4. THE OPPOSITE SEX: A Shy Man's Experiences
"It is a great thing to love someone. It is an even greater thing to be loved by someone. But the greatest thing of all is to have the first two things occur at the same time." - Unknown
I'm definitely a child of the 1960's. Sexual education was limited to "Health Ed" classes in
junior high school and high school. And the "sexual" education part was a few uncomfortable movies, with not quite enough information, and lots of "don'ts." My father's talk to me about sex was short and simple. It consisted of "If you get a girl pregnant outside of marriage you are no longer welcome in this house. If it does happen, I hope you'll be man enough to marry her." Details about sex? No need, I was supposed to know them. And to tell the truth, I did. My parent's house was full of books, including a Physician's Desk Reference, a Gray's anatomy, and three medical texts. The information was there, I was expected to know how to access it. I did access it, reading the medical texts, completely, pouring over the diagrams in Gray's anatomy all before the end of my freshman year of high school. My interests were far more than just sexual details extending to nearly everything, but the sexual details were not ignored. But it was all mechanics, nothing about social interaction. At the same time the "sexual revolution" had been underway for several years. To say I was ill prepared is once again an understatement. Knowledge from books, although useful, didn't really help me in dealing with real, live females...that species that seemed to have complete control over me in one on one situations...freezing me and leaving me immobile, usually unable to speak.
My mother always was encouraging me to date more, but what she didn't realize was that dating is a two way game. The guy asks, and the girl either accepts or rejects. Mom didn't see why any girl might reject a date with one of her darling boys. I asked a fair bit (It often took weeks or a month or more to screw up my courage to even ask...but I did ask.). I was rejected almost always. Rejection does absolutely nothing good to the psyche, especially when you are as shy as I was. It was always a blow to be rejected. It hurt.
Throughout this section, you'll find some poems interspersed with the text. I didn't really try to write poetry. Usually the poems popped into my head, complete. If I didn't write them down, I couldn't get them out of my head. A lot of times they were a bit playful. I often played with cadences of girls' names, often of girls I knew. Most times they had nothing to do with my feelings. Occasionally though, they did. The ones you'll find in this section had everything to do with my feelings.
I never did succeed at visualizing things positively in my mind when dealing with the opposite sex. Of confidence there was none, whatsoever. I can still tell you who was my first crush: Sharon F. in my 7th and 8th grade classes in Villa Park, Illinois. I'm sure that if she ever has a chance to read this and realizes who I mean, she'd be shocked. For never did a word of this infatuation pass my lips, ever. In fact this is the only place I've ever admitted to this infatuation. Why? Simply because I was so shy, so afraid of refusal and rejection. Who was I to deserve her consideration? A nothing...no one even worth consideration. Whether things might have changed in high school, I'd never find out, since we moved to La Habra in southern California the summer before my freshman year of high school.
I was definitely a gawky, skinny kid that freshmen year, having grown five inches and gaining only six pounds over the summer. Simply put, I was a bean pole at 5'11" and 127 pounds. That sudden growth spurt also made me clumsy...I really didn't know how to handle all that new length of arm and leg. As for girls, well they weren't really a concern, while I tried to make new friends and learn my way around the high school. I concentrated on cross country and track & field in sports and worked hard at my classes. When I was a junior, there was a sophomore girl who had a crush on me, but the feeling was not mutual. We had almost nothing in common. I did ask girls out, but got turned down. By my senior year, I had filled out to about 6' 1 ½" and 175 pounds. I was no longer the bean pole, but a pretty well proportioned kid. My first real date was with Debra D. my senior year of high school. And I didn't ask her out, she asked me out for the Sadie Hawkins dance. Debra was someone I liked. She was black-haired, skinny as a rail, but the planes of her face were beautiful, although marred by severe acne. Going to a dance was unusual for me, since my dancing repertoire is and was extremely limited, being limited to the twist, the waltz and the polka. In fact, the track coaches had requested I not go to dances, due to my bad knees (already susceptible to strains from twisting injuries and resulting in lots of swelling. The assistant track coach was also the head football coach, and told me he'd like me to play tight end, but would never risk me because of my knees...the head track coach would kill him if I got injured. And I was never that interested in actually playing football...if it had been basketball, things would have been different). In fact, when we were learning to polka in German class (I'd already been taught to polka by my maternal grandmother of German heritage), by the next period the German teacher told me she had been asked by the track coaches to not let me participate. So while the rest of the class polka'd the period away, I read German youth novels "auf Deutsch." I never found out how the track coaches found out what was going on in German class. I thoroughly enjoyed that evening with Debra at the Sadie Hawkins dance though, which included an outing to Farrell's, an ice cream parlor after the dance. I then took Debra home. During the evening, I ended up having my first real kiss with a girl...pleasant, but a clumsy nose bumping affair (I told you I was shy, so don't be surprised at such a late date for a first kiss). I should have asked Debra to the senior prom. I wanted to. But I had one problem. The senior prom was scheduled for the same night as the southern CIF track championships...the qualifying meet for the California Sate Championship Track Meet. I planned to go, it being very likely I'd qualify (first, second and third in each event in the league meets qualified). I'd last been to this meet as a sophomore when I'd been the unexpected winner of the high jump at the league meet. (I had a back injury limiting my ability to jump my junior year and ended up fifth at that league meet.) This year I was actually favored to win the league meet.
An example of one of the things in high school to show my inability in dealing with the opposite sex occurred between the date of the Sadie Hawkins dance and the date of the prom/CIF meet. During spring break, a group of seniors went to Six Flags Magic Mountain amusement park. I was one of the drivers, having access to a 1967 two door Chevy Impala sedan, capable of comfortably transporting six. The car did have a few drawbacks. It would stall every time you turned left due to the smog equipment required by California. And during 1967 GM decided their cars with automatic transmissions should not be able to be started neutral. It made for interesting driving: if you stalled turning left, with oncoming traffic you had to decide whether you had enough momentum to coast across the intersection, or whether you had time to put the car in "Park" and restart the car. The end result was that when I drove in heavy traffic I often made three right turns to go left. The car had air conditioning though, making it comfortable for long freeway trips. I think there were about 15 or 20 of us able to go. Debra was not able to go. During the day, one of the girls, dressed in a very short baby blue velour sun suit was ascending a short set of stairs just ahead of me. She was several steps ahead of me when she turned, quickly descended several steps and slapped me across the face. When I asked her "What was that for?" I was told, "That's for looking at my butt that way!" I hadn't been leering, but it was impossible not to notice her nice proportions from my particular vantage point. She then asked "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" I just shrugged and replied "Would it make a difference?" while I faced her face-to-very-attractive face. Meanwhile the replies either of my brothers would probably have made raced through my head: something on the order of "It was worth it. It's a beautiful butt." Such words and phrases were and are foreign to me. I'm still not quite sure why she did slap me. Was it because she thought I was leering? Or was it to elicit some other response? One reason that even when I was single, you'd never find me in a singles' bar was simple. You have to be able to talk to a female to be able to pick one up. At this point my tongue was still pretty much tied when speaking to girls I had a desire to date and I hadn't yet made it out of high school. It never ended up being very nimble in any of those situations.
The night of the CIF meet and the prom came, and yes, they were both held at night. I wished that the meet would have been held during the day, but it never was. I competed and ended up being sixth. Only the first five went on to the state meet. But that meant that I was no worse than the 12th best high school high jumper that year in the state of California. In fact, in most college meets I would have gone, since they assign importance to misses differently than the CIF meets did. But no prom for me, or for Debra, which I felt a bit guilty about. I had wanted to take her to the prom. I wished I could have been two places at once. I never told her that, still being rather tongue tied whenever I tried to speak to females.
For any females who might be reading this and wondering how a young man on a varsity sports team would have trouble getting dates, all I can say is that the girls looking for jocks tended to look only at athletes on the football and basketball teams. There are other varsity teams: cross country, track, tennis, baseball, wrestling, etc. There are a lot of really nice young men on those teams. If you have your heart set on a varsity athlete, you might try some of those other teams. And if you are wondering, no, I'm not ugly at all. So that wasn't the problem.
After the high school graduation for Sonora High School in 1971, one set of parents threw an all night party (no booze) at their house. I attended, as did most of my friends. Debra was there as well. I had fully intended to give her a ride home or to walk her home if she preferred. She was watching me play a game of pool. I went to play the last shot. When I stood back up she was gone, and I couldn't find her. Fool that I was, I had never even asked her for her phone number. I didn't see her again for another three years until I met her at Cal State Fullerton and she introduced me to her boyfriend.
The summer after graduation, my younger brother Scott and I worked for my father terracing the hill in the backyard using nothing more than shovels, designing a terrace system that would be likely to hold against the cycle of drought followed by wet winters that was southern California weather. It was impossible to get any mechanical equipment in that back yard. There just wasn't enough room on either side of the house to do it. Lots of hand labor, carpentry, and mixing of concrete. We worked Monday through Friday. And every Saturday we'd head down to Huntington Beach. Sundays were reserved for church. I didn't meet any girls that interested me that summer. (And what would happen if I did? With my track record thus far, nothing much.) We did finish the terracing job that summer, though.
