A post in pictures: Gorgeous Bath

Pulteney Bridge in Bath, UK - one of the grandest bridges in the world

I was watching Persuasion the other day while folding laundry, and as Anne and the Admiral strolled through Bath, I suddenly recognized a fine old landmark.

"Hey, I've been next to that tree," I thought. "I took its picture!"

Then, suddenly, I was back in beautiful Bath with my good friend Holly, posing for a picture on Pulteney Bridge over the River Avon, delighting again in the graceful curve of the Royal Crescent, relishing the incredible buns in the oldest house there, Sally Lunn's Historic Eating House, getting chills of excitement as I walked above ancient water systems at the Roman Baths, and shopping near the gorgeous Bath Abbey constructed of that most famous limestone, Bath stone.

Holly and I visited Bath in April 2015, enjoying fine weather the entire time in a town where one of our favorite authors, Jane Austen, set two of her novels and where Austen herself lived for about five years.

I remember my brother saying. "All women are like, 'Ooooooh, Bath!', and men are like, 'Phflut, Bath.'"

What does my brother know? After all, does not Bath have the Jane Austen Centre? - a lovely place in which I wrote a love letter to my man with an old fashioned quill and blotter? (He didn't even appreciate the thought and effort; my note wasn't amorous enough!)

My nose looks enormous in the picture, but I don't even mind. I'm in Bath!

Is it not a charming place where my friend and I enjoyed a scrumptious tea at The Regency Tea Room (upstairs at the Jane Austen Centre) before posing elegantly with Mr Darcy?

How about the Roman Baths, constructed in 70 A.D. and smelling of and draining history?

(Though I wasn't tempted to plunge into that water as the Romans routinely did, I thrilled to walk across ancient stones upon which they trod, to view rooms, drains and ancient artifacts that they utilized, and to learn of the temple they once erected there to the goddess Sulis Minerva.

I must say, however, that the mineral water, such as Jane Austen and her friends would have enjoyed in the Pump Room, tasted terrible.)

Is Bath not the only place to boast the gorgeous Royal Crescent, completed in 1775 and designed by John Wood the Younger to give the growing Georgian middle class elegant town living in terraced houses?

And that fine old establishment that serves the most heavenly buns, Sally Lunn's?

Indeed, I defy my big brother. Bath is one of most beautiful places in the world with some of the lovliest architecture, and I - lucky girl! - got to experience it firsthand

As I strolled along the Royal Crescent two Aprils ago, intoxicated by its romance and history, I imagined taking my handsome husband to the luxury hotel that now occupies numbers 15 and 16 on a romantic vacation someday.

It would be just like a Jane Austen novel.

Maybe a little more amorous.

Moon River, dream maker

Sometimes I'm thoroughly entertained by the subject matter of my dreams, their landscape or the amazing detail and vivid color conjured up while I sleep. There are rare times when I truly appreciate how cohesive is the story told by my unconscious mind. I'm impressed!

I fall into dreaming very quickly, even when I nap. I remember quite a few of them when I awake in the morning. If he's very lucky, my husband will escape a retelling.

This morning I couldn't resist.

Last night I found myself in the large room of a university or public building erected in dreamland. The rich blue of its walls was such that I remember thinking I would love to see it in my dining room. On those deeply hued walls were sophisticated paintings in ornate frames. I had just been listening to a lecture on art or historical artifacts (a little vague, I know, but isn't the memory of all lectures so?) given by a lean older gentleman in dress shirt, tie and slacks. Getting up from a long, heavy table lined with wooden chairs, a group of us approached the doors to leave. It was then that I heard the music for "Moon River" playing over the speaker system. As I often do with beloved tunes, I began to boldly sing the lyrics aloud to match the melody.

It wasn't but a line or two before I heard a man's voice harmonizing with my own, and I turned and saw the gentleman lecturer behind his desk at the end of the room, singing and staring back at me behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He came around his desk and held out his arms in such a way, one extended high with flat palm and one making a lower curve, that I understood an invitation to dance with him. In a serendipitous move worthy of the silver screen, we met in the middle of the room and sang our duet as we danced to the haunting music. Smiling, he guided me around the large space.

Abruptly, as we glided about, his teeth began to fall out, and he quickly pushed them back in. At first I was startled, but I decided I didn't mind the awkwardness, not really; he was such a smooth dancer and so debonair, even gray-haired and careful in his movements as he was.

*************

I think my mind was making a connection of a strange sort in that charming little dream.

A couple of days ago, on Veteran's Day, I read a story of mine to my kids, one based on something that happened to my family at Christmas decades ago. It's a work my dad has encouraged me to look at again for years, but I've long been afraid to reexamine it, convinced it needed to be thoroughly retold, become more sophisticated than the simple tale it was.

The manuscript I read with my kids was one of my earliest ones, written before my marriage more than fifteen years ago. It was missing 50 pages, including the conclusion, but it surprised me. I had been a more capable writer than I remembered. I joked with my kids that I was a better writer then than I am now! How does that happen?

What gratified me the most, however, was how raptly my children, two of them already gifted writers, listened to this little book I began writing at 17 years old. My eldest son hushed his little brother repeatedly so that he could hear and give feedback periodically, and my older daughter went and retrieved a favorite pillow to hug as she snuggled with me and the tale progressed.

I had to contend with a few tears - my own. Reading details based on the struggles my family experienced during our lives in Tennessee overwhelmed me, more so because I had not really thought about those hardships in years and the great love and faith that carried us through them.

*********************

What was the connection to my little dream? Who was the old gentleman with whom I danced?

He represents my story, the one my husband read before we were even engaged, the ending of which he loved and perhaps made him more willing to fall for me.

It has come around to waltz with me after these many years, pulling me into the romance of following a dream whose strength and charm I had forgotten. It's got some loose teeth, yes, but I believe once more that wherever this story is going, I'm going its way.

It's where my heart has always has been.

Reel Big Fun

I think I've pulled my man into my mid-thirties crisis. We've been out dancing past our bedtime several times in the past couple years; I'm starting to layer silver chains around my neck for special occasions; and just this past Saturday we went to a concert that had a mosh pit. If my guy starts painting his face with black make-up and wearing high-heeled boots like his once-favorite band Kiss, then I'll know we've gone too far.

Speaking of that Saturday concert, it was totally worth it until Matthew and I had to wake up early the next morning for church with bags under our eyes and slush in our veins. It occurred to us then that instead of going to a concert that started at 9:30 at night, we should have gone to one that ended by eight. We would have been home in time to watch our Brit-coms on PBS!

But we just couldn't miss this band. During his college days Matthew was big into Ska music, and the first concert he ever went to was Reel Big Fish, a Ska band. He still has the T-shirt, in fact.

Our cool friends, Holly and her husband Chip, who started dating in high school and attended two proms together (how many married couples can say that?), once upon a time followed Reel Big Fish (RBF) around the East Coast from one venue to another. Holly heard that RBF was playing Octoberfest in town and invited us to come along for a night filled with dark beer and deafening music.

Like a bunch of college kids, we waited in long, packed lines for beer from plastic cups and messy food served on floppy plates, and I really began to regret my wardrobe choice of skinny jeans, cowboy boots and a jacket on a very warm first night of October crowded with festival-goers.

Somewhere around nine, we found seats not far from the stage. In the spirit of Octoberfest, we procured more beer and ate warm, sticky fry bread with powdered sugar as we chatted and waited for the band to take the stage.

Being the only one in the group unfamiliar with the band, I listened as Holly and Chip recounted the concerts they had attended, then told of a handwritten note in Sharpie from the band's Hawaii-shirt-and-checkered-sunglasses-wearing lead singer and of how Chip checker boarded the hood of his car in high school with permanent marker to show his devotion to the band.

Then Holly told us about a recent Madonna spectacle; Matthew and Chip mildly debated the merits of Def Leopard as live performers; and I said we should all go to a Tom Petty concert if we ever got the chance.

At last, with instruments held high, RBF jogged out to cheers and applause from an exuberant crowd. Ska music, combining elements of reggae and rhythm and blues, is nothing if not good for dancing, so everyone began to move as soon as the trumpet player blew that first note, and the mosh pit quickly developed into a cyclone of jumping, jostling young men - one with green and purple spiked hair at least a foot high. Soon everyone was flattening folding chairs and pushing them into piles like unruly fire wood. I shoved my suffocating jacket off one shoulder, swinging my hips. Matthew, Holly and Chip sang catchy lyrics, flashing broad smiles of nostalgia at one another, and I joined the rambunctious choruses.

