“Dear Little Lady Love”

PROLOGUE

Feeling particularly smug for having luckily scored some killer smoke I did one more bowl and crashed that Saturday night much like I had seven or eight hundred other Saturday nights.

Had already imagined sleep might not come easily this night because of the sick feeling I was still suffering for balking at the desk when one of those no name nerds from the hallways at Charlotte’s Central High 35 years before was in the process of registering just before me; but about the place an ink stain would have appeared on his shirt had he missed his plastic pocket pen holder back then, Ralph Lauren’s Polo Pony was now a gallop. 

Did not take but a matter of seconds to realize this was going to be more than I was prepared to bargain for; cause I would be damned before I would stand there, and listen to this person who never had a name before, tell me, some six or seven hours later, how he had personally developed ‘a screen that would filter submicron particles from industrial smoke stack emission systems’ that was light years ahead of the best available up until his discovery.

Having made that decision I stealthily skulked out to the parking garage where I found and cranked my still cool ten year old Mercury, with its fading black paint; put my Ray Ban Sunglasses on aviators had made famous years earlier that had only cost fifteen bucks a pair before the Blues Brothers started wearing them; crammed a cassette tape into my radio which was a montage of my favorite songs for the past twenty five years; uncapped an icy cold HENRY WEINHARD’S Private Reserve Beer brewed in Portland, Oregon; stoked one of the doobies I had stashed within arm’s length should the need arise to reach for another on the highway; backed out of my slot, and put my car in Drive.  Having accomplished that, I pointed my Cougar, that now required replacing a quart of oil every other fill up, southeast toward Myrtle Beach; feeling a bit relieved for not having to explain to any old classmates the book in progress for some fifteen years now was still in the works, and really going quite well, here of late. 

Much worse yet, was the thought of awakening in the morning, having to acknowledge my two-score-decade-and-fourth, was not anything to look forward to either; as it was surely going to turn out to be another typically shitty birthday day.

Before stirring I remember lying there that Sunday Morn, and somehow instinctively knowing this could be the very morning I was going to begin to take control of my life again; and I was so sure of it I continued to lie there for another minute or so, listening for the song the winner surely hears, once one knows, one has won the gold.

The only analogy I can maybe make is trying to paraphrase, as best I can, a line Loretta Swit was given in an episode of M*A*S*H, and that is, ‘…. (she) always expected to see or hear something mystical happen when the soul departs the person she has just been tending to’, and has just begun its much imagined odyssey of travel into the great beyond; which leads me to believe Hotlips, like me, believes there is some sort of transformation made at that precise moment in time that is so filled with pomp and circumstance it will surpass all imagining. 

It would seem anyone witnessing that metamorphosis would be entitled to hear a paean that will be so spectacular you will know instantly it was not written to placate mortal men; but composed, and written, by the gods, for the gods: a song of triumph as captivating and enthralling as one might expect to hear when performed by a thousand young men who were making music with their fifes, drums, and horns that never had been curly-cued; performed by men whose sole purpose in life was to make their music by playing with the panache and élan one would expect to see, and hear, when one thinks one is playing for God.

Their sound, with its shrills, dimuendos, and cascading crescendos, would be so enchanting and mesmerizing it would immediately remove any doubts but that you were not only going to join into the march, but follow undauntedly until the end of time, and beyond.  It would also be just as clear this music was played only on momentous occasions like honoring conquering warriors being paraded through Rome two thousand years before, in primeval Egypt glorifying the courts of Akhenaton more than three and a half millennia before, or announcing the arrival of each new saint, and martyr, being introduced into Brotherhood, in The Great Hall of Valhalla.

There were not any fifes, drums and horns to be heard that morning, and while I continue to hope it happens for some folk that way, it did not happen that way for me.  Yet, somehow, I still had high hopes my life was about to change, and for the better.  As I began to stir about, and stretch, it finally dawned on me this could turn out to be a very special birthday day after all.

