For weeks, I have been trying to decide how to introduce you to Buddy, the man with whom I share my heart. After reading last week's blog, one of my closest girlfriends wrote: "Not only has Buddy declared his devotion to you in several blog comment sections, but the man can write!"
'Tis true! He writes tender, touching letters. Adoring, alluring letters. A throw back to when people slowed down and synched their pace in order to create the nesting place that would contain their love. A time when lovers took the space to bask in each other's affection, linger in one another's arms, and swim together in bliss.
And when they were apart? Love letters straight from the heart. Magnificent, moving words of love and devotion bridged the gap.
When I mentioned my fondness for Buddy's way with words to a sister friend from a weekly writing group, she suggested that Buddy and I write a series of blog entries together.
This struck us as a rather intimate way to share with you our story of rekindled love and recent wedding engagement. Herein the story that is still in creation.
(
The words in italics are Buddy's)
The drive back from Florida to New Jersey this past July seemed longer than any other. I had made this trip innumerable times, visiting my
parents who had retired to Fort Myer's ten years earlier. But this journey was different. My Dad had just passed away, leaving me 1,500 miles to reflect upon my life and how long would it last, I was 57 years old, my father had been 86. What had I done with my life and most importantly, how would I live the rest of it?
I suppose it's not all that uncommon for a son to think about such things, but these thoughts were coming to the surface of my mind just as quickly as the white lines were approaching then disappearing under my car as I drove 80 mph up Interstate 95.
As much as I wanted to shake them off, trying to distract myself by counting the carcasses of road kill on the highway, the thoughts kept flying back...me, raising my son as a single parent; me taking over my father's turf products business; me, life of the party; me, lonely.
By the time I arrived home and slunk into the seat in front of my computer, I had just enough energy to turn it on. I've got mail. Junk email, some business mail, and letters of sympathy from people who had read my father's obituary in the local county paper.
One email leapt out of the monitor like a run-away train, tore through my chest, and lodged itself in my heart. "Could it be?" I asked as I slumped back into the chair. I sat there motionless for about a week (or so it seemed). What I remember and will never forget is how my eyes swelled and teared each time I leaned forward and peered at her name. Yes, it was surely her, the forever love of my life, I had received an email from the woman I had loved for three decades and had not heard from in 18 years.
My vision blurred. I could not clear it. What was this...an extra surname attached to hers? What is that other last name? That doesn't belong there!!! Make it go away, pleeeeeease make it go away. Could it be? Could my heart and soul be....MARRIED?????
Alas, there it was, the signature appearing in billboard size letters:Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley.
(YaYa's account.)
Somethings cannot be explained and this is one: I had known, for some time, that I would reconnect with Buddy by reading his father's obituary in the newspaper. Buddy is a "junior" so I figured I would recognize the name. I don't know how long I had possessed this "understanding."
Actually this is not such a far fetched idea, connecting with old friends at times of death. I am the daughter of a funeral director and I lived over a funeral home for eight years of my life. I saw these reunions happen all the time.
And, as a child, I regularly helped my Dad write obituaries. When I was hired as a reporter on the county newspaper, many years later, my first job was "obituary writer." I tell you this to make the point: Its not out-of-the norm that I would gravitate toward reading obituaries. Some years back, I had started reading the on-line obits from my hometown paper. I read them daily...religiously. I told myself reading the obituaries provided a sensible way to strike up a conversation when I talked to my parents in New Jersey on the week-ends. I can not tell you how long I had been doing this, nor how long I knew Buddy and I would discover the whereabouts of each other through this ritual.
One morning, after going through my daily paces (feed the cats, prepare the coffee, light the candle and incense) I sat down to read the obituaries. There I saw the name that would extend the bridge to the man who had loved me the fullest--ever--in my life.
I sent a condolence email to the funeral home in Fort Myer's, addressed to Buddy. I signed it: Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley. I used my married name, though my long, drawn-out divorce had been finalized five months earlier--on Valentine's Day!!! Somehow, using the married name seemed...safer.
It was almost a month before I heard from Buddy. In the interim, his nephew, Daniel, 25, had passed after suffering with liver cancer for six years. His father and his nephew-both within a month. My heart telegraphed a message to his: "How are you coping, dear one? I hold you in light and love."
Several days later, I heard from Buddy in a very brief email:
"Oh my God....Karen ? How
thoughtful. How are you ? By
your name, I'm guessing I
missed my chance, and you got
married. Let's keep in touch.
Buddy"
Next Week : Leave Room for the Miracles--Part II
Remember, beginning in March, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.
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