Of course, as Holly promised, the members of the band were also great showmen. Several times they started to play huge radio hits from the 1990s, putting their own punk style into the arrangements, and then stopped and announced, "Oh, that wasn't us! That was so and so," purposefully naming the wrong famous group, causing the crowd to laugh and whistle. The lead singer also teased his bandmate about how many trumpet solos he was racking up.

Matthew had kept his hair natural and free for the occasion - no spray gel! - so he kept pushing his left hand through his thick mop to keep it off his forehead as he danced. I found it sexy and adorable; it made him look like that college boy I never actually got to spend time with. From my man I turned often to look at Holly and Chip jumping up and down to the beat like a couple of teenagers and dancing together virtually nonstop, obviously reliving high school days. Chip even braved the mosh pit, though Matthew warned that he wouldn't rescue him, but soon returned with this critique: "It smells in there!"

Though I thoroughly enjoyed the music, if not always the rambunctious crowd and warm weather, my favorite part of the night was watching how much fun Matthew, Holly and Chip were having together at the concert of a favorite band.

Observing my enthusiasm as I danced and sang along, especially when they covered Morrison's "Brown-eyed Girl", Matthew asked me if I still wanted him to get rid of his RBF T-shirt from college, full of holes and faded from years of faithful wearing.

I quickly shook my head and grinned.

"No," I assured him.

Love and Oldies

Oldies music reminds me of my first true love.

My first love is also my latest love: Matthew.

We used to listen to "oldies" all the time while dating: The Guess Who, Three Dog Night, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, Chicago, Elvis. The oldies are even older now these more than 15 years later.

I used to sing These Eyes to him in his car or room after we got together...perhaps not the most appropriate song for a budding relationship...and he used to sing The Glory of Love to me over the phone as we managed being more than a thousand miles apart.

Maybe I find myself frequently listening to oldies again because summer is approaching, and that season most of all embodies the tone of music from a bygone, seemingly more carefree age. I associate it with our June wedding and our first months of marriage. But all this nostalgia with its back beats, harmonies, peppy tempos and teenage love homages has me thinking not just about the beginnings of love but about its evolution.

The honeymoon is never over, I believe. Rather, it's seasonal, too - a surprise vacation from the mundane, but one very hard to conjure or manipulate to your desired schedule. When it shows up fickle paradise must be recognized and embraced, clung to. You have to abandon all your hang ups and relinquish them to joy.

This bliss can be recaptured for a few moments when you spy your spouse being adorable, looking cute in his new Adidas soccer gear or realize anew that his smile as it ignites his large eyes is truly winning; it won you. Sometimes if you're lucky it shows up on your anniversary over a bottle of fine champagne. It can even show up when the kids are around, playful but skittish.

Fear never leaves love completely. It sneaks around at its vulnerable borders, a mischievous stalker ready to throw cold water over any situation. It will ruin these little returns of paradise, steal them away greedily, and chip away at trust. Fear would like you to keep your protective distance from your spouse, terrified of being hurt or lied to someday, scared stiff by stories of betrayal from friends and associates. It paints with messy, garish and broad strokes to highlight every imperfection, change and unknown variable as the years progress, as love progresses.

What, after all, is this mature love they speak of?

Sometimes you think Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' song If You Don't Know Me By Now is the most appropriate theme for your 15th anniversary... or 10th...or 20th.

Yet true love is still worth the risk and occasional heartache and irrationality. These eyes of mine still see my man and love him.

All this oldies music for me recalls an era of first dates, first kisses, first sparks, the first time we held hands while on the way to gamble at a horse racing track, and that's a bit of honeymoon recaptured.

That's the glory of love.

My nemesis, a Smartphone

On Valentine’s Day I found my husband snuggled up in bed with his cell phone. I always knew they were having a sordid affair.

I thought he was still sleeping when I snuck back into our bedroom only to be greeted by the sight of his Smartphone cupped lovingly in his palm. On the universal day of love, that darn phone got the first expression of devotion.

He was blatantly romancing that phone, I tell you.

And I hate it. If I am ever left alone with that thing, I can’t vouch for the consequences of my jealous behavior, especially if there’s a toilet or taser gun around.  

Often of an evening, as I watch him caress its screen and stare at it in obvious appreciation, I ask myself, What does that thing have that I don't have? But too well do I know that it provides my husband with the kind of company that I cannot:

It never argues over directions. It provides them placidly, and he doesn’t even object when it redirects or gives orders
.

It doesn’t speak unless commanded, but when it does, it never nags or raises its ladylike voice in irritation.

It provides an endless array of apps and games for his amusement during those ever so long commercial breaks, plus access to all the knowledge the world has ever known whenever he’s feeling slightly bored or quizzical.

It entertains him for long stretches in the bathroom.

I simply can’t compete.

If I detest the phone, I’m certain it feels the same about me. Whenever I try to scroll across its screen with my thumb, it jumps, protests and encourages me to plagiarize websites by asking innocently if I want to copy their material, forcing me to hand it back to my husband. When I tap it with my nail, it mocks me as it bounces the icon around.

And it ignores me. My husband mysteriously doesn’t get my texts for sometimes a half hour or more after they’ve been sent. Maybe it considers messages from my flip phone beneath it.

Recently, I tried to call him at the store. He had his phone on him but though he had glanced at it only moments before, he didn’t hear the call. He only saw the notification that he had a voicemail. From me. Again.

That phone is laughing at me with a gleeful ringtone that I think I hear late at night while everyone else is asleep.

He says I should try to get along with it. Treat it nicer. Learn to use it properly. Speak to it with respect instead of calling it stupid. Maybe then it’ll give priority to my calls.

But I’m afraid the animosity is too great, and I feel the great woman-versus-technology battle brewing.

If ever my husband asks me to move over in bed, so the cell phone can rest from its hard day’s work someplace other than the floor or dresser, I’ll know it has arrived.

If ever he invites it to dinner, setting a place at the table with its charger, I’ll know the time has come to pull the plug on my rival.

If he ever tells me that he and the phone are going for a walk, just the two of them, on a moonlit night, well…

Perhaps I’m just a crazy, jealous girl who needs her own Smartphone, so I can understand the infatuation. Maybe I should hold my own fascinating conversations with Siri, share my most intimate moments with a a piece of technology, do all my best writing with the help of a tiny keyboard.

Nah.

I could never respect anyone who expects me to tell them what to do all the time, who doesn't even know how to show emotion.

I could never fall in love with a dummy.

Big Foot, Brad Paisley and an Honest Man

Love means never having to say you're sorry

My hormones ate the housework, the cheese and, possibly, the children

Our pint-sized Romeo

My youngest boy who will soon be six, Danny Sam, has a major crush on an older girl. It has been going on since before he started kindergarten, when he first clapped eyes on her at his big brother's soccer practice. Perhaps it might never have developed into a crush if the older girl had not, in an attempt to win my oldest son's approval, said about his little brother, "Ah, he's so cute!"

Thereafter, any time she saw my sweet little Danny, she gave him a hug, stealing his heart by degrees.

Hmmpf.

It was then that Danny began to say that this older girl in his brother's grade - we'll call her "Adeline" - was his girlfriend. He was very confident in proclaiming it.

Not long ago he was coloring a picture for school, and I asked why the girl in the picture was scribbled over. He replied, "Because I only like one girl."

Who could that be? His dear mother? One of his classmates? No.

"Adeline," he stated as he continued to scribble.

Our little Romeo even declared one day that he had a true love. Someone, quite surprised to hear a kindergartner say this, asked him who that might be.

"Adeline."

Adeline-Schmadeline.

My husband joked that it's a pretty good match, because they're about the same height. (Adeline is a very petite girl.) We all laughed it up, of course, but I was beginning to feel like the domineering mother who believes no one is good enough for her son - certainly not a girl in middle school.

I've gone so far as to tell Berto that he had best tell his friend to stop toying with the affections of my little boy by hugging him and telling him how cute he is every time she sees him, but when he asks me if I really want him to, I always recant. What's the use anyway?

After all, Berto recently broke it to Danny that Adeline was seeing his good friend Michael. Daniel was downcast, heartbroken, but he soon cheered up.

"I'll win her back!" he declared. He then asked his papa if he could invite Adeline and Michael to his birthday party. Just what public humiliation he was preparing for his rival, we'll never know. His papa said no.