Birthdays, for many years had always been my most special days.  Japan’s acceptance of the terms of unconditional surrender caused World War II to end on my fifth; and I had already daydreamed for several years by the time my first teen year birthday day arrived believing I was only one short step away from my adult years which meant I was not going to have to live much longer in a play-like, make-believe world, pretending that things were not really the way they were.  My sixteenth was without any doubt the greatest day of my life, at least up until that point in time, for in reaching that plateau, I had surely achieved the only real measure of manhood that had mattered anything to me.  Not that I really gave a rat’s ass whether Ike beat Adlai again that year, cause I’d like to think I knew there were basic differences in philosophies even then (Mom voted straight Democrat ticket, dad voted Republican); cause the only thing that mattered to me was I was no longer shooting blanks, for at the very moment the Trooper handed me my North Carolina Driver’s License I sensed something happening in my groin area that could only mean I had just become virile.  As of that morning, there would no longer ever be any doubts but my sightless sperm now had those tiny little tails squiggling madly about on each of them which caused them to crash aimlessly about, into and off of each other; because whatever it was taking place in my skivvies that Tuesday morning was what had convinced scientists to later believe in the theorem fusion of nuclear proportions could take place in a pail of water: And all I had to do to prove that was to find a coed who would go to The Albermarle Road Drive-in Theater alone with me now that we would not necessarily have to double-date. 

Seeing as how I was still unsullied on my eighteenth and twentieth they could not have amounted to much either; but on my twenty first a Drill Instructor made me break out of the rack, after lights out, and give him one for each year, because neither he nor me had any idea I could perform such a remarkable exposition of strength after only 21 days at Parris Island.

Indeed, in looking back, there were clearly some memorable birthday days from then to number thirty, but it is also just as clear it was my thirtieth when my birthday days seemed to start going decidedly downhill faster and faster, and turning out shittier and shittier.

After taking a leak and brushing my teeth, I ran my fingers through my hair in an upward motion once or twice, pulled on an already worn Polo golf shirt that had been laying over the arm of a chair in my bedroom for the better part of a week, gulped as many hefty slugs of OJ as I cared for right out of the carton offering an imaginary toast to one lady in particular who used to chew on my ass every time she caught me doing so, and after gathering all that would be needed adjourned to the screened lanai of my rented condominium.

There was always something remarkably amazing for me about the process of getting high.  Not unlike that rush one might receive for having stood alone at the blackboard diagramming a rather lengthy sentence and receiving praise from a junior high class instructor; meeting up with those buddies who have made the pact they are going to be doing some serious beer drinking that night; the Nirvana one experiences when one sees the love of his life that first time; or that moment when doubt goes away, and one knows one is about to get laid. 

Seems getting high has somehow sadly become the most personal and intimate thing I ever do anymore; for once all preparations have been completed, it’s kind of like getting back to basics with one’s self, and in doing so, reassuring one’s self, that everything is going to work out somehow; that next Saturday Night is going to be a much better night; and maybe even imagining strapping one’s self into the left front seat of the cockpit; cause those of us who have done so can bear witness few things compare with the exhilaration of completing the pre-flight and run-up in a plane you are about to cause to take flight as a result of your own grit and skill: which always somehow put me in the same league with Orville and Wilber.  What was certain was like Orville and Wilber, I was never completely sure I was going to so easily set her back down again, only in my case, the largest difference being, I had not had to build the aircraft in order to fly it. 

It disappointed me a bit to realize there was no longer any plane available for my use, not that there ever was, for Susan’s old man certainly never offered me the use of his (insurance rates bein’ what they are, and all); but there was a time when I could afford to rent a plane to fly over Lake Wylie, and all other special points of interest around my hometown so many years ago.  But then maybe one of the things that has to be done to take control of one’s life again is to face up to facts one has held in denial for many years.

Throttling up, of course, is when excitement builds, and your senses begin to peak as you suddenly realize you have already begun to hold your breath in anticipation of pulling the yoke and feeling that first flutter at the same time you hear the thump, that accompanies the bump, giving notice the landing gear is now fully extended, and one is airborne.  Sitting there that morning, preparing my pipe, a calm came over me in being able to believe I was about to take flight again, because within one breath I was going to be able to experience the freedom from the pain and care of this external world by slipping into a world of bliss; where for a few hours, I was going to be able to escape the problems and concerns a person has to endure day in and day out who lives hand to mouth (and I probably winced then, ruefully aware my pay was going to be short this time, because of a snafu by a new nerd in the home office, who caused my last sale of a manufactured home to not be funded in time).

