her and she missed me. We knew we were in love, but still unsure about Love. I would say the words, “I love you”, but still question the depth of its meaning. I was frustrated when we were unable to see each other for three days, then dazzled by her presence and beauty when we met. We had long talks when we met, and when we spoke on the telephone. These talks were comfortable and soothing conversations, with vulnerable honesty. However, telephone calls could not replace physical proximity, and they would only make her absences worse.

The days I described in these pages were days of contrasts and extremes. On many days, I was obsessed with thoughts and longings for Kathy, and on other days, I acted indifferently toward her. I was restless and impatient to see her, talk to her, hold and touch her. Yet, I would find myself, against my better judgment, trying to prove to myself that I was not completely bewitched by this clean limbed, high spirited girl.

As I read this long forgotten diary, I was struck by what a tumultuous time it was for Kathy and me! We were on roller coasters of desires, emotions, doubts, and fears, which sometimes went in opposite directions. It was also the period when our relationship reached its most critical point. Emotions and desires were moving so fast, faster than the rational mind could process or understand, that Kathy called a halt. In a lonely parking structure in Santa Monica, on a Sunday afternoon, Kathy’s uncertainty brought our relationship to a stop. Her doubts and confusion caught me by surprise, and I was stunned by my panic and fear. I could not envision existence without her in my life. I didn’t contradict her, I didn’t press her to reconsider, and I did not dismiss her feeling and doubts. Despite my fears, I gave her the freedom to choose, all the time praying that she would choose me. I stopped pretending cool detachment of my love and my need for Kathleen. I had to trust, and be confident of the love we had ignited and expressed to each other. Putting aside my wants, needs, and desires, I tried to demonstrate care, understanding, and love toward my beloved. By the end of the diary, our relationship began to mature, becoming more honest and open.

There was tons of emotional stuff in those 22 days. I tried to sift out some of the major themes and tendencies, but only one thing stood out; I was just crazy in love. Where did we go from that time in 1974? What happened from being crazy in love to now, going from 27 years of age to 59? Am I still crazy in love, today? No, thank God! I don’t think I could take that intensity of passion and desire again. It was all consuming. I couldn’t bear to be parted from Kathy in those days. I had to see, touch, or talk to her at least once a day. I was truly obsessed and in love. This was white-hot, passion. This was the steaming, molten lava type of love which can only cool after many, many years. The calming years was the time after we married: years of discovery, childbirths, parenting, wonders, challenges, and achievements. These were the middle age years that quieted the eruptions of passions and the desires of youth, and left a peaceful island of happiness and tranquility. Our marriage evolved into a family, a home, and a fulfilling life together.

Do I love Kathy like I did in 1974? Yes and No. If Love is a boundless capacity for joy, honesty, patience, and caring, the answer is yes. If love is obsessive desires and passions, the answer is no. I’m not besotted like I was in 1974. But I still cannot envision living without her. That has never changed. I can’t imagine a life without her presence – and I always “see” her as I remember her in 1974. That is the “imago”, the final image, of Kathy that is burned into my soul.

I remember a scene from a movie I saw called “The Four Poster”, with Rex Harrison and Lilli Palmer. The movie portrayed the married life of a man and woman through time, within the setting of their four poster bed and the bedroom. It is a love story through time, showing how Love evolves, grows, changes, and matures. In the last scene. Lilli Palmer, who dies earlier in the movie, appears to Rex Harrison, on his death bed. He notices that she looks exactly as she did when they first fell in love. She explains that this is how Love affects the soul, and it is how he will always “see” her. When Harrison dies, and rises from the four poster bed, he too is suddenly transformed into the handsome youth he was when first enchanted by Love.

So, perhaps, Love is eternal, and it magically transforms the amorphous soul into the “imago” of the person we fall in love with. I see aspects of that "imago" in Kathy all the time: when she turns and looks askance at me, when she laughs, the twinkle in her eyes, and when she soothes the pain and hurt of a family member or friend.

On this Valentine’s Day in 2007, all I can say is:

“I Love you, Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I Loved you”.