And so it goes on and on. For Valentine's Day he drew a picture of Adeline and him walking together with Cupid hovering above them, one of his arrows lodged in my little guy's heart. Where does he pick up all this love language? Is he reading Shakespeare behind my back, barely tolerating the simple bedtime stories full of dinosaurs and cute animals? For crying out loud, he's only six-years-old! What kind of romantic dramas await us in the future, I wonder.

A teacher's aide in Danny's class came up to me before school last week and said, "I have to tell you something Daniel said. It's so cute." I think she was surprised to see that I had previous knowledge and to hear my disgruntled clucks and grunts when she revealed that Danny said he had a girlfriend in middle school. I tried to act like I thought it was as cute as she did, but I probably failed. My daughter Ana explained that this has been going on for a while.

It's getting serious. Daniel recently told me that if I could give him a little cash, he could take Adeline to McDonald's. He is planning dates, and he seems to have forgotten all about poor Michael.

But no matter how often he declares his admiration for Adeline, I remain obstinate in my firm belief that no gal could replace his mama in our little fast-food-loving, older-woman-chasing Romeo's heart.

At least not yet, but who knows who might catch his eye when he becomes a first grader!

Love stories for a leap day

It was leap day, and I thought I didn't care. I was going to let it pass like any other, but for the first time in a week, I got onto social media that morning and was reminded that the day comes only every four years. It's an extra day, a sort of gift.

So my first thought was about my husband. We should have made plans to spend special time together, at least more time than we usually do on a Monday full of work, soccer practices and religious education. I called my man, but he had no extra time because of meetings. It was a day like any other.

What else was an intelligent, feeling woman to do?

I considered shopping but the idea was insipid. There was only one thing to do. If I couldn't have my man, I must have my writing, another love.

On Leap Day I wanted to finally begin addressing a topic here about which I am very passionate: love stories - the great love stories, classic tales of pure passion.

If you are thinking of any book with the word "Fifty" in its title, I must disabuse you of the notion. I wrote "love", "great" and "classic". That book is disqualified.

[I haven't read it, so undoubtedly some will think I'm being unfair, but that book angers me. It angers me that any woman would confess to a man that she has read it in a world where terrible violence against women is so common and under-addressed. I would rather no man ever thought that we secretly longed to be stalked, disrespected, used, abused and bought.

Apparently, it has also spawned a genre called Babes and Billionaires. Bah!

My 13-year-old son said that there were girls in his class who said they couldn't wait for the "Grey" movie to come out. God help us! It's like a cancer destined to rot people's minds and intentions and purer desires for real love and respect. I acknowledge I haven't read it, but I have read reviews of some of the salacious, disturbing details contained in its pages, and I can only hope that no woman would EVER let her children know she has read it, thereby leading them to believe that she condones its content or that it represents a great tale of love for her.

For my part as a romantically-inclined woman, give me North and South with its insightful social commentary instead! Or Pride and Prejudice in which Darcy and Elizabeth make each other better people, learning humility, forgiveness, charity and selflessness on their journey to love!

There, we're done with that. If I am being unfair, you may tell me so.]

The great tales of love that I esteem are all classics. Their characters have stood the test of time and their actions represent such profound and now too often neglected ideas of honor, loyalty, compassion, sacrifice, and selfless, transforming love. Like any truly great piece of literature, they enrich our experience and our worldview; make us reflect, believe and examine ourselves; deftly reveal the grittier parts of our nature and our proclivities without glorifying them; and remind us that we should always try to be better people for those we love and for the betterment of society in general.

They are, to name a few

Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy.

Middlemarch by George Eliot

These are the stories I do or will recommend to my children and friends. These stories I delight in watching with my husband when they are translated into film.

I thought I would share some excerpts of the grand ideas that used to inhabit our romantic tales before we turned scoundrels into heroes, before the selfish, shallow and manipulative Wickhams and Sergeant Troys of literature somehow became our Mr. Darcys and Gabriel Oaks. We all know that literature would be flat without such rotten characters as Wickham in Austen's Pride and Prejudice, but at least there was a time in our storytelling when they were revealed to be villains and their actions to be false and self-gratifying. The women who were deceived by them and their cajolery were afterwards better equipped to acknowledge a good and steady man.

The humble, hardworking and loyal Gabriel Oak in Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is, for instance, just such a humble, strong and loyal hero. He has the courage and the integrity to say to impulsive, well-off Bathsheba, the woman he loves but who does not love him:

"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action."

Bravo, Gabriel!

Our romantic heroines were also made of sterner stuff, could not be won with mere money, had greater understanding and a greater capacity for self-examination once upon a time. For what are the thoughts of Margaret Hale of North and South when she finds that the man she rejected - Mr. Thornton, the manufacturer whom she yet respects - has found her out in a lie and has nevertheless acted to protect her from the consequences of her choice despite her recent refusal of him?

If she had but dared to bravely tell the truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she had refused to tell concerning another, how light of heart she would have now felt! Not humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards him; not degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight.

Where are such sentiments in contemporary literature? I hope such ideals are present in which even simple, brave honesty is something to which people still aspire.

And what does the great and incomparable Darcy say to Elizabeth when he finally wins her after initial alienation because of his pride?

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper...

What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

Lastly, I wanted to quote from Jane Eyre. I have heard that Gothic romance compared to a soap opera, and I understand why to some degree, but I argue here for the characters and their moral battles. Rochester deceived Jane in his quest for peace and happiness, and he is ruled by his moods and passions, a volatile man with whom I can personally relate. But he also tries to rescue his crazy wife from death by a fire she started and rears a child who is not his own. Before Jane leaves him, because she will not be with a man who has a wife (preferring to lose her livelihood and risk her life to keep her integrity), Rochester grabs her in frustration. It is then he acknowledges that the woman he really loves is not a mere physical frame but is - more vitally - a beautiful mind, heart and soul.

"Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it - the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit - with will and energy, and virtue and purity - that I want: not alone your brittle frame."

Jane is the more admirable person in that relationship, but Rochester is at last transformed by his love for her, humbled, and renewed.

Great love stories are not simply about sexual desire. In the best tales the lovers improve each other in myriad ways on the fascinating way to deep love and respect, and love has room to grow even on a very circuitous journey. Sexual satisfaction is not held up as the begin all, end all, be all. Spiritual growth and moral strength are the measuring sticks of relationships.

Those are my thoughts, at least, and these are the stories I don't blush to recommend to others. What great romantic tales have I overlooked or undervalued that you would proudly share with your friends and children?

His breath was sweet

Her breath was sweet.

I had always wondered what that phrase meant when I read it in very old English poems or heard it in the hypnotic lyrics of Celtic music. Why, particularly, would the lover mention the fair maiden's breath? Certainly, it must make a kiss more pleasant, but who ever heard of truly sweet breath, to taste and to inhale the scent of?

I was destined to discover.

When I met the one I had no desire at first to kiss. It was no chemical attraction to the tall, quite lean man with no facial hair and light brown eyes that contrasted strangely with his black hair. (Black, I called it. He claimed it was brown, and that the sun clearly revealed its true shade to the discerning eye.)

Though I did not feel the instant magnetic pull so religiously touted in every silly romance book, I played with him, played with my words, kept him guessing about my still emerging feelings. Or so I thought. Now I realize he saw the game and the individual maneuvers.  He saw the story I was projecting as I rode the wave of my thoughts onto our patchy experiences. For the most part he was unflappable. Not so for me. I was trying to invent and choreograph the story, reacting to my own dictation.

We held hands, and I remember it well, an important moment. Curious, no doubt, by the progressive standards of "romance" now. Where, alas, is the I want to hold your hand experience anymore? Barely worth a mention on the way to more intimate things, perhaps skipped over all together, all the subtlety of romance, the slight but jolting touch, the sensation of fingers gliding against fingers, the arm loosely around the waist - all in death throes in a hyper-sexualized but romantically insensitive world. But I remember we held hands. We were teased about it, because we had so stoutly asserted that very day that we were mere friends.

The first kiss happened shortly after, only he kissed my upper back, because I turned my mouth away, unsure. Too nervous, I didn't notice the taste or perfume of him yet.