An icy cold HENRY WEINHARD’S Private Reserve Beer, a beer brewed in Portland, Oregon, had already been uncapped and sat juxtaposed beside my baggie that now held one of the prettiest buds of dynamite cannabis you ever saw; particularly apropos seeing as how I always liked to do something special for myself on Christmas Day and my birthday.  Smiling smugly to myself, knowing it was going to be good for the full day, it was then, and only then, that it occurred to me to turn the phone off perchance someone phone whom I would feel the need to tell how great it was to be climbing out through 40,000 feet; cause any pilot worth his salt knows within only a matter of minutes I would be leaving a vapor trail through the heavens.

A stifled cry coming from one of the thirty-some-odd year old looking young men  who had just putted out on the green that sits behind my crested perch startled me; and as I began mincing off a portion of the very nose of the bud onto my joker I flashed back to weekend’s of yore when, I, too, was part of my own fearless foursome of fun friends who would also engage in the throes of a silly little small scale war that can sometimes take place between great friends on Saturday and Sunday mornings.  Admittedly, there were times when I felt good enough with the accomplishments of the week when I did not really care if Big Time won the money; cause there had been other times when he was beating me so badly I would stoke a doobie when making the turn so I could at least enjoy the rest of the round.  But then, that was back when I was about the same age as the thirty-some-odd year old looking young men on the green when I had had some great weeks (which now seemed so very, very long ago), and I smiled to remember when times had been so very, very good in my life.

But then there were other times when the week had not gone so well causing me to shudder to think of what an unbelievable price I would have paid to have won my match that day.  The pro’s know they can only win when they concentrate on their own game; but when any two opponents whose play was as unpredictable as Big Time or me were matched, you can sometimes win if you are successful in keeping your opponents mind off his game.

One thing was sure, for if I convinced Big Time I was going to beat him that day, not from skill, but out of sheer determination and spite; then the match would begin in earnest, with one of us eventually getting so pissed off one of us would always become undone, and before the round was over make some shots that were so errant I would have tickled the tummy of a four foot gator before I would have dared try to retrieve a brand new black Titleist out of fear something thrived, and flourished, in the brush, or swamp, or expanses thereof, that had not yet been categorized, and placed within any particular zoological phylum; and bigger than a four foot gator.  I suppose it probably goes without saying that Big Time and me always shared the same golf cart too, in large part, so we could help each other hunt for each other’s balls or never be any question, after the fact, as to what the final tally of strokes had been that had enabled either of us to finally putt out on hole number so-and-so; cause on any round either one of us could screw a hole up so bad he would have to tally a double digit on a par three hole.  Jenks and Garth could shoot in the seventies on any given day, and were already profoundly engaged in their own small scale war, sweating out their next shots with such profundity they sometimes did not even seem to know Big Time and me were there.

Big Time, and me, on the other hand, were the two biggest palookas who ever were, and while we were never out of fashion, the very best either one of us could ever hope for was to shoot a sub-bogey round.  Seeing as how that was only accomplished two or three times, in as many years, we could still take great consolation in knowing a round that could be tallied in only double digits would almost certainly give either one of us bragging rights at our next Friday Night cook-out where we would again begin to parry to see which of us was going to team with Jenks or Garth, because by that time the taunting had already begun; but then all’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?

Inevitably there would come a time during every round when I knew I had either won or lost, and on those remaining holes on those rounds when I knew I had won remain among my finest hours.  Showing no signs of guilt, I’d mimic my main man, for I had seen Arnie do it time and time again; I was making my charge, and in my reckless abandon, going to win it or be damned.  This was a shoot-out between Big Time and me, and all that had to be done for me to complete the coup was to make anything resembling a respectable drive by simply keeping my cool long enough during my swing to land my ball on the fairway, wind up on the green in fewer shots than it had taken him, and make any putt out of the leather; so instead of standing over my ball trying to imagine where my golf shot was going to cause my ball to wind up because of any intrinsic skill I possessed; I would stand there sometimes trying to imagine how I could screw with his mind and let him know there were not going to be any prisoners taken today.  What was so amazing about it was my odds doubled with every hole I won, and he would snap, meaning the game was over; because by that time, I, too, had already begun to scream a stifled cry with each hole I won, snapping my thumb and middle finger so loudly it could easily be heard by everyone on our green, and with the gleam in my eyes begin to taunt him, like a tiger taunts a gazelle, right before he eats him.  And the reason all this is so fresh in my memory is because Big Time probably beat me more times than I beat him, in this very same way.