That fall I started at Cal State Fullerton. I didn't date much, in fact not at all until my senior year. That didn't mean I didn't ask girls out. I did. I got turned down. That isn't to say sex wasn't available. It was. At least a couple times a year I'd get invitations from girls on track teams of teams we'd be visiting for meets to "go have some fun in my room." I always declined. I wanted more. I wanted more than just sex. I wanted companionship. I wanted love.
I slowly became very aware of one of my classmates in my chemistry classes, Kerry W. At the end of my junior year, I changed my major from biology to chemistry, but it wasn't that bad since I had been minoring in chemistry. Although Kerry had graduated high school two years before I did, she was only a year older than me. Kerry had light brown hair the color of sage honey, fair skin and at the time wore glasses with octagonally shaped lenses, behind which were blue-green eyes. I became infatuated with her. Although I think most of my classmates (and not a few of the professors) knew I was sweet on her, at the time Kerry had an infatuation with a graduate student named Veijo U. Veijo had a girlfriend though, a very nice girl named Heidi, who was working as an airline stewardess at the time.
Kerry*
O Kerry, Kerry
I wish you'd warned me
I'd ben more wary
For you've stolen my heart from me
I doubt I've stolen your heart
But something there inside me
Say's it's not to late to start.
I'll just try it and see
O Kerry, Kerry
I'll give you a head start
You'd best be wary
For I intend to steal your heart.
I finally did persuade Kerry to go out with me several times. I knew she respected me for treating her as a gentleman would. I know she got pinched going up the escalators and stairs in the Science Building by a few of my male classmates (something that would never be tolerated today). I never did that. I thought it was cruel. I never joined in any of the physical teasing. Not to say that I didn't consider her attractive, because I did. I found her extremely attractive. A short time after we graduated in 1975, she more or less encouraged me to date others, at least for a bit. I interpreted that as she had other interests at the time. At no time did she ever indicate to me that our dating was exclusive, and I never considered it so. She also did not indicate to me that she would turn me down, if I asked her out again, eventually.
So the summer 1975 started with me more or less at loose ends again. I was doing research for Dr. W. at Cal State Fullerton prior to starting my graduate studies at UCLA in the fall. But in July I met another girl, Lisa J. Lisa was a willowy 5'7" tall, light brown hair, light blue eyes, with glasses. She had beautiful long legs, with an inseam nearly as long as the 33" of my 6'3" frame. I more or less met her on a bike-a-thon for the youth choir group Humneo (sponsored by Emanuel Lutheran Church in La Habra) for which I sang bass and drove the bus. My younger brother Scott had helped organize the bike-a-thon event and asked me to trail the riders carrying tools and patches to fix flats, which he knew I could do easily. I readily agreed. The previous year I had set the record for getting the 25 miles down to Huntington Beach. That year it took me an hour and seven minutes (which included a nine minute stop to fix someone else's flat). Scott was sure I'd want to be in the group pushing to beat that record (they did..a few seconds past 55 minutes). But I knew something Scott didn't. I was not nearly in the shape I was the previous year. I had been sprayed with nitric acid across my face and left arm when I tried to recover some mercury from sodium/mercury amalgum which I had incorrectly deactivated in lab. Fortunately I was wearing my safety glasses. I was quickly taken to the university infirmary, where the burns were initially treated with baking soda, then cleaned, ointment applied and I was bandaged to a point where I was approaching the look of a mummy. This happened in early May. I ended up having to use Furacin ointment for several weeks. I was told to avoid sweating (a neat trick that I've never mastered), so I could not practice track and actually was forced to miss the league meet. The end result was that I had not practiced or really exercised for about two and a half months. By the date of the bike-a-thon, by the standards Scott normally knew me, I was horrendously out of shape (but still in better shape than most of the riders). Lisa was in the slow group at the rear of the bikes in the bike-a-thon. She made a bet with me that the first one back between the two of us would get a free meal at the restaurant of the winner's choice, loser paying. I had no intention of losing that bet. However, I wasn't riding the bike I started riding at the beginning. At a red light not more than 50 yards from the church where we started another rider behind me failed to stop and bent the rear wheel of my 10-speed bike, making it unrideable. My brother had brought several bikes as spares from our garage and gave me one I was familiar with, an old 3-speed instead of my 10 speed. The one problem with the bike was that the rear rim was slightly bent and the tire contacted the rear frame in one spot briefly during each revolution. We made it down to the beach, spent a pleasant day and I then left with the group Lisa was in. I figured that I could stick with her and sprint away over the last mile or so. However, that spot that was rubbing on the tire only lasted 46 of the 50 total miles, finally wearing a hole in the tire, and very quickly in the inner tube. This was not a problem I could fix with my patches. My brother came with another bike once I was able to find a phone and call the church. I rode that bike another mile or so and the chain broke. No phones were very near at the time, and I wasn't going back. I started pushing this bike, walking. Fortunately my brother realized I should have been back at the church by that time and came looking for me, with yet another bike, an old one speed. By this time Lisa had long finished. I finished the fifty miles having used up three bikes and mounted on a fourth. And I was absolutely the last to finish. And I had lost my bet.
But I've never welshed on the very few bets I've made and lost. I'm normally not a betting man, at all (so rarely lose bets). I offered to pay up immediately the next day, Sunday, at church. Any meal she wanted, any restaurant, any day. Lisa chose lunch, immediately and then directed me onto Whittier Blvd. and into McDonald's. I don't know if she felt sorry for me, having to use four bikes, or what. I was prepared to take her anyplace within a reasonable distance she cared to go. In the Los Angeles area that can mean 60 miles or more one way. Instead she chose a mile and a half, a hamburger and fries (and I don't think she ate the hamburger).
One of my good friends, Ron P., later that week bet me that I wouldn't ask Lisa out to go to a movie. I did ask her out, but the motivation had nothing to do with the bet. I was planning to ask her out anyway, after the bike-a-thon. It turned out Lisa knew about the bet, and I believe she may have been a bit miffed at being the subject of a bet. I honestly told her that the bet really had nothing to do with me asking for a date. I had already decided that I wanted to ask her out on a date. I had never intended to collect the wager, and I didn't. I'm pretty sure my friend was just trying to goad me into doing what he knew I really wanted to do. Nothing like a prod to move the unwilling fool along! Unfortunately for me at that time she showed very little interest in continuing to date me. I, however, was extremely attracted to her.