I can't pinpoint it at all, but during one of our kisses while we were dating, I realized: his breath is sweet. Not the breath from his mouth but from his nostrils. As he exhaled with his mouth on mine, the scent of his breath was sweet, entirely unique, incredibly alluring. And I knew what those long-dead composers meant. It wasn't an empty idealized statement that had no basis in reality, such as the exhausted we made love all night line in a thousand different love songs from heavy metal to easy listening. This particular vignette of love I had experienced with my own tall, dark, handsome man.

During the many kisses that we shared thereafter, did he wonder why I sometimes lingered, my lips locked on his, not moving against his own but pressing there firmly as I breathed deep?

His breath was sweet.

Charlie Chaplin, Meet the Love of My Life

This is the story of when Matthew and I first met in person. I dug it out from the archives to share with you in honor of our wedding anniversary this week.

Yesterday, I was watching my husband's face as he listened to our good friend. She was telling us lively tales about couples she knew, and his smile in response was broad. Of course, a true smile, as opposed to just a contrivance of the features, ignites the eyes, has magic. My husband's smile is a million watts; it could illuminate the city of Phoenix in a blackout. It could exert a superhuman power to influence people if he unleashed it fully. I am mesmerized by his handsome face when he smiles, and I wonder sometimes if he can see my blatant admiration and therefore wonders why I don't act upon it more often.

Seeing his smile yesterday made me desirous to share a story of the September evening we met in person eleven years ago. I brought Charlie Chaplin along for the occasion, and Matthew smiled.

Maybe it was because we had only spoken on the phone for a few short months with a few thousand miles between us. Or maybe it was because he had implied during one of those friendly conversations that he was unimpressed with the picture I had sent to him, my very own Mr. Darcy (she's tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me), but I sure as heck wasn't going to show up to our first face-to-face meeting alone.

My sister Annie had orchestrated our meeting by asking Matthew within moments of seeing him for the first time, "Do you like brunettes?", meaning me. Having introduced us via old-fashioned telephone network, she was coming along to officially introduce in person, of course. In fact, a legion of curious friends, family, and people I did not know were coming on my blind date - a chance to go out for Mexican food in a Tex-Mex town, enjoy margaritas and watch the spectacle of two young people getting to know each other at no risk to themselves.

I needed additional support, though. Dumb support. I needed Charlie Chaplin, that talented, lighthearted fellow. So I took him with me. I didn't ask; I just cut him out of a magazine, dressed as that lovable tramp, folded him up and carried him out to my sister's car where he lay on my lap during the drive downtown to San Antonio's River Walk. When we exited the vehicle, my sister cast me an incredulous look.

"Don't bring that," she said and pointed in disapproval.

I hesitated, but nope. Though 20, I would be a child. I needed my talisman. So we walked into the restaurant, Mi Tierra across from Merchant Square, with Chaplin all wrinkled and sweaty in my hands.

Through the double doors, and there he was by the bakery cases. Matthew who I knew by voice and by a dark picture of him in ball cap, standing by a grill with a barbecue utensil, smiling. Matthew, the Catholic to my Protestant, the Hispanic to my whatever-the-heck-I-am, the young professional to my bum writer.

He had on the worst long black shorts. He was very casual actually. Chaplin was more dressed up than he. I, on the other hand, had something to prove after the picture I'd sent of myself - hair mussed, holding my pet rabbit, and my cousin behind me with red glaring eyes and a wicked smile. My folks jumped to the conclusion that I had sent that ugly picture of myself to sabotage all hope of a relationship with a normal guy. Honestly, I don't know if I did or not. I had certainly said as many stupid things as possible to sabotage it. But whether I had subconsciously done myself in or not, I had my pride, and I was not going to be found lacking in the flesh. That night I was going for the make-him-weep-and-apologize-for-implying-you're-ratty look. With my short printed summer dress, dewy face and basket-weave heeled sandals, I hoped I had succeeded. If Matthew's million-watt smile was the indication, I had - though I could discern no signs of remorse for earlier implications. We stepped toward each other.

I don't remember what was said in those first moments. At least not until I shifted Chaplin from one hand to the other in order to shake his hand.

"What's this?' said Matthew.

I regretted my company then, but I held it out and said nervously but with chin pointed, "A talisman."

It was my misfortune that on the other side of Chaplin was an advertisement for southern whiskey. Jack Daniels to be precise. It was this that Matthew saw first, and he and his friend Nathan began to tease me.

"So you bring a picture of whiskey to our first date? I guess you like your alcohol."

I flipped it over.

"No, Chaplin. I love Charlie Chaplin."

"Oh, sure," he said with that smile. I was too flummoxed to appreciate it.

We soon made it into the bar to wait for our table. I lost track of Chaplin after that. I don't know where he went or what he did. Maybe I shoved him into the depths of my purse with just the Jack Daniels for consolation, but I no longer worried about him. Nor did I need him except perhaps to distract one of my sister's coworkers who turned to me and said genially, "If things don't work out with this, maybe you could meet my son. You two would hit it off."

Matthew was right there across from me. I glanced at him and back at her and mumbled a polite response.

When we finally sat down to dinner, I made sure, very gracefully of course, that Matthew settled on my left, my best side. It would have been very unfortunate if he'd taken a seat on my right; you can see how crooked my nose and mouth are on that side, and I try to surprise people with my flaws little by little, so there's a better chance of acceptance. I remember worrying about my profile, and also worrying about whether I was pronouncing the entrees right from the menu of "authentic" Mexican food. I didn't know then that, although his pronunciation was good, Matthew didn't actually speak Spanish at all. Ah, well. I got splashed with the light of his bright smile every time I got nervous over my words, so all in all, my embarrassment was worth it.

When the evening wound down, and we strolled slowly out of the restaurant, our tongues momentarily tied, Matthew guided me over to sit on a bench beneath the gloam of a tree. Shielded from the flourescent glare of the street lights, he asked me out on a date for that Thursday night, just the two of us. I didn't say no. Perhaps I had a premonition that all was going "to work out with this".

It was less than a year later that I met him before the altar and was greeted by that smile I love so well, at its most brilliant. The photographer caught the moment and gave me my favorite wedding photo. In that picture and in moments shared between us, Matthew's smile is destined to make me feel like a day-dreamy schoolgirl for years to come. Nothing's better than that.

Not even Charlie Chaplin.

Colds, Batteries and Bunky Boards - Isn't It Romantic?

On Friday my husband came home from a business trip, and, deprived of my fair company for far too long, he rushed home to my arms - after getting his oil changed. While waiting he was actually going to buy me overpriced chocolates, but the line was long with hapless men who had no clue what they were getting. So my man came home, and I offered him my cheek, because I had a nasty cold, passed on from our rotten children. He then sprawled on the recliner, having gotten up at 4:30 am, and watched a MeTV marathon. I languished on the couch, giving him a watery look of longing every half hour or so.

On Saturday morning - Valentine's Day at last! - the battery died in our van as we were leaving for Matthew and the kids' soccer game; Matthew flexed his muscles and jumpstarted it with his manly cables and SUV. The game went well, except for the fact that we tied an old nemesis again and some moms from the other team, upset over perceived fouling on our part and probably high on milk chocolate kisses, challenged a few of our dads to a fight, one of them throwing her fancy phone down as a sort of dueling gesture. (I missed all this.) Leaving the field of goodwill, the van wouldn't go again, so we begged friends to aid us. Matthew, afraid to stop the van, very authoritatively and romantically demanded, "Get out!" as we passed the house, kicking the kids and me out of the vehicle on his way to the dealership to replace the battery. He spent a few hours there, contemplating how he was coming down with our cold x 10 because of his plane-weakened immune system and his reentrance into a house of germs.

Meanwhile I was home yelling at the kids, having inherited the BeEverAngryandRagewhileSick Syndrome, otherwise known as BEARS, from my dad. In between my bouts of extreme irritability I cleaned the house, told my kids to stop being bums and searched for the illusive lasagna recipe I was supposed to make for V-Day dinner.

Matthew came home, and not intimidated in the least by my out-of-control BEARS, shuttled the family back out of the house to shop for bunk beds. After hastily navigating several stores and eager salespeople, we finally realized the first store had a far better price then anyone, so in conclusion to weeks of waffling, we decided to purchase it. We really liked the sticker price until the salesman said casually, "Now, you know about bunky boards, right?"

I might have said, "No, is it some kind of torture device?"

He then showed us how without bunky boards the so-called "bunk beds" could not actually support the mattress, something which any reasonable person would assume they had been designed to do. But no, as I understand it, without bunky boards we risked our top kid falling on our bottom kid or we risked mattresses that could turn into hospital beds without all the fancy controls, folding our kids up slowly into precious upside down caterpillars.