The OJ and beer soothed my throat, and I began to inhale with a tenacity that can only be compared with throttling up, as I fully intended to take in as much smoke as I could without having to cough, and continued to inhale deeply knowing precisely where that point would be.  A second pull turned out much like the first; and then on the third I began to imagine this very toke could maybe be the one that could make me hear the imaginary thump one always hears just before experiencing that first buoyant feeling giving notice one is airborne, and has just left planet earth; and then on the fourth, it happened.

So you will not think you are going to be left hanging you need to know when I did a bud at home, I chipped it off onto a joker that came from an old deck of cards; because it is always a reminder of sorts.  I had remembered seeing an old movie many years before that was glorifying a conquering hero who was a General who had not only miraculously survived the thick of the terrible battles, but in doing so, had vanquished a nation, claiming even more of the world for Caesar, and The Roman Empire.  The General, on this day, was being lionized by being the honoree in a grand parade through Rome riding in a magnificent chariot drawn by a matched pair of robust thoroughbred Arabian steeds.  Rome was at its peak then, and the grand city was gaily decorated as it surely must have always been on such stately occasions, for there was much pomp and circumstance.  In the film there was a little man, someone who had just been subjugated to Roman rule because of the General’s conquest, standing at the back side of the honoree repeating a phrase, just loud enough so only the General could hear; over, and over, and over again, trying to keep it all in perspective for the man who has probably already begun suffering delusions of grandeur by imagining men of lesser talents and conquests had already been deified.  For what it is worth, this is the logic I sometimes use in trying to keep it all in perspective for me, because I, too, sometimes suffer delusions of grandeur; that is up until my smoke falls into the bowl of my pipe and I am left there with a joker in my hand, who seems to be saying over, and over, and over again, “It’s sad you do not have a better friend than me: it’s sad you do not have a better friend than me; it’s sad you do not have a better friend than me”.

For me, at least, getting smoked up en route to ‘There’, wherever that mystical place ‘There’ is, as it represents that utopian place in Eden where one is allowed to escape the trials and tribulations one has to deal with by being here; where one’s mind might wander with computer indeference, to first one place, to then another: and I thought of Di.  Just so there will not be any confusion this early, you need to know we are talking about the young woman who was the second child of a woman I used to date; the mother of whom, being totally void of any inhibitions that plague most women, was as well, completely devoid of any of the attributes required to define a lady with “cllaaasssssss”  (a word that should never be said in less than one full second); but was nonetheless, a woman who falls within the dozen women whom I personally rate as one of, “The All-Time Great Fucks”.  It also makes sense that if someone were to analyze this remark they could just as easily prove the reason I thought about Di that morning was because I remembered her mom so fondly.

It really pissed me off to have to come to grips with the reality the very smoke I was finishing up that day had cost me five saw-buck’s, fifty big ones, as Fred G Sanford would have said it; which meant my smoke represented more than half the price of what pure gold had sold for, for many years by then.  It also caused me to drip to realize that morning I was going to have to try to drastically curtail my usage again, because after staying clean for eight years I fell off the wagon thinking the kids working with me would see me in an entirely different light if I joined them for a joint after we pulled the chains one night.  Naturally did not take but a day or two before, I, too, was stashing a joint in one of our display homes every morning, I would be visiting in again during the day, for a toke or two, or three.  Should come as no surprise to learn I have gone to bed smoked up every Saturday Night since then, and for many more years, all told, now, than I care to remember.  But then the odds would be in your favor I had also gone to bed on any Monday, Wednesday or Sunday Night just as smoked up, as well.