We went on the three week trip with the Humneo choir that summer going all the way to Wisconsin and back. Lisa and I slowly grew to know each other well, and by the end of the trip, there was no doubt about it . I was head over heels in love. Lisa was the first girl I ever told those three words "I love you." I meant those words with all my heart. Lisa told me that she loved me as well. Lisa was sure at first we were moving too fast, and then she wanted to accelerate things even faster, proceeding onto things sexual. Several times we came close to the ultimate act, but I hesitated. I wasn't quite ready for that. It wouldn't have been long, however. I was very attracted physically and to her personality, but unsure due to the 5 ½ year age difference between us (something that now seems laughable). Lisa didn't have completely classic features, her nose was a bit large (but so is mine). But our bodies fit together. If she turned to me and looked up, I just looked down, our mouths would meet, often in the most passionate of kisses. I was convinced I'd met my soul mate, my future wife. It came time for me to go to graduate school at UCLA that fall. I wrote to Lisa every day. Unfortunately the first month Saturdays were filled with functions that were mandatory attendance for new graduate students, and these functions were normally held in the late afternoon and evening. The only times I got to see Lisa were during church services on Sundays back in La Habra. Then one Sunday she wasn't at church, and the assistant pastor, Steve K., asked me talk with him. He talked about summer romances and how they often didn't last (it was now well into October). Lisa's name never came up. But I had that feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I received a letter from Lisa that week breaking up with me. The most agonizing and painful thing was that not a single reason for this breakup was given. I wrote letters asking why, but they went unanswered. If I tried the phone, if Lisa answered she'd just hang up. If her mother answered, she'd say "I'm sorry, but she doesn't want to talk to you." Her mother was at least cordial. In a period of ten or twelve weeks I'd gone from heavenly bliss, sure that I'd found my future wife, to a deep, painful despair that turned into the only depression I've ever suffered in my entire life. What made things worse, is that when Lisa and I met in church, she'd hurry away, at almost a run, without saying a word. This behavior led more than a few our mutual friends to begin to think I'd been abusive or hurt her in some cruel way. Such a thing is not in my nature and never has been. My closest friends knew this was not true, but apparently Lisa had confided in no one, telling them only that our brief period of being together was over. I think several of them finally realized the truth when they visited my small studio apartment at UCLA for a campus tour trip. By staying with me, they had a free, but crowded room for the night. The group consisted of potential junior college transfers and high school seniors from my church in La Habra. I think there were ten or eleven of us in the apartment, a mixture of boys and girls, with sleeping bags rolled out all over the floor, with nearly no floor visible anymore. One of the girls who knew both Lisa and myself quite well asked me point blank, "What did you do to Lisa?" and I answered, "Nothing. I love her. She broke up with me. And she won't tell me why." The room was so crowded, everyone now knew how I felt. Miserable. Apparently Lisa was not handling this breakup all that well either. But she still wouldn't confide in any of her friends. To this day, I still don't know the reasons for this breakup. Only one person does and as far as I know, she's never told anyone. The last thing I ever gave Lisa was a necklace to replace one she'd lost on that Humneo trip. The necklace she'd lost consisted of a pink stone carved in the shape of heart with a cross incised through to the background stone of creamy white, on a fine gold chain. The background stone was also heart shaped framing the pink heart. I couldn't sculpt a replacement in stone. But I could make it in wood. I repeated the motif of the lost necklace in walnut for the smaller foreground heart face, and for the background used white oak I carefully excised a cross in the walnut heart and laminated the two pieces together, carefully drilled a spot to glue in a post. I varnished the small piece carefully, with many coats. I bought a chain. I was ready to add an inscription on the back. This was the week before Lisa broke up with me. I still wanted to give it to Lisa after she broke up with me, but any inscriptions about everlasting love or the like were out, because I knew that the necklace would just get thrown back in my face. I finally settled on the simple phrase "Semper tuus amicus" which translates from Latin as "Always your friend (male)." Not boyfriend or lover, but just friend. Now my problem was how to manage to get it to Lisa. I finally cornered Lisa one Sunday evening on the church bus as the church bus was leaving for a function where she couldn't run away, since I was in the aisle, blocking any egress. I told her "I'm not going to try to talk to you anymore only to have you run away. The simple message you'll find inside this box contains what I've been trying to tell you." I then turned and left before she could say a single word. The box of course contained the necklace. When I turned away, I headed for my car and drove straight to my apartment at UCLA. I believe Lisa's curiosity probably led her to take at least the phrase, if not the necklace, to Pastor K. and get it translated. At least after that Lisa no longer ran away whenever she saw me. She'd say hello, but the feeling of strain was always there. That fall of 1975 I entered what I can now recognize as a deep depression, the only time I've ever been depressed in my entire life. I didn't want to eat. I had trouble sleeping, often waking up in the middle of the night only to end up taking long walks through Westwood Village at 2 or 3 in the morning; walks that often lasted for two or three hours or more. I lost weight. I actually felt ill, and looked ill. My classmates asked if I was ill. I told them I had a low grade virus. Perhaps I even did, since I really was not concerned with myself, and was really not taking care of myself. The only thing I managed to really keep up with was my studies. But I do remember one evening trying to study for an organic test, where I finally gave up and threw the text against the wall (Alder, Baker & Brown, in my personal opinion the driest and most boring tome on organic chemistry ever to have been penned by anyone) and stormed out of my apartment to go down to Westwood Village and buy a bag of Doritos and a six pack of 16 oz. beers. I brought the chips and beer back to my apartment and consumed it all, until I fell asleep. I must have known more than I thought about organic chemistry since I managed to get a "B" on the test. That was the only example where I gave my class work short shrift. The poem below was one poems I wrote during this period of depression. I believe it still shows the pain I was in.
Six Floors Down*
My troubles have got me down
As in this gloomy world I look around
I can't help but wonder
Might not things be better
Six floors down?
Things don't look good
in my ugly world.
I'm not sure I could
Go six floors down.
Things can't get much worse than this
Perhaps it would be best
Since I can't regain my lost bliss
to crack my bones and let my blood hiss
upon the hot pavement
And end this wasted time I've spent.
In my hellish world where troubles abound
Perhaps things might be better
Six floors down.
The six floors refers to my being assigned a desk in Dr. H.'s lab temporarily (a situation that would become permanent) on the sixth floor of the UCLA Chemistry building. The quickest spot to get a breath of fresh air was a little balcony at the end of the hall. I enjoy the feeling of falling. That was a good thing for a high jumper and a decathlete who had to participate in the pole vault. I'm not scared of heights. But whenever I'm up some place high, there's always been that little temptation to jump and experience the fall. The sudden stop at the end had always dissuaded me before, however. In the mood I was in, I started avoiding the balcony. The temptation seemed to be growing. The sudden stop was no longer so daunting, and at times seemed desirable. I stopped going out on the balcony for about two and a half months. The next poem demonstrates how my feelings turned from suicidal to extremely cynical about love.
Love is Kind*
(after Stephen Crane's "War is Kind")
Do not weep
Your love is forever asleep
With eyes closed to you
Nevermore you to view.
Love is kind.
Do not cry
Just heave a gentle sigh
While you wait where she does lie
And avoid asking why.
Love is kind.
Do not moan
Your love has left you alone
Left with a newer love
Leaving you to be the mourning dove.
Love is kind.
Bitter, bitter fruits!
Grown from bitter roots
.
Part of the heart is wrenched away.
The pain mounts each passing day
Never to cease.
Where is release?
But my closest friends back in La Habra knew what the problem was, and they wisely knew the only thing that could help me was time. I finally decided I needed some goal. It was 1975. 1976 would be an Olympic year. I decided to start training again. In 1972 I had come near to qualifying for the Olympic trials in the high jump. But this time I would be training for only one event, my specialty, the high jump. I've got to explain that my goals were not so lofty as to make the Olympic team. The goal was to gain an invitation to the Olympic trials. But I didn't tell anyone of my goal. I knew that there were lots of other better high jumpers (including one who went to my former high school and broke nearly all the records I held there. I had even helped coach him a little bit, being asked to help by my former track coaches, who readily admitted of knowing little about high jumping. He eventually did make one of the Olympic teams.). So I started running again, lifting weights again. On the leg press at on the Universal weight machine in the UCLA weight room I maxxed out the machine doing reps at 1020 pounds. I was fit again. I last saw Lisa on Christmas Eve 1975 in church at Christmas Eve services. For the first time since our break up, I didn't feel like I'd been punched in the gut when I saw her...I had a few "what might have been" moments, but that was it. I never saw her again and have no knowledge of what happened to her. As far as I know, she stepped off the earth. But by January of 1976 I was in the best shape for high jumping at the beginning of a track season that I had ever been. I was also out of my deep blue funk. The best resolution I could come to concerning my painful experience with Lisa I expressed in the poem below.
A Moment in the Sun*
When I think of all the time I've wasted
trying to remember memories that never were:
The bottle of wine we planned to share
but somehow never even tasted
And other pleasures which never did occur.
As reality killed them without a care
I feel like I could die
And as I softly cry
I realize I tried to make
Time cease to run
and seize forever
A moment in the sun.
And still my mind wanders o'er and again
Thinking of places we planned to go
But neither have ever been.
The many wonders each to the other planned to show
And again neither has ever seen.
In spite of or because them I long again
for another
Moment in the sun.
I had learned that I could survive having my heart broken (perhaps just barely, but I'd survived). I was ready to chance interacting with that incomprehensible to me female species again.
My athletic endeavors didn't go as planned, however, since about the third week of January, I was playing basketball in a church league. It was the first game of the season. I went up and blocked a shot, landed very wrongly on my left foot and felt my left knee twist. I knew immediately something wasn't right, and one of my team players trailing the play just looked at me with his mouth open, because he realized a knee shouldn't bend like that. Amazingly, I was able to get up and start walking, but it didn't feel quite right. A whole minute had passed in the game. I was taken out, and continued walking. I even started the second half, but took myself out after a minute, knowing that I was ineffective and something was really not right. I ended up with a strange set of stats for that season: Two minutes played, averaging a rebound per minute, and shooting 100% for the season (1 for 1) and no fouls. I took myself to the infirmary at UCLA where they scheduled tests on my knee. I'd had the same tests done previously on the right knee using radio-opaque dye. Now they had a new technique: injecting the knee with CO2, and observing and recording the results of the exam as displayed on a fluoroscope attached to a video recorder. All in all, I preferred the radio-opaque dye. Your knee squished around for about a day, but it didn't hurt very much. I found the injection of CO2 and resultant examination to be extremely uncomfortable. After the tests I limped back to the Chemistry Building, barely able to walk, my left knee swollen up with injected carbon dioxide. The results were about what I expected: a partially torn ligament and a torn medial meniscus (cartilage). Meaning simply, more knee surgery. Meaning my goal of getting to the Olympic trials was blown away. And the arthroscope still hadn't been invented. The operation was scheduled for finals week of the winter quarter. I‘d miss one final, which the professor assured me I could make up. The reason for making sure the operation would go through on that date, was that the orthopedist guaranteed me he would do the operation on that date, but if I tried to change that date, he said there would be no guarantee. That spring doctors at hospitals across southern California were threatening to go on strike.