Then we had to choose a mattress, but because the board shock had gotten to us first, we settled on a mattress that could possibly be viewed as a torture device by sensitive adults. Matthew, always the pragmatist, said it wasn't that bad. I comforted myself with the fact that the young uns' backs would surely recover someday, at least when they left home for college, and we could always buy a foam topper in the future.

The salesman cordially invited us to sit for the final total. He graciously told us delivery would cost us another $69. We then told him we would pick up the bed, board and mattress ourselves at which point he informed us that they didn't keep the merchandise in store. No! They kept it in a warehouse so far out west in the virtual wilds of this metropolis, that it could only be delivered to the store for a price.

Weary, ill, and stripped of all romance, we were about to drop out of the deal until he said he could waive the charge.

At home, our pockets whistling with the breeze as the money blew out of them, I told Matthew flatly, "I can't find my recipe, so I have no clue what's for dinner."

Not about to splurge on even the most economical take-out, he began a frantic search for it. I then finally remembered where I put it, and he insisted on helping to make it until I realized I didn't pick up fresh basil. We had bean, green chili and cheese burritos for supper, because the romance had so far removed itself from us that we no longer worried about gassiness.

The next morning our main sewer pipe backed up. I prayed the plumber would come in time for all of us to shower and leave for church. He did, and we bid a fond adieu to more of our money, took hasty showers, and made it to church on time. Then Matthew took a long nap in hopes of recovery from the weekend while I read the paper. Sadly, I had to wake him rather abruptly, so he could climb a ladder with a long, heavy, dangerous pole to poke some kid's football out of the high branches of our gargantuan eucalyptus tree.

Needless to say, there were no amorous interludes this weekend. The most romantic moment happened when we were watching episode 7 of Downton Abbey, and I cried because Robert's dog Isis is dying. Matthew glanced at me for a moment, his big brown eyes shining with something between sympathy and humor, before going back to his phone.

Then I exclaimed, "That was the best episode ever, don't you think?"

He responded a little too exuberantly, "Oh, it was!"

I think he was being sarcastic, the sexy devil. Isn't it romantic?

Ella Belle, Birthday Girl, and the Grandma Thingy (how her Mama needed it!)

A roller skating rink is where people go to experience all the joys of by-gone, dangerous childhood. You know, the childhood their grandparents told them about right after the old folks got done snickering at their grandkids for wearing knee pads and helmets to ride a trike on the sidewalk. Where else in this modern world can a kid go and speed around on wheels with clearly terrified or insane peers without a parent shoving a helmet on their heads? Where else can big kids and adults go to take out smaller people without so much as a by your leave or a why aren't you wearing pads then? All the roller rink needs to be really nostalgic fun is a few rusted tin cans with sharp lids for a match of kick/roll the can and a selection of spinning hub caps to throw in ultimate, take-out-a-sibling roller blade Frisbee.

Gabriella requested that we go to a rink for her birthday. I was a bit surprised, because she has never truly skated in her life. Santa brought her skates a couple years ago, but it turned out being hard work for the rest of us. We had to pull her around the living room between us as if she were a mobile queen; it was the only way she'd use them.

She wrote a letter before we went out for her birthday activity. The gist of it was something like this:

Dear Mama and Dada, Thanks for letting me go to Skate---- for my birthday, and thank you for not making me use the grandma thingy. Love, Gabriella

Oh, you're using the grandma thingy, alright, I thought as I smiled at her lovely little face. That was what I thought until we got to the rink and saw how much they charged people to have an illusion of safety. It was $5 a skate buddy to "help you balance" and increase your chances of survival, and that after a whopping $6 a person just to walk in the deathtrap! Add the skate rentals for a family of six, and Matthew and I had decided that no one needed a skate buddy; we'd probably survive with barely a broken tailbone, busted kneecap and couple fractured wrists between the lot of us.

It didn't take long for me to feel disillusioned and bitter, however, as I crawled along the concrete wall with Ella at .01 miles an hour, watching Matthew attempt to pull along four-year-old Daniel who very much resembled a terrified, floppy-limbed rag doll with no control over its fate. Ana and Berto, on roller blades, were the only ones having a decent time.

I got off the rink with Daniel and tried to teach him to skate on the carpeted area where he fell on his bum with less fear, and Berto came over to encourage and help. Ella was soon off the rink, too, complaining that she was already tired, but the pinched, anxious look in her eyes and frowning mouth gave her away. Meanwhile, I was nervously contemplating getting back on the rink with all the crazies, picturing myself falling forward and skidding wildly into some unsuspecting kid as I took at least one of my own poor children down with me. I paled and cowered at the thought. Then I got angry. Who were these people to charge $5 for the right to keep all your limbs intact, to keep your children safe during a daredevil activity for which you had already paid more than you deemed reasonable? It would be like the county fair charging you to lock the metal lap bar on the roller coaster!

So I charged up (well, carefully rolled) to the skate-rental desk and told them flatly that we were there for our sweet girl's 7th birthday and meant to have a good time if it killed us, but we thought it would be the demise of at least three of us if we did not get a Skate Buddy grandma thingy right away! Then I offered to turn in my skates and pay the difference to get the limb-saving contraption constructed of PVC pipes. The nice young girl looked in my eyes and saw the desperation that could quickly boil over into full-blown hysteria, and she offered me a skate buddy, no charge.

Aha! I went over to Ella, triumphant, only to discover that she far preferred the assistance of her 10-year-old sis, Ana, who had already taken her round the rink and shown her how to safely slow down by crouching gently without using your fingers to scrape the wall in terror as Mama had done.

So Matthew took Danny Sam out with the Buddy, and I went out to try my feet at freedom. Instead of going .01 mph, I went a terrifying .015 mph, and the horrible realization struck me that I was a total wimp who began to hyperventilate when she couldn't touch the wall. I tried to slow down and help some poor kids who biffed it, but I could only choke out an, "Are you alright...alright...alright?" as I skidded slowly away backwards, forgetting my skates had brakes.

When Berto, developing blisters from his blades, sat out with Daniel, my man Matthew came to claim me for a slow dance on the skate floor. No doubt he hoped to recreate one of our first dates when he took me skating and held my hand the whole time, pulling me towards him and being rewarded with a big smile. Fat chance! He tried to make it a modestly-paced dance, but he went too fast for me, who had to swallow multiple butterflies that were flittering up from her stomach. Though it pained me to see him skate away - a little too rapidly and gratefully, if you ask me - I released the love of my life in a panic and hurriedly flung myself at the one I was really longing for: the sweet, sweet wall.

No one wanted to skate with Mama anymore. Daniel didn't even want to go out with me and the "buddy", so he took it out with Papa, and then I took turns taking it out alone when he was resting. Apparently, my hunchbacked form was embarrassing, but though my Ella was too mortified to be seen with the grandma thingy, I certainly was not. I saw Berto shake his head at me as I passed him, so I smiled broadly, pointed a finger at my boy as if to say, This lap's for you, son, and waved exuberantly.

In the end everything worked out. Ella skated sometimes with Papa but more often with Ana. Daniel skated with Berto but more often with Papa. And I was free to be a complete coward. At the end of our little family outing, the only injuries sustained were a couple nasty blisters on Berto's feet.

I don't know what Ella will remember about her 7th birthday excursion, but I'll remember how she skated with her big sister several times and how Ana was so patient with her, going slowly when she wished to go fast, her brown hair whipping out behind her. I'll remember Berto being the great big brother he always is to Ella and Daniel on such occasions even though his feet marred the experience for him. I'll remember how we all skated together for the first time on Ella Boo's birthday and how my kids learned not to trust Mama when death/skating is on the line!

And though it made me lonely for our younger years, I'll think often of how darn sexy my tall, lean man looked zipping around the rink with his million-dollar smile, sometimes pushing Ella or Daniel and sometimes racing Ana or Berto as they tried their best to keep up with him.

Birthday Attitude, Spoiled and Sweet Romance

This month I turned 35, and I decided at last to become a diva. It's a late start, I know. It's also a little challenging, because I have never dyed my hair, use a blow dryer and curling iron only on Sundays, am too cowardly to use liquid eyeliner, don't buy designer clothes (not even at reduced prices), and have never in my whole life - brace for this! - gotten a manicure or pedicure.