Frustrated with my efforts of trying in vain to break the hold smoke had over me it seems thirty days would be my limit; for by that time I was an emotional wreck, and had begun fixing a second hefty sized drink at night.  In an effort to take the edge off I would phone Di, and make arrangements to pick up a gram of smoke that is arguably the best smoke ever grown in The United States, Sinsemilla.

Now if you are ever in Kensington Palace, and have the opportunity to meet a lady of that same name (Princess Diana was alive at the time), then the chances are you are about to meet a future queen mother; but if you are ever in the Great State of Washington, and find yourself on something or other numbered street that predictably crisscrosses the south side of 56th Avenue West in Mountlake Terrace, and run into a lady named Di, then the odds are you can get a full count of the best smoke around for the prevailing fair market price in the nabe.

Di’s new live-in boyfriend was an unusually big dude of Italian descent, who did not care for my company much, as he had presumably taken issue with the reality I had not shown his girl friend’s mom any respect; as I had left one day to go pick up a bag of beer, and never returned.  It also did not even seem to matter I was older than her old man; whom I had done some smoke with, in her home, long before he ever showed up: so I got to the place I would not tarry, but leave to scurry through the motions that would put me back on 56th Avenue West.  One minute later I would pull into the parking lot of a Lucky Super Market to find a place to park where I could load my pipe; always mindful to park where some old codger could not see me who was waiting in his old car, while his wife did their meager grocery shopping, cause he already knew the only things above the bare essentials in their grocery bag that night was going to be a half gallon of ice cream, and a bag of Oreo’s.

ln little more time than it would have taken Clark Kent to make his change the aroma would begin filling my car, making my transformation complete, for after having taken only a toke or two I could return to 56th Avenue West to make my drive home a new man, now able to soar above the heights of mortal men.  There were even times as I sped along I-5, going only a little slower than a speeding train, that I eyed The Space Needle as a challenge in its own right, having absolute confidence from my vantage point of being a re-incarnated Superman of sorts, I could have leapt ‘er in a single bound, seeing as how I was already almost as high.  But then, just as quickly as the bulbous spire faded from view, another thought would come to mind allowing me to remain steadfast in my belief there would not be any challenges in the next day or two I could not handle.

Since it did not seem like it would require a computer that morning to calculate the difference in hours, and days, and months, and years; I figured it just to see how keen my mind was even though I was clearly already under the influence.  The years and months calculations did not require much effort, so after thinking through “The-Days-In-The-Month-Rhyme”, it was easy enough to add the number of days left over in July and fourteen which eventually tallied to another number, with the only unknown being between whatever time it is now; and the time of my last assignation that chilly, foggy, grey Seattle winters day, with some wonderful woman whose name happens to escape me right now; for we had treated ourselves to either a nooner, or an early matinee, depending on where you want to peg the time we started, or stopped.

She was a great looking woman, dressed to the nines, who had showed up alone, and after deducing she had nothing to lose by joining me for a drink, shrugged her shoulders, and soon found she had taken a liking to my line at a Seattle Single’s Club Party that had begun as a happy hour type thing at that huge club on the west side of Highway 99 North where Ray Charles used to always play when he was in Seattle.  Things had gone so well by the middle of our second drink I deduced I had nothing to lose by taking my shot, explaining to the dear lady my first love was my smoke, and as luck would have it, a bottle of the very same stuff we were drinking in the cabinet above my range at home. 

Never really cared much about going to party’s like that, had already been bankrupted for building a bar and restaurant in the North Carolina mountains; and had attended this gathering only because I had accepted the challenge offered by the president of the club who I had just sold a cherry four year old Eldorado coupe that had been loyally and faithfully maintained from day one by its original owner at the Cadillac dealership where I was working at the time.  Excusing myself, we traded cards on the premise we may talk again someday; and sure enough, she joined me that next night on the premise we would grill some scrumptious steaks, and maybe have a drink or two before we return to the same club where we met the night before, as there was a big name band going to be performing there that Friday Night.  And I bet they put on a hell of a show, too.

She was a mysterious woman, a divorced Realtor, had a kid or two, fessed up to already having had some face work done by then; so after some few weeks I rolled over onto her side of the bed and checked her driver’s ID one night while she was taking a leak, and making an additional side trip downstairs to grab something out of my fridge; but my surprise came in discovering my dear lady friend was already living in her sixth decade (still only in her 50’s, mind you).  I really did not have any problem with that because she reminded me, as a result of the delight, and ingenuity, and prowess, and skill, and zeal, she relished upon our love making; of some of the young women I used to keep company with as a much younger man.