Somewhere near the beginning of that Winter quarter, after injuring my left knee, I started asking Kerry W. out again. When she asked what happened between myself and Lisa, I told her we broke up and it was unlikely we'd get back together. Luckily for me she seemed to accept that, since I had no idea of how to explain the situation to her, since I had no clear understanding of it, and 32 years later still don't. When the time came near for the knee operation, I wrote Kerry a letter, telling her of my deep feelings for her. We dated that spring (again with no promise of exclusivity) until just before the summer. When at the end of one date Kerry asked me to sit down. I did, and we were both seated on her apartment's living room floor. She began, "Marc, you're a nice guy, but..." at which I stood up and said, "I'd better go." She persuaded me to sit down again. She told me a previous boyfriend of hers, Steve L. was coming back to southern California and she wanted to see if they could rekindle that romance. I'd never met Steve, but in one of those strange twists of fate, Steve L. would become of one of my research colleagues at Dow Chemical's Central Research in Midland, Michigan nine years later. I did tell Kerry how I felt I was just like I was going in circles, doomed never to find anyone.
The Circle**
The circle turns again
Nigh more bitter than ever sweet.
Turn again and repeat.
Turn again and repeat.
Although I'd never heard those words of "Marc, you're a nice guy, but.." from anyone breaking up with me or telling me we'd no longer date before, boy, had I heard them before. Almost every girl I asked out who refused me used those exact words, often making it clear they didn't want to hear from me again...ever. If I was so nice, how come I kept getting turned down? I wasn't Quasimodo. I wasn't horrible looking, although I realized there are many men more handsome than I. I have a suggestion for any girls looking to end a dating relationship using those words. Please find different words!! If you couldn't find different words, I would have preferred getting hit in the head with a brick and then being dragged out the door. I would have gotten the message: "You are no longer welcome!" And the physical pain would have been more endurable than the emotional pain caused by the words, which ultimately end up telling you nothing, but "It's over!"
I spent the summer absorbed in starting my first, and unsuccessful research project for Dr. Fred H. at UCLA. I didn't take time off at all that summer until August, but threw everything into that research project. Was I lonely? Yes. But at least my heart wasn't shattered. But two weeks later I needed to talk to someone for advice. Nearly everyone I knew was involved on one side or another of this mess. It was the week of my older brother Mike's wedding to Carol. Unfortunately, an affair between my younger brother and a married woman in the church also was revealed that same week. My younger brother eventually married the woman, who is named Jan. But it started a long feud between Carol and Jan. Carol was understandably furious at this ruckus overshadowing her big day. Somehow, everyone expected me to mediate, especially my parents. I was lost. I didn't have a clue of what to do. So I called the only person I knew for advice who wasn't involved in this mess: Kerry. I met her outside at her apartment complex where she had directed me. I laid out the situation for her, and took her suggestions and tried them. Kerry also told me that was all I could do was try. I tried. It didn't work. It got so bad, I really didn't want to go back and visit my parents after I married, because they were always urging me to try to mediate this feud between Carol and Jan; to solve something that was always beyond me. I dearly love my parents, but the emotional strain did not make for pleasant vacations when I visited them in California. That feud went on until 2003 when my father died, and things ended. Why they ended it, I've never been certain. I know at one point, Mike and his now ex-wife Carol and their kids Drew and Amanda went out with Scott and Jan and their son, Brian. I have a suspicion that the kids may have told Carol and Jan that after more than 26 years it had to stop.
In August of 1976, I went on another Humneo tour, but at the moment this one has blurred into the details of several others. I can't recall anything that significantly impacted me.
That fall, my best friend Jeff B., became my roommate, necessitating a move of apartments (actually to a smaller studio apartment, but one that would allow roommates). Jeff was spending a year at UCLA to get his structural engineering masters degree. We got along well. Our hours were so different, however, that we only ate dinner together twice all year. The offers of sex were still there, either from horny female graduate students, or female students looking to get a grade by sleeping with the instructor. I turned all of that down. I still wasn't interested in sex just for the sake of sex. And the female students looking for grades: strictly verboten - a sure way to get kicked out of grad school. During that fall I was deeply disturbed by an unexpected phone call from Alfred R., a student I knew at Cal State Fullerton, suggesting that I should call Kerry W. up and talk with her. I debated with myself for several days, whether I should or shouldn't. One night after brooding and drinking an amount of wine that was definitely way too much, Jeff walked in to the room with the phone from the kitchen (the studio apartment had but three rooms, the kitchen, the bathroom and the living room/bedroom. The phone was on an extremely long cord that would actually reach anywhere in the apartment - even the bathtub/shower in the bathroom) the receiver in his hand and he had already dialed Kerry's number. He said "Here. You know who'll be on the other end." (Jeff had managed to find my address book and extract Kerry's phone number). Kerry answered the phone, seeming very happy to hear from me. We must have talked for nearly an hour and a half, finally setting up a date. For anyone who knows me extremely well, that previous sentence would be shocking. I hate talking on the phone. A phone conversation that goes on over 30 seconds has gone on too damn long. I much prefer speaking face to face. But I didn't ask what had occurred between her and Steve. Not my business. So began our third round of dating. Me trying to fit dates into Kerry's schedule and my schedule. And going back and forth between Placentia (Kerry's place) and Westwood (my place). Kerry never saw my place in Westwood, because when we'd arrange a date, I'd stay at my parents' house in La Habra, quite a bit closer to Kerry's Placentia apartment. But once again Kerry gave me no assurance of exclusivity. I'm sure she realized that I was not dating anyone else, for I made my feelings for her very clear. I wrote her poems, and even a few songs.
I remember being headed back to UCLA one Monday morning from my parents' house after picking up some valve supplies for Dr. H. from a vendor in La Habra as soon as they opened and then starting on the Pomona freeway, only to be consumed by a desire to turn around and go see Kerry. I turned around at the Seventh Avenue exit. I found her at her apartment, cleaning, with her hair up and dressed in a set of sweats. I finally managed to get out verbally what I had managed to write, but never say: "I love you. And I think you are beautiful." Kerry seemed startled by those words, especially the ones about beauty. The attire wouldn't have mattered, how she wore her hair wouldn't have mattered, how much make-up she was or wasn't wearing wouldn't have mattered, she would still be beautiful to me. And she was. I then told her that although I really didn't want to leave her at all, that I had to get back to Dr. H.'s lab and work on my research project. I left.
Looking back on that incident I can see several things that I did right...and several I did wrong. Telling Kerry my feelings was definitely the right thing to do. However, one of the things I did wrong was not to take her in my arms and kiss her immediately after I told her. Another was leaving so precipitously. I should have stayed and helped her clean, and then taken her out to lunch. Dr. H's valves could have waited. He wanted those pieces for a grad student to complete an apparatus..but that grad student was me!! I could have easily just worked late into the night, which I often did anyway. One of my problems with Kerry was that I had become even more hesitant than I had been with any girl I dated. I don't know if it was our on-again-off-again dating history or if I was still terrified of being hurt deeply again (the memory of my relationship and breakup with Lisa still haunted me). I think the problem was most likely the latter. I should have been much bolder. I wasn't though.
