55 Years and Counting

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“How did you meet?” is one of the questions that frequently comes up when celebrating a milestone anniversary. My answer, unsurprisingly, took the form of a brief story which I read to family and friends gathered together.  It was a perfect day with wonderful food, music and dancing.  And while many of our friends have known us for most of those years, they were curious to know how we met. While my memory has dimmed somewhat, this day is still vivid and bright.


First Glance

Dad’s Day Weekend at the University of Illinois is in 3 weeks and we have just rehearsed our skit for the past 2 hours.  My hair hangs in strings and I feel gritty and slippery.  My glasses are smudged, make-up gone and as I follow my dorm mates into the lobby, I cannot decide if I am more hungry or tired.  Papers litter the tables, students lounge on the floor, sofas and chairs.  I walk up the accessible ramp, stepping over books and backpacks.  A hand taps my shoulder and I turn to see who is behind me.  No one I know.

“Want a bite of my apple?” the boy asks.

I say no, am fixated on the apple and more than a little confused. His shirt tails hang loose, and he has a day’s growth of beard.  Now I stand against the railing and we talk about nothing really, but I can’t seem to move. I know the others will be wondering what happened to me.  But I continue to talk.  He says his name is Steve Bauer.  We laugh and I know I like his smile. His eyes are clear, and I feel comfortable.

Thirty minutes later I am on my way to the social room.  The pizza box is empty, and everyone is annoyed with me.  I concentrate on remembering the guy’s name that I just met and ask if they saw him standing on the ramp.  No one did.  I ask does anyone know a guy named Steve Bauer and no one does. I stay for a few more minutes, then go to my room.

My roommate is awake. I tell her I just met someone named Steve Bauer.  She looks up for an instant and returns to her history text, answering me with a hmmm, her usual response.  I lie in my bed, conjure up Steve’s face and wonder if I will see him again when the phone rings.  We talk for what seems like hours.  We meet for coffee the next day.  I learn to pronounce and spell his last name correctly. 

I struggle with his intensity.  He struggles with my resistance.  And then one night, deep in a challenging conversation, the call abruptly disconnects.  Thinking he has hung up on me, I arrive at his apartment ten minutes later only to discover that the operator had disconnected our call.  And the rest is history.

 
 Steve and Barb, August 15, 1964

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