I really do regret not being able to remember her name that morning, but that does not in any way diminish from the fact she is already the second of a dozen or so women you are going to read about, whom, I, for my very own special reasons, hold very near and dear to my heart.  All you need to know now is there have been a dozen or so women who shared a portion of their young life with me who were loving, and giving, and caring, and warm and cuddly; who did not feel compelled to try to hide their passion, or their compassion, by wanting to sleep very close to me, oftentimes in an embrace; women who enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed theirs.  What is just as certain is that the point in time comes in ones life when one cannot remember if she was one of the five or six or seven women who loved you, and whom you loved; or one of the five or six or seven women who were only whoring for you, cause it all gets to be a blur at some point in time.

And then I thought about her.

Your mom.

Since I am one of those persons who believes there can only be one true love in any man’s life, this seems as good of a place as any to make mention of mine; in large part, because our affair ran its course in such a remarkably short period of time, and for reasons of my own, and the timing, could not possibly contain any more revelations than it does here.  In an effort to make sure your focus is where it needs to be you need to understand that I never ever once thought of myself as a person who wasted time fantasizing about anything -- daydreaming, yes - fantasizing, no -- and you need to know we are going to be talking about the woman I had daydreamed about all my life.  Although many pundits could no doubt argue convincingly there is not any real difference between the two, I prefer to use the term daydream, because it also means, by definition, “…. idle reverie, especially of the fulfillment of wishes or hopes”.

My gang and me had been invitees to a party out from town one night, and as we arrived your mom came around from the front of the cottage to see who had just arrived, and having done so, rushed to greet a friend of hers in my part of the party who was another lass almost as pretty as she; and I immediately knew I was looking upon the most beautiful woman I had ever seen; a full 9.9 by anyone’s standards.  The two ladies were causing enough commotion to allow me to continue to gaze for just another moment, which was of little consequence, for I had already decided this was the woman the gods had tried to atone for after that unforgivable mishap with “Venus de Milo”; as even her hands were flawless, and fit within mine like a glove.

It turned out to be one of those miserably hot, humid, sticky, stuffy, sultry summer nights people from my part of the world suffer through a fortnight of the year; but as the night wore on, it became clear she was the near perfect woman, not that I would ever have her, but in having met her, I knew such a woman could exist, and live, and be.

A 9.9 you query?  Well, I am also one of those persons who believes there can only be one Perfect Ten in any man’s book, and mine had been established long before this.  But as the night, and the party wore on, it became clear she was the very essence of what a wholesome, healthy, happy, alluring, beautiful, claasssy woman represented for me, pedigreed throughout; and my God, when she laughed, for she laughed often, I discovered my whole world seemed to take on a whole new dimension because she was such a kick.  In my mind, it was clear she represented a ray of hope in a life that heretofore had only been lived in obtuse places where there were things that sometimes moved, and bumped, in the night.

On any number of occasions in the months and years to come we wound up guests sometimes at the same soiree’s, but before long, word on the street had it your Dad had taken one of those plum jobs most men know one can only aspire to if one is part of the family, and your folks moved.  But after more years passed we became reacquainted again, quite by accident at lunch one day, only this time as a single man and single woman; which meant my lovely lady could now be asked out on a single day’s notice.  I thought of nothing else the rest of the afternoon; and as luck would have it, your number was available.  Our first date was a particularly festive occasion, and on my ride home that very night I made the decision to go for it, to step up to the plate, to stake my claim, to make her mine; kid and all.

