Leap Year, 1984

When I met my husband in 1978 I didn’t like him very much. I wanted him to sign my petition so I could get on the ballot for our college’s student government.

He asked, “ Why should I? Why do you want to run? What will you do to make a difference?”

I turned around and walked away. I suppose I should have been prepared to be questioned, but I took him for a smart ass instead. I don’t need your signature, bucko. Sensing my frustration, he caught up to me and signed my petition. I soon found out he was absolutely the opposite of cocky–he was just being himself. That’s what he did. He asked questions–he was interested in people and things, and really wanted to know more about them. He also later admitted he thought I was cute and didn’t know what else to say to start a conversation. I, however, vaguely knew who he was and had a crush on one of his roommates.

When I got the chance to go to his house, it was to see if I could sneak a peek at the other guy; maybe start a conversation. The guy ignored me, but Jim took notice. He swooped in and played host. We talked, laughed, and he took me into the kitchen and cooked me up some egg salad. I admit I was impressed, but I had nothing more in mind than that I’d made a new friend. He was pretty wild looking—big bushy afro with a bandana tying it down, Foo Manchu, overalls with no shirt, barefoot. What girl could resist, right? Ha! No. Nice guy, but no.

The first time he came to my house, my mother asked who “Griz” dated. I protested that no one dated Griz—he was just a friend—a big teddy bear. It was about this same time, he was looking through a piece of survey equipment outside on campus when he spotted me through it. His surveying partner happened to be the best friend of someone I dated a couple of times.

He told Griz, “She’s a nice girl, but you won’t get anywhere with her.”

Well, Griz must have been interested in something more meaningful than the pesky guy who was always trying to “get somewhere with me.” Score points for me. Our courtship dance began with playing musical charades in the student center and chatting. He was always full of questions. Deep questions. He wanted to know who I was, what I liked. I thought he was never going to ask me out. We took an impromptu road trip with one of my friends into the next state one night and just stood talking and watching the lights play on the Tennessee River for hours. He never tried to kiss me on that trip, even though the setting was perfect. Who was this guy? He was different. He challenged me.

One day, I was on the verge of asking him to a movie. I had just brought up how Animal House was on at the local theater, it sounded funny, and I would like to see it. I left the door open. . . whew! He finally took the bait. The road trip, the movie, an all-night pig roast, and a toga party were what it finally took for me to lose my heart.

He was so different than the local boys. He was from a Chicago suburb and seemed a little more worldly; even if he did look like he crawled out of the backwoods, somewhere. It took him as long to kiss me as it did to ask me out, but I knew he was special when he asked if he could kiss me. I had never been asked my permission before. I knew he was different when he would look me in the eye and ask about me like he really cared and wanted to know. Everything wasn’t about him and playing games to see how far he could push me into “giving in” to him. I suppose growing up with two older sisters gave him an education in the ways of women, whether he realized it or not.

Even though he was huge—6’2”, 230 lbs., he was not a fighter—he never had to push his weight around. He was a peacemaker; he saw the good in everyone and everything, was intelligent, shy, honest, and people loved him because they could tell he was genuine. He loved a good adventure. He was perfect.

We had dated three years when he went off to follow a dream of his and work in Alaska. I was crushed. I felt abandoned. We had been together as often as possible during those three years, but he never asked me to go; never indicated he wanted me with him. We had never really talked about our future together–it was a scary subject. I was the good girlfriend, encouraging him to chase his dreams without me and suffering alone, quietly. Maybe it was out of rebellion, but I decided to continue my education and take my own path. I would see him about three months every winter, and back to Alaska he would go.

This went on for two years when I decided if he didn’t love me enough to want to be with me, I was not waiting any longer. I began dating someone else and told him about it. He flew home. Gosh, if I’d known that would have happened, I might have tried it earlier. The other guy asked me to marry him. I was in the middle of a very weird situation and didn’t know what I wanted. I needed to get away from both of them, so I could clear my head and decide who I wanted; what I wanted. I spent a summer working in Minnesota, escaping everyone and everything. It wasn‘t Alaska, but it sure was a lot closer to it than I had ever been. Jim wanted me, but the most he could commit to, was finally asking me to go to Alaska his third year. I went.

After three months in Alaska, we returned to southern Illinois and spent the winter together. While sipping wine with our Valentine’s dinner, and without forethought or planning, I leaned over the candlelit table and blurted out “What do you think about getting married?”

He said, “Are you serious?”

Uh oh. I didn’t know if I was serious or not. Maybe it was the wine. I said, “Yes. It’s either now or never.”

What happened next was pretty unnerving. He began laughing and did his trademark knee-slap thingy. Several times. He then got up and went to another table in the restaurant where our roommates were sitting and proceeded to tell them. I was bewildered. Everyone was laughing and I wanted to crawl into a hole. The whole kicker was, he wouldn’t give me an answer—said he had to think about it! The next morning, I swallowed my pride and demanded his answer. It had been six years—enough was enough.

My family loved Jim. They probably liked him more than they liked me. When we got married, my mother actually laughed and said, “If anything ever happens and you two divorce, I know it won’t be Jim’s fault!”

What was that about?! That was 35 years ago this week and it was a leap year. My granny had always told me the girl could propose to the guy, during leap year. Maybe that was my unconscious motivation. Okay, it really was unplanned and spontaneous, but she would have still been proud, though. While I don’t recommend the cold-turkey proposal method for just anyone, it did work for me. He used to kid me that he “picked” wisely. I would remind him he didn’t pick at all.

35 years later, my sweet, good man has Alzheimer’s, but he still knows our story. He just asked me if I’d do it all over again.

“Yes. Yes I would.”