The year proceeded on with my research project being changed to one that I immediately started making progress on. That summer of 1977 I didn't go on the Humneo tour (to northern California, Oregon and Washington) instead opting to concentrate on my research and preparing for the seminar I was required to present that Fall quarter (on a subject required to be completely different than my research). As the year progressed, Kerry graduated with her M.S. in biochemistry from Cal State Fullerton and managed to get a job at Scripps Institute in La Jolla, near San Diego. I wrote to her several times that fall, finally begging her for her phone number. She replied that she was sorry, she had thought she'd given it to me and had wondered why I hadn't called. But at least I now had her phone number as well as her address. That fall quarter was very busy and I was not able to get away to see Kerry until a Saturday night in December. If I had to, I could still tell you the exact date, still to this day (that too good memory again). We had arranged to go ice skating at an ice rink relatively nearby to her apartment in Solana Beach. I brought a few roses for her from my parents' garden (I was the one who pruned all the plants in the garden)and a bottle of fortified cherry wine as a Christmas gift. She gave me a framed print of an M.C. Escher drawing often incorrectly called "Evolution" (actually the proper name is "Sky and Water"). She could have not read me better...I'd always been a big M.. C. Escher fan and still am to this day. That print still hangs in my office to this day, simply because I like Escher. We went skating and returned to her apartment. We talked for hours. It was getting very late, and I said "I'd better go." She invited me to stay the night. I was extremely surprised, in fact shocked. On all of our previous dates, Kerry had given me no indication that she wished things to proceed further. A word or touch, some type of encouragement, and I would have been as physical as she desired. But never without her permission would that happen. Of course, I may have been really awful at reading body language as well (I probably was). Our previous dates had usually ended with a rather chaste good night kiss. And I counted myself lucky to have held Kerry's hand and gotten that good night kiss. That December night, all of these thoughts immediately assailed my mind (and not all should have been considered): "What type of response should I give? What response does Kerry expect me to give? If I stay, what about birth control? Kerry's Catholic but I'm not and I do not have any condoms with me. But I promised Ron to sing bass in the choir tomorrow at church, can I get back in time if I stay? I need to buy a birthday gift for my older brother tomorrow as well. (His birthday was the following Monday.)" If you notice, the one question that never came up, and should have been my number one priority was "What do you want, Marc?" That would have been easy to answer. One word: "Stay." Instead I gave the answer I thought Kerry would want to hear from a gentleman, and repeated that "I'd better go." Talk about over thinking the situation!! One of my friends had warned me that Kerry was getting impatient with me. The problem was that although we had talked for countless hours, nearly all of it was trivia, compared to important questions that I should have brought up. Kerry was Catholic and I was Lutheran. If Kerry married a non-Catholic, would she desire they convert to Catholicism? I knew the position of the Catholic church on abortion (a big topic in the 1970's, and one whose moral issues I still struggle with to this day) and contraception. But I never asked her of her personal views on the subjects. We never, ever discussed politics. I had no idea if she considered herself a Democrat, Republican or an independent. We also didn't communicate our wants, needs and dreams to each other effectively at all. I kissed Kerry good night as she was leaning against the end of the wall that separated her kitchen and living room. That leaning posture was one that I can now identify as slight disappointment. During that kiss my tongue tasted her lips and I started almost to French kiss her. I refrained, knowing that if I did start that, I'd pick her up in my arms and carry her back to the couch in the living room and Kerry would have great problems ever getting me to leave. My problem...I didn't know when to stop being the complete gentleman. I should have done just that, picked her up in my arms, carried her to the couch, and gone on to discuss with her all my concerns. If I needed condoms, there would have been an all night grocery someplace where I could have bought some. If I seemed to be over concerned about contraception, I'll refer you back to my father's two sentence lecture on sex. Ron would probably to this day tell me that I was an idiot (I did make it to the Sunday service to sing with the choir). I probably was. Thus ended my last date with Kerry. I kept in contact with her, but about a month and a half later she wrote me telling me that she was going to marry a biochemist she had met at Scripps named Dr. Michael P. Her letter was as gentle and kind as anyone could have written under the circumstances. (Don't think that she chickened out by not calling me on the phone. By the more's of the 1960's and 1970's, a girl never used the phone to contact a boy about dating or relationships. Phones were reserved for the boys to initiate things with, while girls were supposed to write. Stupid, eh?) I can't say I wasn't hurt, but at least I had made my feelings known. And Kerry had told me that she liked me, but didn't have the deep feelings I had for her. But I hadn't shown my feelings by my actions. (And the actions I desired to do was to hug her, kiss her much more than that single good night kiss, and hold her close. But "like" was not enough for me to become so bold. I realized later that I should have been bolder. But that was not in my nature at that time.) I also realized I had been unfair to Kerry...trying to squeeze her into the small available bits and spaces in my own life, while she deserved much more attention than that. I also realized that my communication skills with girls had to get better because what had occurred was no more than a simple lack of the ability of the two of us to communicate about important subjects. We were both too tentative, too reluctant, perhaps both too shy to reveal our true inner feelings, wants, needs and dreams to each other. And it didn't help that my experience with Lisa made me terrified of doing even one slightly wrong thing (and with Lisa I had no idea what that "wrong" thing might have been), leading me to completely misread things. I now believe Kerry was waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet. And instead, I was standing there waiting for permission to begin. I can only assume she was swept off her feet, but it wasn't by me. I knew after this, that if I managed to find another girl that I truly cared about, I needed to be bolder, both in my words and in my actions.
I spent the spring of 1978 working at my research. I didn't even think much about girls except to occasionally note to myself how lonely I was. But I could live with lonely. There were odd happenstances: The oddest being the late night phone calls to male chemistry graduate students by a lady who was hungry for sex and admitted to being overweight. She'd figured out that the single male chemistry students often worked late, got home late, and were therefore often available to talk late at night. It took us a while to figure out how she got those phone numbers, but they were freely available to any one on campus if you knew where to look. I know she called myself and at least one other member of Dr. H.'s group. How she managed to identify which of us was unattached we never did figure out. And I never knew if she found someone. It wasn't going to be me.
I admit to being lonely, and at times probably a bit surly during this period. I remember sitting on a couch with Ron and his girlfriend Carolyn to my left, and an acquaintance named Lisa D. on my right one night during this period. Lisa was complaining about being too heavy. She wasn't at all. I finally got fed up with the conversation. I turned to my right, picked Lisa up, deposited her on my lap saying "See, you aren't too heavy. Now, do you want a kiss?" When she shook her head "no" with a rather startled expression, I picked her up again and deposited her gently back into her former seat. I did all this without shifting from my seat on the couch. It probably took less than seven seconds for this to transpire, total. If you are wondering, this Lisa and I never dated. She was an attractive brunette, the younger sister of one of my classmates from high school. My actions surprised everyone there that evening, except myself. During this period I also went to see "Annie Hall," which had been released the previous year, but I had never seen, at one of the smaller Westwood theaters at which no-longer-premier movies were shown. I went alone. I admit it is a great movie. But not for someone alone who is already very lonely and attending it by themselves. It seemed to remind me of everything I missed about every one of my dating relationships. With Kerry, I had attended some really great movies: starting with "Funny Lady," then "Lion in Winter" followed by the first "Rocky" and then "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore," all memorable dates made more memorable by the movies and the discussion that followed. After "Annie Hall" ended, I quickly retreated back to the safety of the lab, doing research. And the research was being very productive. I worked very late that night, as I did many nights. I was making a lot of headway on the project, compared to the first project which had fizzled completely.
The summer of 1978 was a much better summer. I met Valerie C. at a multi-church Lutheran young adult outing, a picnic at an Orange County park. I managed to get up the courage to ask her for her phone number almost immediately. She was small, at 5'1", petite, and probably best described as "elfin" at her low 90 pound weight, with light-brown hair and a light complexion and hazel eyes, behind relatively thick glasses. I seem to have a thing for light brown hair. I called her up that very week and asked her out to a Pink Panther movie with Peter Sellers. When I picked her up at her parent's home in Whittier (next town to the west from La Habra) I was surprised since she seemed taller than I remembered, but as I walked her to my car it became obvious that she was wearing high-heeled 4" platform shoes. We went to the movie. I had a great time, but Valerie kept falling asleep (how you could do that in a theater full of people laughing uproariously I couldn't understand). So I wasn't sure she'd enjoyed the date. I kissed her good night and I asked her if I could ask her out again. She told me "Yes." I was happy. I was also was beginning to get the idea of communication with that female species. Helps if you ask the questions. Meanwhile almost everyone was trying to set me up with someone. I went through at least three or four (or more) blind dates arranged by my brothers and friends, but there was no buzz, no real attraction with any of those dates. There was with Valerie. The next multi-church Lutheran young adult outing was a car rally using somewhat cryptic clues and directions. Valerie and I arrived separately, but ended up getting paired up via random chance (at least as far as I know), with me driving my trusty 1973 Toyota Celica, and Valerie as navigator. After going through the course, and making only one minor mistake, we were declared the winners of the rally, closest in total distance and only 30 seconds off the target time. I was very happy to have been paired with Valerie.