I really did not perceive there to be any problem with her being set free to be her own person, no longer passive, but liberal to the point of being in your face, in her own ladylike way.  Being a woman of the world she had been liberated from the old social mores her mom had had to endure, never ever once willing to take the guff she would surely have to suffer if she had ever been caught letting her hair down: sometimes even confrontational, if it was an issue she felt strongly enough about: and I had no problem with that either.  It was also just as clear she had not been cut out to play the demure, prim, sedate role her mom had perfected; and I had no problem with that either.  But had her dad been anything other than a white Anglo Saxon protestant, I probably would not be a-tellin’ this part of the tale, for he might consider taking revenge on me if he were to ever hear how the Light-Of-His-Life had prepared us a meal one eve-nin’ that was fit for royalty; but yet I had showed no respect, sating myself, plying his darlin’ daughter with what we had mutually already agreed was going to be our alcohol concoction of choice, had even talked her into takin’ a toke or two, or three; and had converted his “Little Princess” into my “Lady Love” one early eve-nin’ on the sofa in her den while her TV, lights, and my socks, were still on.

There was never any question about it, your mom was all I ever wanted, my whole life long; for just being seen with her was rekindling the ardor of life that was all but gone.  What was even more amazing about it was we were going to bed together almost every night.

There were times during those memorable nights and mornings when I would wake about first light, and lie there for a couple minutes as the soft white light of Aton began filtering in through the drapes to bathe her, renew her, causing her to become more and more alive with each additional ray of light.  I was in love, and exalted in much the same way Akhenaton must have felt in having a woman like his beloved Nefertiti in his life.

What is important here is The Pharoah who ruled medieval Egypt almost thirty-five-hundred years ago is credited as being the first man to ever write love poems to his lady; but then it had also been Akhenaton who had had the power to denounce all other gods and goddesses, and proclaim, as was his right, there was now only one god, Aton, the sun god, because it was Aton’s power who enabled him to look upon the face of his regal lady.  But alas, I, unlike the ancient pharaoh, could not deride any gods or goddesses, or even write the first love poem, but could only look upon the sleeping face of the regal royal lady lying in an embrace with me who seemed to love me in return.  It seemed surreal to remember now we had already begun bantering wistfully about marriage, because on that same day she would have immortalized me, giving me license to someday walk tall among the likes of Odin, and Frey and Thor, and all the saints and martyrs of yore, being introduced in The Great Hall of Valhalla.

I had never known such happiness, so in an effort to pay the love of my life the ultimate tribute, I am going to quote the one man in the world I can look upon as being the authority of such matters, for the paradox here is Richard Burton is speaking of the woman we both believe is the most beautiful woman who ever lived.  “…. (she) is beautiful beyond dreams of pornography”, and after I marveled how this man could put into so few words the unexplainable awe he felt for Elizabeth, he added, “…. and I will love her until the day I die”, which is surely the way it was.

The problem that developed was there were a couple single, dateless duds, in the nabe where you lived, with whom your mom had already formed a sisterhood; and seeing as how they thought of themselves as a family of sisters of sorts, they began to dote on her.  The lovely ladies could now readily see our dating had very quickly turned into an ongoing tryst that was now showing tell-tale signs of becoming a boundless-endless-timeless love affair; and to prove blood ran thicker than water, they sold her on the idea the mixed emotions she was feeling then was to be expected, even plausible, because of having ridden out a whirlwind romance that could rival many that heretofore have been redundantly documented.  In an effort to remind my lady love of what an unworthy scoundrel I had become, they began to be both available, and unabashedly agreeable.

What worried me was a woman popped up out of the blue one day, a real good old friend of hers, being the same woman who had recently been jettisoned by a love interest with the same aplomb as if she had been an Atom Bomb; and to leave no doubts about where he stood on the matter, he began using every available evasive maneuver anyone ever thought of, putting distance between him and his old love interest.  Everyone knew it was over when he moved a new brand new squeeze into his digs within only a matter of weeks; never once looking back.  Those on his ‘A-List’ heard rumblings that could lead one to believe the woman I speak of could have been bi.

Not dismayed, remembering a poster from my past about a butterfly, the moral of which was having to let go before you can know if your love will come back, I allowed nature to continue to take its course; and things went well, for a day or two.  In only a matter of days the dear female friend made no bones about the fact she was, Makin’-Her-Bones, as it seems they said it in the movie Goodfellas; by consoling my lady love into believing she was only feeling pangs of doubt at that point for not keeping her guard up, thereby allowing herself to be smitten by a rogue like moi, who was probably a bastard to boot.  Unrelenting in her quest to chip away at my lady love’s resolve, she assured your mom that by nipping this thing in the bud this early she would not have to suffer any more misgivings about having allowed her emotions to run free in such a remarkably short period of time.