But true divas know that you can keep your naturally flat, boring hair, eclectic style, smeary eyes, and uncured nails and still knock the town sideways with your attitude. And I've got that in spades - especially at certain times of the month. Ask my husband.

So I prepared for my diva birthday by throwing out my previous down-to-earth plans for hiking and picnicking with my family and instead demanding that Matthew take me out to an ultra fancy restaurant, one like we have never known in all our married life. Though previously my frugal tendencies might have gotten in the way, I was about to turn 35, an age known for reckless enjoyment of surf and turf dinners.

I threatened to get my hair professionally done for the occasion. Matthew didn't flinch. He said I could get a mani/pedi, too - maybe even take a friend for moral support if I had a fear of uppity strangers filing my nails and exfoliating my feet with sharp utensils. So, as any true diva would, I demanded, "Why? Do you want me to get a manicure? Do you think I need one?"

"No, I don't think you need anything. I just thought it would be nice."

"Well, I hate fake nails!"

"You don't have to get fake nails. They can do stuff with the nails you have, you know."

"Like what?" I asked suspiciously.

"Paint them."

"Oh...well, I can do that myself."

I skipped the forbidding mani/pedi and began devious diva plans by dragging my clan to the mall a week before my birthday, so that my entourage could help me pick out a new, enticing perfume for the date night (having just discovered that my man was so-so about the one I had been wearing). Inexperienced as I am in this, I caved in to sentimentality when I spied Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers in a perfume boutique. I jumped, clapped my hands like a simple girl, and exclaimed, "Ooh, you have Sunflowers?!" It wasn't even expensive, yet I had to have it. My brother Nate and sister Annie had bought it for my birthday when I was a teenager, and one spritz of that bright perfume took me straight back to Tennessee. Named as it is after big, yellow, happy flowers, its whole essence warmed me.

I knew a different, more expensive perfume was Matthew's favorite, so I asked with puppy-dog eyes and clasped hands, "Do you mind, Honey?"

He didn't. He understands I'm a sucker for nostalgia. I almost suggested we get both, but I wouldn't be greedy. So I dropped a hint about Christmas.

Afterward, I forced my peeps to shop for a pair of curvy jeans (because real divas have curves), and we spent in excess of $40 on the dark-washed, long-legged pair which made me feel quite naughty.

To top off a truly lovely, successful shopping trip, Matthew bought me a box of chocolates, all dark, and I stuffed some in my mouth before we even got home, as any self-respecting diva would.

***********************************

There was something about this birthday. I don't fully understand myself what slapped me silly over this number. 30 barely got a nod from me, but 35 felt important. I would like to say my desire for a special evening was because I wanted to celebrate years of continuous blessings, because my life has been just that, but it wasn't that pure. Insecurity pinched my brain, too.

With a recent promotion at work, Matthew has been traveling more and has attended some very nice work dinners with his fellow professionals in town and out of it. Those fancy dinners made me jealous, I'm sorry to admit. Were all of Matthew's decadent meals to be eaten with coworkers? Was I destined to become the boring, homebody wife, not quite a bona-fide writer, with whom he ate take-out pizza on the occasional Friday night?

That was why I requested the fancy restaurant, and I wanted him to choose it for me. I wanted pampering; I wanted romance; and I wanted to make memories together over our own delicious entrees. Plus, I had a little black dress, purchased on a whim months before, that I had yet to wear. It would be perfect.

My 35th was on a Saturday, and we were going out on Sunday night. Though there was a small misunderstanding about who was supposed to find the restaurant, by Friday afternoon Matthew had it all planned.

My husband snuck out of our bedroom Saturday morning and kept shushing the kids, but I had trouble sleeping in; I was too excited. Some minutes after I heard my family leave for the store, I went out to see the birthday sign my children had made for me. I picked out each contribution to the banner easily; they all have their own distinct artistic styles and color preferences. The sign was so beautiful that I sent my husband a praising text.

I was cleaning our house for the new babysitter when Matthew and the children walked in with flowers, balloons, and a very tall salted-caramel mocha, my favorite. As I sipped my skinny, decaf mocha with whipped cream, slowly getting the jitters, Matthew told one of the kids to retrieve a small bag for him from their toy cupboard. Inside was a bottle of J'adore, that other expensive, sensual perfume.

"You shouldn't have," I told him bashfully. "We're going out for that fancy dinner."

That afternoon he made my cake while I watched an old movie with the kids, and later I painted my nails a deep coral color and became so mesmerized by them that I held my hands out in front of me like a sleepwalker, admiring them wherever I went. Having been years since I last painted them, I forgot how pretty they could look.

That day I was joyful, and there could not have been a better finale to it than to eat the pumpkin-chocolate cake that is my forever birthday cake. It has veggies, chocolate and spices without yucky frosting to mess the glorious combination up. The recipe is HERE.

***************************

Matthew advised me to bring a shawl on our date. That was confusing. October in Phoenix is like June in other places. But I grabbed a fiery orange-red pashmina.

I had curled my hair, and for once it really turned out. It must have had something to do with that Freeze Hold hairspray I borrowed from my son. My new black dress, turquoise jewelry and older but sexy black heels complimented each other nicely. I did a smoky eye that didn't look like it'd been applied with a crayon and wore red lipstick.

We drove to Scottsdale and pulled up in front of Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. That was completely unexpected. Birthday confetti was thrown on our table. We had a veal ravioli appetizer that elicited sighs of satisfaction. We drank wine, and after one glass I was ready to sleep in that circular booth for a couple hours (it was already 8:30pm, after all), but then I ordered onion rings with my crab cakes - yes, onion rings - and they were the most delicious breaded onion slices I have ever had. Matthew and I both devoured them, and their wonderful seasoning perked me right up. The steamed mushrooms also were heaven, but the desert they brought with my name written beautifully in chocolate - in chocolate! - was truly divine.

Matthew took me on a short drive after the restaurant, and my anticipation and confusion grew as we slowly made our way up a manicured road to a golf club. It was deserted. As Matthew bent over his phone anxiously, I realized we weren't quite where we were supposed to be for the second act of our evening.

He soon found the place off a winding side street. It was a Hyatt Regency resort, hidden by gigantic palm trees, like sentinels in the darkness. Holding Matthew's hand as we threaded our way through the immaculate grounds and pristine lobby, I wondered why we were there. Were we going to see a jazz concert? Go dancing? Have another decadent chocolate desert? Were we getting a room?

Matthew asked the ladies at the concierge desk, "Where are the gondola rides?"

"You're taking me on a gondola ride?"

I felt a little weak in the knees.

The rides were in the small man-made lake behind the ridiculously ornate adult pool. Matthew had to jimmy the pool gate to gain access. Here more gorgeous, skyscraper palms marched beside the sparkling water. We turned a corner and spied the gondolier in his tell-tale striped shirt, black pants and mustache. Two couples were there before us, so we sat on the broad lip of a fire pit that sparked our clothes and smoked our hair, but its warmth was welcoming and romantic. I was grateful for it and the shawl and Matthew's encircling arm, despite the fact that he kept pinching my bum.

The enchantment increased when we heard the gondolier's powerful voice singing Italian somewhere over the water.

I was excited when out turn came, giggling over my difficulty in stepping down into the gondola with those shoes and that dress. We faced away from the gondolier who said after a minute, "So, obviously we're dating..."

I laughed. "We're married."

He asked if it was our anniversary. My birthday, I told him.

"I knew it must be special occasion. Both dressed to the nines."

He sang Happy Birthday to me, but I didn't recognize it - despite the fact that my name was mentioned - because it was sung slowly in Italian. We then told him we had been married 13 years, had two girls and two boys, and he told us of his own five boys and one daughter, the one his wife had been waiting for.

"Now, Hillary, where are you from?" he asked. He said I had an accent. Matthew and I laughed. I have been accused of having an accent all my life, but people are at a loss to place it. Am I French? Irish? Spanish? English? I've heard them all. I usually tell them Tennessee, and they respond skeptically, "Well, maybe that's it..."

Next he serenaded us with a charming Neapolitan song about kissing, explaining that in it a man was describing his girl's sweet little mouth with its cute pucker and how he couldn't resist it. It was performed so well in his clear tenor as we slid through that dark water beneath a crescent moon and stars, I was inspired and would have passionately kissed Matthew, but the gondolier was watching and seemed a little nervous we might get amorous.