Then in August of 1978 I went on what I knew would be my last Humneo tour. I'd been on them in 1972, 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976 and this would be the last in 1978. Ironically, Valerie had gone on the 1977 tour, the only one I'd not gone on. She had decided not to participate this year, actually long before we had ever met. The next year or more would be too crowded with events while I tried to finish my Ph. D. to continue to participate. Ron P. was now the director and he had confided in me that this would be his last as well. For this one we flew to New York, met two of the church buses that had been driven by families on vacation to New York, boarded the buses (while the families flew back to the Los Angeles area), and toured the east coast from Maine to Washington, D.C. After that it was more or less a sprint across country with a concert every night and back to California. On the trip, I wrote to Valerie, fairly often. I'd occasionally get a letter from Valerie, but it was hard to get them to the drop points where we could collect them in time. I also collected small gifts of jewelry for her, at various stops along the way. During the trip the youth pastor accompanying us decided to have a discussion group on male-female relations. He knew I was wrestling with a decision. Just before the trip, I'd received an invitation to Kerry and Michael's wedding. Should I go or not? I needed to RSVP quite soon after the end of the trip. I was asked to share the problem I was considering. The discussion was lively, to say the least. The girls were almost unanimous in saying I shouldn't attend, even though I made it clear we had never "gone steady" or promised each other any type of exclusivity. I dated her and only her when we were dating during what seemed to be a mostly on again and off again rather one-sided romance. That was my choice. The boys were split about 50/50 on going or not going. That night I made my decision. I'd attend the wedding. I couldn't blame Kerry for the failures in this relationship, the one girl I knew who'd always been completely honest with me, prior to meeting Valerie. (Debra and I had but one date...and Lisa? I don't know what happened...but the lack of any reasons given for the breakup definitely injured me.) Kerry had told me she liked me, but didn't feel about me the way I felt about her. I kept hoping that would change. Perhaps it might have, if I'd been perceptive enough that December night. But I wasn't. And my biggest failures were in failing to ask Kerry about her dreams, her wants, and her needs. Or being unable to read those subtle messages laid between the words. So much of the failure of possibilities in that relationship I could lay at my own feet. But at this point I was perceptive enough to realize that even had I done everything "right" that was no guarantee that things would things would have been any different. But I might have had a better chance. As they say, "Wisdom comes from experience. Experience comes from making mistakes." I'd go to the wedding. The next day we stopped at a very old, rural Catholic church, still in use. I can no longer even remember what state that church was in (One of those rare failures of memory. But the look of the place is still embedded in my mind). I went inside, made a donation, lit a candle and prayed for Kerry's happiness, health and good fortune. And more or less consigned Kerry to my past. With the trip nearly over, and after the last concert Ron and I announced that we were moving on, and that this would be our last go-round with the group. And in the concert that last night I had made my first really obvious mistake, ever, while singing one of the parts in "We Beseech Thee" from Godspell, a fast response type of song. And I heard a lot about "Getting so old that he can't remember the parts anymore!" that night. When we pulled in to the church parking lot at the end of the tour, Valerie was there to greet me. That meant a lot to me. The next day I gave her the presents of jewelry I'd managed to buy. A day or two later I was back in the research lab, and Fred H. (my research adviser) announced a pool party at his place, on the same date as Kerry's wedding. I told Fred I had a wedding that day, and he asked who, and I told him. He saw no reason for me to attend that wedding, and suggested extremely strongly that I show up no later than one hour after the starting time, and suggested I forgo the wedding completely. This was as close as Fred would ever come to a command, but I knew I damn well had better be there. I didn't think Valerie would have any desire to attend this particular wedding, and having to attend this party of Fred's meant I'd be unable attend the reception. I returned my RSVP and indicated with a note that I wouldn't be able to attend the reception and why. I did attend the wedding, and had to leave the gift at the front table of the church. The gift was a Chinese pewter urn that I found at the U. N. store in Westwood. As soon as the marriage ceremony was over, I had to hustle to make it to Fred's party by the time that had been demanded of me. I made it there 55 minutes after the start time, with but five minutes to spare. Fred asked me "Well, did they get married?" I replied "Yes." But I really, really resented being the only one singled out for a "command performance." The others of the group were allowed to attend or not (although they all did attend). That was the only time that happened, fortunately. My last incidental contact with Kerry came in the form of a thank you note, asking me if it would be safe to store tea in the urn. I wrote back to her her that in dry form it should be safe, since most modern forms of pewter no longer contain lead. Her note indicated that Michael had obtained a job in Tyler, Texas. I know they are still there because one of the search terms I give the scientific literature class I now teach at the University is "complement" which happens to be Michael's and Kerry's specialty. I didn't use this term because I wanted to know about them. I used the term since our own biochemist at the University, Dr. M. has been interested in the complement systems of crocodilians. I was truly surprised to see their names since I didn't really even know what specialty of biochemistry they were working in. All I can say is that I hope they've led a wonderful, fulfilling life and wish them the best for whatever the future may hold. Because of the circumstances of Fred making me attend his party on a deadline, I've never truly met Michael. I only saw him at the wedding ceremony, from a distance.
I continued dating Valerie, and we grew to know each other better. I began to ask those important questions. At another multi-church Lutheran young adult outing there was another car rally. Teams were drawn randomly. I really, really wanted to be paired again with Valerie. I ended up being paired up with another guy. We didn't do well, finally having to open the emergency clue to get to the end point. At the end point there was a picnic in a park where I got to see Valerie again, although briefly (far too briefly!). Valerie was attending Cal State Fullerton at the time, after finishing her A. A. at Cypress Junior College.
I continued asking Valerie out, and we learned more and more about each other. I discovered I was exactly eighteen days short of being seven years older than she. Age differences now were really not a concern of mine any longer. I fell in love again, and heard in return for the second time in my life, "I love you," when I told Valerie "I love you." Valerie and I slowly became more and more physical with each other, learning each others likes and dislikes. When our first sexual intimacy occurred, it was satisfying, in some respects, but tense, and somehow not totally fulfilling. Our second encounter a week later, however, was joyous and completely uninhibited (and extremely memorable). One difference between previous potential encounters: this time I was prepared for anything that might occur. Some form of birth control was always at hand. Quite soon after that I gave Valerie three delicate rings of gold wire. One was set with small emerald chips, another with synthetic rubies and the last a single diamond chip. The three rings were designed to nest together on one finger. I'd managed to size Valerie's finger by taking off one of her rings, and kiddingly trying to put it on my pinky, carefully noting how far the ring went onto that finger (not very far). So I managed to buy the proper sizes and surprise her. We went everywhere together, when we were able to be together. It was 43 miles from the door of my apartment in Westwood to the door of Valerie's parents' house. I could probably have driven the way blindfolded. We were both convinced we were headed towards marriage. During the 1978-79 school year, Alfred R. had been my roommate and we shared a one bedroom apartment (a step up for me), but he had a difficult year. His father was dying of cancer. He ended up leaving UCLA after the spring quarter in 1979. One summer day in 1979 I brought Valerie to Westwood Village and told her we were going shopping. And we did: For an engagement ring. We went to several jewelers, looking for a ring that Valerie liked. I didn't say anything about price, but Valerie picked a good looking although quite modest ring containing a diamond of only 7 points. It was well within my budget range. You have to realize that I was making $600 a month, paying $385 in rent for a furnished one bedroom apartment in the student ghetto of Westwood. I'd lost Alfred as my roommate and was paying the full rent that summer. I'd have to do that until September when I could find another roommate. Valerie and I went back to my apartment and I got down on one knee and formally proposed to her. I don't know what I would have done if the word "No," had come out of her mouth. Probably gone to the beach at Santa Monica and attempted to swim to the big island of Hawaii. But the word she said was "Yes," and I was overjoyed. We traveled back to Whittier and informed Valerie's parents of our change in status. After eating dinner, I went to my parent's house and told them that Valerie and I were officially engaged. Valerie and I agreed that before we got married I needed to at least be near finishing my degree and have a job lined up.
I advertised for a roommate and found one that I liked: Jose' B., a pre-law student from Denver. He always had a ready smile and seemed to always be happy. His girlfriend went to Whittier College in Whittier, in the same town where Valerie lived. Jose' managed to arrange with the phone company a line to Whittier for only 5$ or $10 dollars more a month. It was definitely worth it, because between the two of us, the long distances charges could have become staggering. Because of that, we were able to call our girlfriends every day, as many times at we wanted or needed. (And yes, my phone calls were short. But there were very many of them.) There was one thing Jose' coveted: My guitar. He fell in love with it. He was a much better guitar player than I was. I did tell him though that he could play it at the apartment to his heart's content. But I wasn't going to sell it to him. And yes, I still have my guitar. I still play it occasionally. Jose' played the guitar so well, it was always a pleasure to listen to him play. Jose' was worried about the last 3 months of the lease, since he would have to go back to Denver and work in his father's company for the summer of 1980. I told him not to worry about it, something would work out. And as circumstances proved, that was so. Jeff and Jose' had both been pleasures to have as roommates. Alfred was wrestling with his own family problems the year we roomed together and seemed withdrawn to me, understandably so.