I did not have any particular problem with that either, as it suited me just fine our relationship could face its litmus test at such an early stage.  More important yet was my foundation of belief my lady love was incapable of responding to a woman; because I had already had these feelings once before, had even played this hand once before, and came out second best.  So in an effort to appear both nonchalant and nonplused about the matter, I would sneak off where the kid could not see me and do some smoke when she was around, and being a re-incarnated Superman of sorts, I would hoot her, as I had no problem with showing myself to be a boor, a peasant, a man of little refinement.  Everyone knew what was happening; she was not trying to kid me, nor I her.

It did not help matters to realize the women’s movement had not given any instructions to the male love interests in these women’s lives as how to cope if such a matter like this should ever arise, other than, ‘go have a night out with your cronies’; or at the very least, look the other way when the lady’s are throwing a quilting bee.  There just did not seem to be any better option than to allow nature to run its course; for she had to stand up and be counted, either on one side, or the other, and let the chips fall where they may.

But before long, the subtlety of her friends feigned smiles, and the nuances of their unrelenting derision of me made it clear who was in the driver’s seat, so I left one night after you were abed in order to give your mom the space she required.  As it turns out, your momma’s friends queered our deal.

The problem I have is my lady love had this kid; and it did not take very long to figure out the games men and women play are not limited to age differences, but even more fun being played with a little girl who had not yet been given permission to make potty runs without her mom along.  It was clear, in my mind’s eye, she was going to be a very special part of my life, forever; which was gonna be doable simply because my dad had already showed me how that would work, saying in so many words, ‘the only thing he ever expected of me was to tell him the truth, because he was not ever going to tell me anything that was not the truth’; and to this day, I never once told my dad a lie that comes to mind, after trying, that first time.  What was more amazing yet was how I could read her eyes, and smiles, and laughter, and just before sleep moods, like a book.

Some special father-daughter bonding took place early one morning when you walked in on your mom and me, while we were experiencing the final throes, and then the glow, that only a mutually satisfying climax can cause to happen to two people who perceive themselves to be in love with each other.  Should the event have jogged in your memory, you would recall my face was in the outward position toward the door leading down the hall to your bedroom; less than a foot away from the edge of the bed where you had walked up, and after placing your tiny little elbows on the edge of your mom’s king size bed, you apparently stood there silently til we were spent: and I opened my eyes, only to see you standing there smiling the prettiest little smile I had ever seen.  I laid there for a moment trying to take it all in, looking away from you, trying to hear if your grandparents had let themselves in, roused you from your sleep, and were rustling about somewhere within ear shot.  I had been caught before. 

In only a matter of seconds it occurred to me the coast was clear; and that you had not only just experienced the compassion your mom and me had felt for each other, but may as well have even heard the song a man hears, when he beds the woman he has daydreamed about his whole life long.  Not pretending to allow you to believe you had seen anything pornographic (luckily we were still under the top sheet), I smiled back at you with the same glowing smile any other lady in your family would have seen who had just walked in on your mom and me, and seeing as how you could only see the left side of my face anyway, I winked, and only then did we laugh.                   

The problem I still have is you and me never had a chance to say our goodbyes, for I left on a dark dreary night after you were abed; causing me to wonder many times if you remembered anything about me, and thought I had abandoned you; for I had imagined many years my aunt and uncle and cousins I had grown up with had abandoned me.  Had we had that one last minute together, I would have challenged you one last time to see how hard you could hug my neck, and one last time would have whispered in your ear, “You are my little lady love”, and experienced one last time the unexplainable joy of seeing your beautiful smile, hearing your heart warming laughter, and hear you say my name again, one last time, as only you could say it.

So in an effort to create closure; seeing as how we never had a chance to say our good-bye’s, let me tell you the story I would have told you, had you ever thought of me as Dad; and what my hopes and dreams would have been for you. 

I hope, most of all, you will not think me under any delusions about writing classic literature; but that you think of my effort as being more like a Bob Dylan song, and contains a message relevant to topical issues of our times.