As we stepped out at the end, he told us we didn't look old enough to be married 13 years with four kids, and I thanked him profusely, assuring him that we don't hear that often. Then Matthew and I strolled past the magnificent pool once more and through the rest of that grand resort, holding hands, headed home.

It was such a wonderful, unexpected gift from Matthew, the memory of how he surprised me with an idyllic gondola ride on my birthday. My 35th was really special, more so than this diva could have dreamed, thanks to my romantic man.

Love Songs and an Honest Man

Darn Brad Paisley! I don't even like most country music, but I like his. Still, I contend that he is doing the world more harm than good with his special brand of love song.

While listening to "The Mona Lisa" on the way home from one of the kids' activities, I asked my husband, "Do you feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa?"

As soon as he paused, I knew I was not going to get what I wanted from that question.

"Uh, I don't know....what does that mean?"

"It's in this song by Brad Paisley. Haven't you heard it?"

Of course he'd heard it. The man, not raised in the south as I was and certainly not born in Dixie, loves his country music nonetheless.

"Yeah, but I haven't really listened to the lyrics. I don't know if it's good or bad."

"It's good, obviously!" I cried. "The Mona Lisa? One of the most beautiful paintings in the world?"

"Okay, but I don't know the lyrics."

"Really? Really? Humph." I crossed my arms, disgusted.

"Mama, I feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa," my eldest boy said in sympathy and some fear.

"Thank you, Berto. I'm glad at least you do." I threw a dirty look at my man. "Even he knows it's a good thing."

Of course I should know better. My husband is completely lacking in the ability to dissemble for the mere sake of romance, to whisper sweet nothings. I know that's a good thing. I know. But there are just a few times when I wish he'd talk pretty to me like some hero in an Austen or Bronte novel. Or like a Brad Paisley song.

Way back when our relationship was a long distance one, and I found out he loved that old song The Letter (not the original version but the cover by Joe Cocker, to which I had introduced him), my mom suggested that it probably reminded him of me, and how sweet and romantic! I should have wandered down the primrose path of that suggestion like a lovesick fool, but I decided to ask him about it.

"My mom said you like that song, because it reminds you of us - does it?"

"No, not really," was his immediate reply. "I just like the song."

Once we were engaged I asked him what his favorite feature of mine was. I didn't know. He'd never said, and I'd gotten the suggestion that I should know from some frou-frou ladies' magazine. Poor guy! He'd had a long day at work and probably wanted to say "breasts" or "fanny" but felt he couldn't get away with it, so he remained mute.

I began peppering him with questions, "Is it my silky hair? My cute little ears? My eyes?"

Okay, I've always known I didn't have a single outstanding feature - unless it's the deep purple hollows under my eyes, my eyebrows completely lacking in arch, or my crooked and prominent nose. You kind of have to lump the imperfections together to end up with something surprisingly presentable, but I didn't expect his answer to my query to be, "Well, sometimes you wear pretty eye makeup..."

Oh yeah, he did say that. And I'll never forget the warm and fuzzy urge I felt to hit him over the head with my makeup bag.

I heard another Brad Paisley song recently. It has a beautiful chorus:

To the world/
You may be just another girl/
But to me/
Baby, you are the world!

You can bet I will not be asking Matthew if I'm his world. He would likely say, "You're part of my world. At least Arizona. And maybe a sliver of Texas."

As for that whole Mona Lisa misunderstanding, my husband actually listened to the lyrics and later texted me this:

I am the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa, and I don't care if that's all I ever do. ;)

I texted back: That's all I wanted to hear.

And I tried to ignore the wink at the end.

A Dress For One Day - In Paris (by Daniel Hylton)

Forty years ago last August, for reasons no one understands, a beautiful woman named Karen Asher agreed to marry me.  After my initial shock at her acceptance of my proposal wore off and I was capable of speech once again, we set a date, chose our invitations, and she went wedding dress shopping with her father.

She didn't have many options.  You see, we lived in a part of the country known in the vernacular as a "backwater".  The largest town around was forty-five miles away and was small by the standards of almost any other state in the union.

They found a tiny wedding shop and looked through the meager offerings on display.  And, lo and behold, miracle of miracles, she found the perfect dress.

I've heard it described several times through the years: it was very traditional, Spanish in style, with tight-fitting, long sleeves that came to a point at her wrists, and it was small at the waist with layered scallops of lace dropping down the bustled back to a cathedral train.  It fit her willowy frame perfectly.

Wait, you say.  You've heard it described?  Didn't you see it on the wedding day?

No; sadly, I did not see that dress.  Ever.

Lacking the proper means of storing the dress, they decided to pay the shopkeeper to keep it safe until the big day two months later.  The week of the wedding, Karen and her father went to retrieve the dress.  And it was gone.  At first, the shopkeeper tried to pass off another dress as the one they'd chosen.  When pressed, she finally broke down and admitted that another bride who'd considered that same dress had decided to purchase it.  The shopkeeper sold it, intending to replace it before Karen and her father returned.  But the dress could not be re-supplied.  Karen was devastated.  Her lovely dress was gone.

The owner of the shop offered them any dress she had at the price they'd already paid, even if it was her most expensive.  Karen, of course, did not take advantage.  Still, even with every dress in the shop at her disposal, there were difficulties.  The problem was that she was a very slim young woman and few dresses fit her properly.  Eventually, she settled for a dress that was two sizes too big for her, but looked nice.  It was beautiful, but of course it was not her dress.

Now, I've lived long enough to know what some soon-to-be brides would do in that situation.  After an enormous hissy fit was thrown (and justifiably so), the wedding would be postponed until the dress could be properly replaced.

Amazingly, astonishingly, Karen decided that marrying me at the appointed time was more important than wearing her perfect dress on that one day that comes but once in a lifetime.

Through the years, she has never told me this tale, or sought commiseration from me.  I've only heard it on those occasions when I've eavesdropped on her conversations with her daughters or her friends when the subject turns, as it so often does between women, to weddings and dresses.

Not being able to wear her chosen dress on her wedding day is but one of the many disappointments my elegant, lovely wife has graciously endured through forty years of marriage to me.  Through times both thick and thin, she has been my loving and relentlessly optimistic companion.  And the times have been "thin" far more often that they have been "thick".

This year, 2013, was our fortieth wedding anniversary.  We decided three years ago that we would save up the money to go to Paris.  We scrimped, we saved, we diligently planned.  What she didn't know was that I had a separate account into which I slipped a hundred dollars here and a hundred dollars there - every time I found a hundred dollars that wasn't absolutely needed elsewhere.  On my birthday this last Spring she gave me five hundred dollars to buy new golf clubs; a new driver perhaps, or new irons.

She drew her own conclusions from the expression of joy that came over my face.

A couple weeks after my birthday, she asked to see my new clubs.  "I'm holding onto the money," I told her, "until I see the new Callaways that are coming out in July."  She frowned but then nodded.  "Okay," she agreed, "just be sure you get those clubs."

By May, our plane tickets for Europe were purchased, our hotel reserved, and our expense money on hand in Euros.

One day in June, I emptied my secret account.  "Let's go out for lunch," I suggested.  Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot at Glamour Bridal in San Antonio.  She looked at me with raised, questioning eyebrows.  "I can't replace that dress you lost all those years ago," I told her.  "That dress is gone."  I pulled the money from my wallet.  "But I can buy you a new one."

She cried pretty much all the way through the appointment I'd made with the shop earlier in the week. In the end, we found a dress that really made her cry.  With happiness.  I even had enough money left to buy her a jeweled hairpiece.

As we left the shop later that day with her beautiful new dress, a form-fitting Maggie Sottero, she wiped her eyes and looked over at me.  "What are we going to do with this dress?"

"You're going to wear it," I replied.  "In Paris.  We'll go to a church and take pictures.  We'll take a cab to the Eiffel Tower and take pictures.  Then we'll go to Le Procope (the oldest restaurant in continuous business anywhere in the world) and get the waiter to take more pictures.  Basically, we're going to take thousands of pictures of you - in that dress."

And we did.  First, though, I surprised her with a bouquet from the florist near our hotel.  (That was another thing that required "setting right".  Someone forgot to give her her bouquet forty years ago, so she walked down the aisle without it.)

First, we took pictures at the church of St. Germain des Pres:

Then, of course, at the Eiffel:

And finally, at dinner at Le Procope:

And here is my lovely bride in her "dress for one day".