I started interviewing for jobs and sending my resumes to companies. I shaved off my full beard, before my first interview, which was with Eastman Kodak. I got into the entirely too small interview room, to be confronted with the interviewer from Eastman Kodak. He was 6'8' tall with a full beard, and our knees kept bumping together, under the table even though our chairs were pushed all the way back to the walls. I didn't get that job, or any of the others I interviewed for at UCLA. I interviewed several places, in different locations across the country, all results from resumes that I'd sent out. One was an interview with Dow Chemical Central Research in Midland, Michigan. They flew me out to Midland, and I gave a seminar on my research. I returned to Westwood and in a few days Harvey L., then head of what at that time was known as the "Plastics Lab" verbally offered a me a position, indicated the salary, and I told them after a few days that I'd accept the offer. The printed offer showed up in the mail two days after the phone call. I needed to indicate to them a start date. I told them July 1, 1980. But things changed. Valerie's grandfather in Michigan was diagnosed with cancer, and we were unsure whether our wedding which we'd planned for early June would be preempted by a funeral. I wrote back to Dow, explaining the situation and asking to modify my start date to September 8, 1980. Dow agreed to modify my start date. Valerie's grandfather at last rallied, and plans for our wedding could go forward again. But a June date was out. It was too late to achieve that. The date we settled on was July 12, 1980. The ceremony would happen at my Lutheran church in La Habra, Emanuel Lutheran, but be presided over by the senior pastor from my church, and the senior pastor from Valerie's Lutheran Church in Whittier, Good Shepherd. It helped that the two pastors knew each other from seminary. My parents allowed us to use their beautiful back yard for an outdoor reception. Out of respect for my older brother, a recovering alcoholic, there would be no alcohol. I remember sitting at my parents' kitchen table, addressing by hand wedding invitations, and putting all the little pieces in each invitation, "just so" before they were sent out. I was not going to be one of those guys who left it all up to the bride. I was there helping (or at least seeming to, for on several topics, I was out of my depth). Valerie asked her maid of honor and bridesmaids if they would be willing. They all were. I would have asked Jeff if he would be my best man, but he informed me, that so soon after moving to the Seattle area, he couldn't afford the air fare down. He had married nearly two years previous. (I'd caught the garter at his wedding. The girl who caught the bouquet was a girl I knew well, a buxom blonde named Debbie. People asked if we were going to get married to each other...and we both laughed saying that could never happen, since I was at UCLA and she was at USC. But maybe there is something to those traditions. In less than two years we had both married.) So I asked my second best friend, Ron P. (who, if you notice has been featured quite prominently throughout this section, in one capacity or another), to be my best man, and my brothers to be the groomsmen. Valerie would not be buying a new wedding dress, but would get married wearing the wedding dress that her mother wore. For her bridesmaids, Valerie chose a simple spaghetti strapped sheath type dress, that could be easily be made from a shimmering mint green material. There was a gauzy shawl that was worn over the shoulders to accent the dress. The dress (without the gauzy shawl)would look just at home at a sophisticated cocktail party as it did in the wedding party. It wasn't one of those overly fanciful dresses that would only be worn once. For the best man and groomsmen she chose tuxedos in a cinnamon color. Her older brother, John, who was serving in the capacity of usher, was dressed in a suit of the same color, as was my father and her father. I was to be dressed in a cream colored tuxedo. The reason for this was that as Valerie's mother's wedding dress had aged, it had slightly yellowed, fortunately uniformly, to a light cream color. We hired a photographer which I paid for. We then tackled talking about flowers (now I was really out of my depth, when talking about flower arrangements. I can grow flowers fairly successfully, but after that forget it.) Much of the wedding was a do-it-yourself affair, since Valerie's family didn't have huge amounts to spend on a wedding. Most of the money went to the caterer, who catered the reception and also baked the wedding cake. The organist, Dee D., had contacted me, and told me that her wedding gift to Valerie and I was her playing at our wedding. Dee was a wonderful organist, and highly sought after. I was very grateful to her.
The day before the wedding I helped my father set up the rented tables and chairs for the reception in the back yard, that Valerie's dad, John, had rented and gotten delivered to my parents' house. My dad also rigged up even more outside low voltage lighting. I had thought what was already present would have been sufficient, but now there was plenty of light. I also got a surprise from Jeff, a call saying he'd be at the wedding. It seems that his mother decided that it wasn't right for such two close friends not to be together on such a special day. So she paid for Jeff's ticket. The Saturday morning of the wedding, I did one thing, I'm sure neither of my brothers expected. I removed every spare key to my car from my parent's house (still that 1973 Toyota Celica) and threw them into the glove compartment of the car, and then locked the car with the only key in my pocket. I knew what my bothers might be capable of doing to the inside of the car. The only key was kept in my pocket all day. I remember one instance where my brothers completely filled the new couple's car interior with packing peanuts. And that was the most innocuous of their jokes. I didn't want any such surprises.
I arrived at the church that afternoon, quickly followed by Ron, my brothers, my father, and Valerie's brother and father. The photographer took pictures of the men in the wedding party outside. After that I talked with Ron about paying the pastors, who I knew would decline any payment. I told him to give them the checks anyway, saying "In that case, Mark and Valerie would like you to accept this as a gift, to give to any charity or toward any project at your church you deem worthy." That worked. Meanwhile I was upstairs above the choir loft putting in a C-120 cassette into the recorder hooked into the sound system of the church so we'd have an audio recording of the wedding. While setting the levels I heard Carolyn (Ron's girlfriend of the time) practicing for the special music for the wedding service, singing and playing her guitar. The song sounded familiar somehow. I was so nervous and in such a rush, I didn't really pay attention to what she was singing.
The ceremony started, her father giving Valerie away. There was a short homily, and then some music, Carolyn singing "The Wedding Song" accompanied by her guitar. Some scripture relating to marriage was read. And then Carolyn sang another song accompanied by her guitar...I was so shocked I almost fell over. It was a song I had written for Valerie. She had seen the songs I'd written for Kerry, and instead of being insanely jealous (and yes, she can be jealous), she had instead appreciated the music. She asked me to write a song for her. And I did. It was the easiest thing to write that I ever did. The words were just there, the music already in my head. It may not be my best poetry effort, but every word was heartfelt. I wrote the song using my guitar, but also wrote it down so I could play it on the piano. It was actually the most challenging thing I'd ever written on piano, not in terms of theory but in terms of finger dexterity required to play the coda. It was definitely easier on guitar.
Valerie's Song
Oh dearest love, I'd never leave
If the path were my own choosing.
For me please never, never grieve
For my love you'll never be losing.
I will always return to you
And my love will never falter.
At each greeting our love we'll renew
‘Till joined at the wedding altar.
And now you are my bonny bride,
Before the altar side by side.
And my love for you won't subside.
Now I lift the veil and kiss my bride.
(MIDI of music to "Valerie's Song")
Sheet music to Valerie's song can be found here. Both the MIDI and sheet music are somewhat simplified harmonizations of the original piece.
We then repeated our vows, which we had modified to what we felt was appropriate, and exchanged rings. I was still so nervous and confused that I kept trying to put the wedding band on Valerie's ring finger...of her right hand. She managed to switch her hands around in such a way that I had no choice but to put it on her left hand. It was a relief when the ministers said "We now pronounce you man & wife. You may kiss the bride." I lifted Valerie's veil and kissed her. We were then introduced to the wedding guests and marched down and out the aisle. On the way out, Judith L., another graduate student in Dr. H's lab, looked up at me, smiling and said "Smile!" And I realized I had been so nervous, that I hadn't shown a smile through the whole ceremony. Then I did smile, with a small laugh. We were quickly hustled to a small room to one side, while the guests proceeded to the church fellowship hall. Valerie and I were posed along with various family members by the photographer, in what seemed an endless series of shots. Finally that was done and we went to the fellowship hall to stand in line with the wedding party and greet the wedding guests. After everyone had gone through the line, the wedding cake was cut and served. Then Valerie threw the bouquet. I can't remember who caught it. According to Valerie, no one did. Then Valerie sat down and I removed her garter, tossed it over my shoulder and it ended up in the possession of Todd M., another graduate student from the Dr. H's group. I actually saw the garter fairly often, since Todd liked to pull his long hair back into a ponytail on occasion and the garter was used for that. After that it was announced that the reception would continue at my parents house. It took about an hour before Valerie and I were allowed to go change. Prior to that we visited each table, talking with the guests. We spent quite a while with my maternal grandmother who had flown from Minneapolis to see the wedding. I think we ate, but I couldn't tell you how much or what. Once we had made one round, we finally retired to change into more comfortable clothes. I would have settled simply for different shoes. While tuxedos often aren't the most comfortable of attire, the rented shoes that I'd been fitted with (needed to match the color of the tuxedo) were the most ill fitting things I'd ever worn. By the time I got the chance to change my feet were killing me. It was pure relief to put my feet into a pair of my own shoes. After changing, we went down to the reception and made another round of all the tables, making sure we talked to everyone. We told them we'd be opening gifts the next Saturday. The reception more or less broke up, and myself, my father, Valerie's father, and Valerie's brother folded chairs and tables and put them in the garage ready for the rental company to pick up. I wondered where my brothers were. By now only close family and close friends remained. It was time for Valerie and I to take our leave. I helped her into the car, went around to the driver's side, got in, put my seatbelt on, started the car, put it in reverse and tried to backup...and went nowhere. I could hear a tire spinning, but we weren't making a bit of progress in any direction. I got out of the car, and realized that my brothers had jacked up my car and placed enough lumber under one side of the axle so that the tire was barely off the ground. In a normal two wheel drive rear drive car, when this done, only the wheel axle with the least resistance turns in the differential..in other words the one in the air. I started to get out, and get the small hydraulic jack in the trunk of the car, but my brothers had a jack handy to remove the lumber, all the while grumbling because they couldn't find a spare key to my car anywhere. They had big plans, and had been unable to put them into practice. I got back in the car and started to back up and out of the drive way, only to be stopped by another old friend, Matt W. He said, "I know you are opening gifts next weekend. But this gift is for the two of you tonight," and he gave us a very nice bottle of wine and a terra cotta wine chiller. Valerie and I proceeded back to my apartment in Westwood, which I had alone again for the summer. But now I was no longer alone!! I opened the door of the apartment, picked Valerie up in my arms and carried her across the threshold. I'll leave the rest of the details of that particular night to your imaginations. So began my married life.
So what advice do I have for guys looking for that special someone? You can't find the person if you don't ask anyone out. Keep asking no matter how much it does hurt to be rejected. If you've read this far, it may seem that I only dated four girls. The real number is probably close to ten or more. Those other girls weren't included, since essentially nothing happened. And yes, those I did ask out, it took me a while to screw my courage up and ask, but I did ask. I know at least three of those dates were set up by either my friends or brothers as blind dates. I remember one of my friends who actually set up dates between six guys and six girls for one evening...and most of the guys (including me) had never met any of the girls. Things didn't work out quite as planned, however. One of the guys backed out about ten minutes before we were set to leave. Dates with six girls and five guys are awkward, to say the least. I was supposed to be paired with the younger sister of one of my former teammates from Cal State Fullerton track team. The five of us took all the girls to dinner, and then to a movie. But it wasn't a great environment to get to learn someone better. How would you deal with that extra girl, so she didn't feel left out?
When you meet someone you think might be that right person, ask those important questions. Be aware, that who you think might be that right person, might not be at all. I remember going on a date with a girl, I thought might be interesting (not a blind date). I took her out to dinner and a movie. We ended up sitting on the couch in her living room. After fifteen minutes, we both realized, it would never work. Our tastes were too different, our hopes and dreams conflicted with each other. We were awkward together. And after only fifteen minutes, we had run out of things to say to each other. I didn't ask her out again, and although she didn't say it, I believe she didn't want me to do so.
If you don't know that person's views, how are you to know whether you'll be compatible or not? Believe it or not communication IS the key. The better you communicate, the fewer mistakes you'll make in your dealings with the opposite sex. Take your time making sure you've found the right partner. However, be ready when the woman is ready to go to the next stage (one of my failings)...and perhaps sharpening up your observational skills at body language wouldn't be a bad idea, either. If you don't ask the woman what her wants, needs and dreams are, how can you be sure that they coincide with yours? If they are completely different, how could you expect to be compatible? Resist the urge to talk continually about yourself...when you are speaking you aren't learning a thing. Shut mouth, open ears. And all of these things above would go double or more for the shy man. Probably my biggest failing is over thinking what my emotions told me I should do...being too hesitant to demonstrate (not just admit and confess) my true feelings by my actions. All that hesitation does nothing for you, or your potential partner. You need to demonstrate your feelings be it by giving an unexpected kiss or hug, or more physical contact, if both desire it. I now realize that my hesitations took a lot out of the potential romance out of many situations. I'm a shy introvert, there's no question about that. So if I made the wrong move, what would have happened? The worst I can imagine would be getting slapped. That had already happened to me, while I was doing nothing wrong!! And I had little trouble surviving it. Demonstrating your feelings by your actions may seem like a huge risk to a shy man, but it is not. If the contact is not wanted, you'll be told. Although I've now been married for 27 years, I'm still not that comfortable with public displays of affection beyond a short kiss and holding hands. Privately between Valerie and I displays of affection are much greater. (Are they really displays then if they are in private?)
For the women, what advice do I have? Answer those important questions honestly. If he doesn't bring too many of them up, you can. Politics and religion might be good places to start...and these are things you'll need to know eventually anyway (but they aren't really that important to your relationship. The important thing is to start talking about something.). Talk about issues important to you. Get him to open up about the things that interest you. Avoid those tricky relationship questions at the beginning. It is way too early for that talk, before you've discussed those other important questions with him, to see if he is even a possibility. If he's not the one, fine. Just don't use that "Nice guy, but.." speech to end things. Please, please, please find different words. Something on the order of "I don't think we should date anymore. Our views are so different from each other, I can never see how we'd be compatible," would be fine. If you note those statements give a reason. Guys really like reasons. For the most part, we are very linear thinkers. If A, then B. Like I said, a brick to the head would probably be a kinder approach than the "Nice guy" speech. Most guys if they are nice, already know that. And the not so nice ones know their own characters as well.
What do I feel about past loves? The same thing I felt back when they happened. Sadness that things didn't work out. Hope that they found what they were looking for in life. No hate, no grudges. To me these have always seemed self-destructive things. Grudges only hold YOU back from getting on with life. Hate is the same. It is OK to feel pain when something ends that you had great hope for, but realize if it falls apart, it was never meant to be. If it was meant to be, perhaps that person might be coming back. Who knows? But if you truly love the person, wish them well and hope they find what they need and are looking for. If you are lucky, they just might realize it's you. But there is no way to apply logic to love. I tried..doesn't work. And realize that you really can't say "You're mine!" to any potential partner: instead they have to give themselves to you.
These days I hear a lot about commitment-phobic men. I'm not sure if such a thing really exists. Every man I've ever known and talked to, desired some kind of long term relationship. I think many of the men who have been classified as commitment-phobic have reached a point in the relationship of being scared stiff of doing the wrong thing. They are paralyzed by fear of mistaking a mistake, either by formalizing the relationship, fear of appearing too aggressive, or afraid to break things off. That leaves but one choice: RUN! They are afraid of making any mistake, whatsoever. What they don't realize, that it is often possible to recover from mistakes.
When you find someone you are compatible with, I wish you the best and all happiness. Realize though, that life is often not an easy road. Be glad if you've found someone to travel that road with you, which can be very rough at times. I did. We've been married 27 years and I expect the marriage to last until the end of my life. I couldn't even imagine my life without Valerie. She knows me so well. She can tell at a glance when I'm not feeling well. She knows my likes and dislikes perfectly. As for my part, I can always tell when something is bothering her. It often takes a good while for her to admit to me what's wrong, so communication between us still isn't perfect. Tears confuse me...I can never tell whether she's crying because she's happy or sad. I try to help around the house when I can, as much as possible. These last five years, that has not been nearly as much as I'd like due to my own health issues. Valerie is not perfect either...her downfall is housekeeping. In fact the only times the house has really gotten clean is when she and our two daughters have gone to visit relatives for a couple of weeks. I'd then clean things up completely, throwing lots of stuff out (which no one ever missed...). But now because of the health issues it would have to be a month. I can no longer work as hard or long physically as I used to do. I'm nowhere near perfect either. I can and do lose my temper on occasion. And when I do, I occasionally say hurtful things. I really don't mean to do that, and I always end up apologizing. The years have put weight on both of us. (Actually our weights have cycled up and down.) We are no longer as attractive as we were 27 years ago. Age tends to do that. The one thing I know I'm lacking in is the number of times I say the phrase "I love you" to Valerie. And no matter how many times I do say it, it will never be enough. Valerie: "I love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU!!! "
If you are wondering, Valerie has seen all of this. I wanted her to see it so she could understand me better, and realize how much she means to me. Parts of this story she didn't like. She doesn't like hearing about past "girlfriends." She's territorial. I'm her territory. Fine. If the reverse ever occurred, I'd be very territorial as well. I know at times she's been suspicious of me, thinking I might be having affairs. Part of that was due to the long hours I spent in research before I gained tenure (often 80+ hours a week). I still work long hours ( I'm down to about 60 hours per week, but about 15 of those I can now do at home), but not quite so long as that. I've never even been tempted, I've never strayed. And every time she's called my office or lab when I've been working late at night, I've answered usually at the first or second ring. Part of my job is to work with students. Both our undergraduate and graduate students are required to do research to graduate. They often need one-on-one help to get their projects started. These days the chemistry majors (both undergraduate and graduate) at our University are more than 50% female. Not a temptation. The only thing I'm ever tempted to do is to teach all my students as much as possible to prepare them for their careers...and that's more than a temptation, it's exactly what I try to do.
Valerie can be jealous, sometimes unreasonably so. She is entirely sure that Tyler, Texas is too close to where we live. I just laugh, and tell her, we've been married for 27 years, Kerry and Michael have been for 29 years. Does she realize how rare that is for our generation? (I remember Kerry fondly, but nothing is going to take me from Valerie's side, ever.) I can only assume that both of these marriages have been successful to last so long. If she really wants to be jealous of someone from my past, it shouldn't be Kerry. In fact I never felt that I could call Kerry "my girlfriend." And on all the dates I had with Kerry, there was no point at which either Kerry or I was less than fully clothed. (Unless you count taking off shoes to put on ice skates.) The girl Valerie should be jealous of is Lisa, since Lisa could have had me for my entire life, so easily. But things do have a way of working out, and I guess in the long run, that persistent streak in me allowed me to finally end up with my true soul mate, despite my shyness. I can't say the journey was painless though. It wasn't. But it was worth enduring the pain to get to the end of the trip. I found my true love at last: Valerie.
*From the unpublished collection of 71 poems, "Black-Eyed Susan."
**From the unpublished collection of poems, "White for Black."
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