As we walked the streets of Paris, young women asked again and again to have their photo taken with my lovely bride, assuming that we were newlyweds.  I didn't correct them; I felt like we were, too.

Once, as I was standing to the side while yet another group of young women were having their photo taken with Karen for good luck, an older gentlemen nudged me in the ribs and said, "You have you a young, very pretty one there, don't you?"

As usual, folks assumed that I was a man of means who'd landed a "trophy wife".  They couldn't know that this beautiful woman had done without many things for many years just to be with me and raise my children.

She's not a trophy; she's a treasure.  My treasure.

How my life's great love affair is like an Austen romance

I don't think it's been evident here yet, but I'm a rabid Austen fan. I have a great friend, Holly - my very stylish. artistic friend - who supports me in my addiction, even so far as conspiring with me to drag our men to England for a literary tour.

Recently, I've been reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, on Holly's suggestion and watching the BBC series adaptation. It is a tale worthy of Austen, if not quite written with her flair and humor. It borrows heavily on the themes in most great love stories written in an age when society still believed in honor and God and character and men behaving as gentleman and women being ladylike. It's hero, Mr. Thornton, could stand proudly beside Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, and Fairfax Rochester (Of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte) as his equals - tall, proud, passionate heroes skilled in making female readers admire them for their violent declarations of love to indifferent, strong-willed, highly-principled women.

And so I thought, Well, I have a romantic hero in my life, and, crying out loud, no one's more fit to be a spirited, opinionated, principled heroine than I am. How is our great love affair like an Austen/Bronte/Gaskell romance? Let me count the ways:

We met when he came to the country, I went to the city, and I became a governess to his ward (aka illegitimate child)

Actually....well, uh, no. My sister met him a few thousand miles away, and he thought she was quite pretty (the handsomest woman in the room, as Mr. Darcy would say), and she, married and blond, asked if he liked brunettes.

"Umm....why?" he wanted to know.

"I have a little sister," she told him. "She's a brunette."

And he thought, If the sister looks like this one, I'm in luck.

I was Proud and Prejudiced.

My sister Annie gave my number to a strange Texan so he could call me long distance? Boy, was I mad. My dad and I railed for half an hour about how "these things" never work out, while my mom stood to the side and said wisely, "You never know. Give it a chance. Let him call."

He did call, the bold guy, and I learned he was newly baptized Catholic, and I freaked out like any self-respecting Protestant would do for no good reason, wailing to my dad, "He's Catholic! A Catholic! Catholic!"

I was not handsome enough to tempt him

Once I got over my paranoia, for weeks we talked regularly, agreeing not to send each other our photographs. We planned to meet blindly for the first time in person at San Antonio. But I couldn't stand it, and I found the most unflattering picture of myself and sent it by the next post. It was a photo of me and my cousin, both with red eyes and disarrayed hair, and I was holding my pet bunny squashed against my face. The rabbit looked tame enough. I looked feral.

I thought the photo was an authentic representation and was utterly humiliated when Matthew told me in a subsequent phone conversation that he would now have to "wait and see" how I looked in person, whether I at least sometimes had decently coiffed hair, etc., and that he felt certain I had sent a bad picture on purpose.

I vowed, with my wounded pride, never to dance with him at a ball - even if he did ask me - while Dad, eager to marry off his youngest daughter so he would never again have to hear about her weird dreams, claimed I tried to sabotage the relationship before it could begin.

We first saw each other at a country ball, and there was an interfering middle-aged lady

Actually, it was a Mexican food restaurant, and - phew! - there was no chance of dancing, so my vow was safe. Matthew's friend had already informed him that I looked much better in person than I did in that atrocious picture. I could tell that Matthew thought so, too, as I walked by the pastry counter for our first romantic encounter.

We were with a large group of people, and one of them, a stout, well-meaning saleslady, told me over aperitifs  - right in front of my hero - that if our date didn't work out, she had a young relative to whom she would gladly introduce me.

I tried to be as changeable as possible

One day I flirted and was sweet and encouraged him, the next I acted as if friendship and respect were all he could gain if he worked hard. That's a woman's job; we do it well.

I wore a fancy gown, and he was speechless

We had a lunch date, and as soon as the door opened, I knew my power, one might say. He just stared. I was surprised by his reaction, because I had in no way engineered it. It was a simple cotton turquoise dress - no low bodice, satin or lace - that my sister had given me, a hand-me-down. I don't even think he knew why he liked it so much on me; it was just one of those magic moments.

There was a Wickham/Willoughby character

His name was Winters, a highly appropriate name, and he sold private planes for a living. He was dark, suave and debonair, had a fancy estate and an SUV with seat warmers that made me extremely nervous and fidgety on the drive home after our only date. Later, he told me that though he appreciated our stimulating, intelligent conversations, a man and woman should make "apple pie" together. He also asked if I shopped at Victoria's Secret and told me that Matthew had once robbed him of a valuable family living.

We were not suited.

Right before Matthew was to come visit at Christmas, I saw this man trying to ensnare another young lady at the mall and was reminded of how he had charmed me once. After climbing the escalator and calling mournfully, "Winters! Oh, Winters!" under the rain-spattered skylight, I got a sharp reproach from Dad for my silliness. So I murmured with a dignified air, "Go, go. I would not wish you back again." Or something like that.

Dad and daughter were close

My dad and I were buddies. We shared a love of writing, books, chocolate and nature and a passion for talking about God. Still, he did not say bitter-sweetly, "I could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy, Hillary, my dear." No, during Matthew's Christmas visit he suddenly announced, holding a wine glass aloft as if to celebrate, "Watch - these two will be married before the year is out."

I think he was ready to let go.

I had no family connections or fortune

I didn't even own a vehicle or know how to drive...mainly, because I had no money and failed my eye exam.

Though I didn't go sightseeing at his New Mexico family home with my kindly aunt and uncle after rejecting his hand, I did call his Acura "my car" on our second date touring his alma mater. I still don't know how that came about, but I was more embarrassed than Elizabeth on the beautiful grounds at Pemberley, I can assure you, and he teased me mercilessly.

There was a woman with a beautiful voice ready to take my place

An old girlfriend, she didn't call until a week after our wedding (oops - gave away the ending). A close escape, because I didn't want to resort to sticking my hat pin in her bum or pushing her into the nearest koi pond. Stooping to such unladylike tactics would surely have hurt my dignity. Any how, she had a beautiful genteel voice as she asked to speak to my husband, and he got on the phone and said as abruptly and bluntly as Darcy would have done, "I see you just met my wife."

I didn't refuse him but I tried to run away

He did not declare his love for me under a huge old tree or find me alone in the drawing room, because we didn't know where a drawing room was in Texas. Knowing my fondness for long country walks and exotic animals, he took me to the zoo. I noticed his heart beating wildly just before he proposed to me in a little sitting area by a large blue parrot. I tried to flee, crying, "No way! No way!" He kept a firm grip on my hand.

On our wedding day as we at last stood before the Catholic priest, his smile was more brilliant than Mr. Darcy's by far. But he always did have more of Bingley's jovial nature than Darcy's sternness.

****

But unlike the great literary heroes, Matthew never enthralled me with ardent words of undying passion or talk about his suffering. He never stalked the town piercing people with his intense gaze; no, I have to get him really, really mad for that. While dating he did tell me that he compared all women to me and couldn't find anyone like me, but to me that only meant he was still looking - to which I thought, Ha! Good luck, mister. I'm original, alright.

He's a true man, and I know very few who can speak about their feelings as well as women writers have them do in fiction...unless, of course, they're writers themselves. But he did give me his sports watch when I left San Antonio and swear he would give me anything in his possession (even the Acura?!). He also kept a token of me, a cheap little necklace I'd forgotten at his apartment; something I didn't find out until much later.

Once we got married, he found less use for words then before he'd won me. Now he communicates his adoration by smacking my fanny or squeezing my thighs while I'm cooking dinner. The only time he ever says pretty things spontaneously is...cough...never mind.

He has Thornton's business sense, Bingley's steady good nature and Darcy's reserve. He is nothing at all like Rochester...unless...well, there was that time he asked if I was willing to move to another state and be his mistress (I told him an emphatic No), and he did buy me an expensive bauble when we'd barely been together a month. But he's unique. He's my hero - tall, even-tempered (one of us should be), amiable, God-fearing and dark-haired as I knew he would be.

We're made for each other, Mr. Ibarra and I.