Short Distance Romance

By Lisa Braxton

Never think that God's delays are God's denials. Hold on; hold fast; hold out. Patience is genius.

~Georges-Louis Leclerc

I was single and in my early forties. I'd been living in Boston for seven years, after leaving a career that allowed little time for dating. Building a social life was still difficult. The few dates I went on were draining. "Why do you read so much?" and, "Why are you so quiet?" were typical questions men asked me.

I was further discouraged by a shift in the way men I didn't know reacted to me. I noticed it one day as I was getting out of my car at the gym. Across the parking lot, about thirty yards away, a guy who appeared to be about twenty years younger than me paused at the gym's front door, looked me up and down, and grinned. But as I got closer, his grin turned deadpan and his eyes got wide, as if he was witnessing two trains about to collide. He grabbed the door handle and rushed into the gym.

The most stunning encounter came at my adult Sunday school class. A guy who looked to be about my age sat by himself three pews behind me. I noticed that whenever I turned around to hear what someone in the very back of the room had to say and met eyes with him, he had a pained expression on his face. I assumed that he must be younger than me and was put off by the idea of an older woman making eye contact with him.

As the months passed I would naturally meet eyes with the guy three pews back when he was in my line of sight. Each time I would regret that I had turned around. He was usually scowling. I promised myself that I would never turn in his direction again.

I told a co-worker about my Sunday school encounter. She told me to forget about the sourpuss and focus on going places where I could find someone before I aged out of the market. She told me that her sister, who'd turned fifty, joined an online dating site and got few responses, most likely because of her age. Panicking, I joined a site and rolled my age back by four years. I spent weeks communicating by e-mail with potential connections but never went further. I realized that I couldn't meet a man that way. I needed to see a potential date in person.

I joined an online site that organized group events, hoping to meet a number of prospects without the pressure of a one-on-one date. I enrolled in swing dance lessons, which were offered at a church hall near a university. After I paid my entrance fee I realized that most of the participants were college age. I stuck with it anyway. But one day I missed a cue and turned one way while my partner turned the other. The pain in my knee was so severe I had to quit.

I hobbled back to adult Sunday school a few days later. Without meaning to, I met eyes with the man three pews behind me as I folded my coat over the seat. He was grimacing. I became angry. I wanted to ask him what his problem was. But I didn't. I became more determined to get back out there and meet someone.

A girlfriend and I bought tickets to a Boston Celtics game. We made plans to hang out at a sports bar before the game, figuring there'd be lots of men there. However, we got stuck in traffic. By the time we got to the bar it was empty. Everyone was at the game.

I was exhausted. I decided to take a break from my man search. I became president of a literary association and organized events. I had a short story published in a creative writing journal. I sent a copy to my Sunday school instructor who'd read some of my earlier writings. The following Sunday he complimented me on the piece in front of the class. I heard about an open mike night at one of my favorite bookstores and decided to participate, reading a poem about my beloved deceased cat.

Then months later at the end of adult Sunday school, I heard someone behind me call my name. I turned around. He extended his hand and introduced himself. It was the guy three pews away. He told me he'd seen a picture of me posted online from the open mike night, that he knew I had signed up online for group gatherings. He was thinking about joining one himself — for divorced men. He said he knew I was a writer because he was there when the Sunday school instructor complimented my story. He told me that he was a former journalist, like me, and was writing a book.

I felt as if a statue had come to life. It was the first time I had heard his voice or seen him smile. This was the same guy who had sat behind me for years looking mad whenever our eyes met. Or was that just my interpretation?

Over the next several weeks we exchanged e-mails about our writing projects, our childhoods, our respective challenges with shyness. We agreed to meet for our first date on a blustery winter evening at a burger place across the street from an author event I wanted to attend. When I finally got to the restaurant he didn't seem to mind that I was late. We laughed when we placed our orders. The menu offered a variety of delectable-sounding burgers, but we both wanted the Cobb Salad. Six months later he told me he wanted to marry me. The following year we got engaged.

I've asked my fiancé why he took three years to approach me. He said when he began attending the Sunday school class, he had just gotten divorced. When he felt ready to start dating, he hesitated. He was afraid I wouldn't be interested. To find out more about me he turned to the Internet and discovered that we had similar interests. Ironically, my joining activities partly in reaction to what I thought was his rejection of me provided him with the details he needed to feel comfortable enough to introduce himself.

One day, as we discussed our wedding plans, I told him how hurtful it was to look back in class and see him scowling. He said he didn't realize he looked unpleasant. I told him how for years I'd sit in church blinking back tears, wishing I had someone to share my life with, like the couples and families that surrounded me. My fiancé gave me one of his rare but radiant smiles, put his arm around me and said, "All you had to do was look back and say hello. I was only three pews away."

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When a Cat Decides He's Moving In

By Rebecca Hill

Any conditioned cat-hater can be won over by any cat who chooses to make the effort.

~Paul Corey

A big, beautiful, black Persian cat named Commander taught me that not even the most adamant-dog-loving-cat-hating human being in the world can resist the charms of a cat once the cat decides he's moving in.

Commander was my parents' cat but I knew him first. Originally, Commander was my college roommate's cat. My roommate was supposed to be selling Commander because he was "a show cat." When potential buyers saw the magnificence of Commander's appearance and his impressive bloodline, they thought he would be a blue ribbon champion. But, unlike his brothers and sisters, Commander would not tolerate the show cat lifestyle. He would not sit serenely in his crate nor would he tolerate his eyes, teeth, ears and body being examined by a judge.

Because of his prideful and uncooperative behavior, no one would buy Commander. My roommate grew frustrated with Commander and began to neglect him. Commander was often kept in the bathroom (which my roommate pointed out was much bigger than the crates his brothers and sisters lived in) but the bathroom was not big enough for Commander's spirit. Commander ripped up and ate some of the bathroom tile and out of boredom played with a razor blade leaving little bloody paw prints all over the bathroom.

My roommate was unhappy, Commander was unhappy, and I was unhappy. In desperation I called my parents to see if they would like to adopt Commander. My mom had always loved cats but my dad disliked cats intensely. (Apparently, when he was young he had known some feral cats who bit and scratched him and that had made a bad impression on him.) As predicted my dad said, "No way. No cats." So, being the ever-obedient daughter that I am, I brought Commander home for Christmas break. Fortunately for me, my dad was out of town at a math conference. By the time he returned, both my mom and Commander had decided that Commander was going to stay.

My mom broke it to my dad by saying that Commander was going to live at their house for a "trial period" while we looked for a buyer. My dad looked at Commander with great apprehension and was very leery when I sat Commander on his lap. As the weeks, then months, went by there was absolutely no effort to sell Commander and it became clear to my dad that Commander was there to stay. Commander started sitting by my dad as he read the newspaper and slowly my dad began to pet Commander — just a little bit.

By the time I came home that summer I was surprised to see my dad carrying Commander around the house and holding him up to each of the windows so "kitty" could be on "bug patrol." Over the years, my parents' love for Commander grew to the point that they could not imagine life without him.

Once my brother and I finished college and there was no more tuition to pay, my parents built their dream house and they named the floor plan The Commander! They worked with the architect to design every nook and cranny of the house so that it was perfectly suited for both of them and for Commander. For my mom, they designed a beautiful living room and parlor. For my dad, they created a fantastic office and beautiful places for my dad to display his African art collection. For Commander, they designed windows that went to the floor so he could "see all of the bugs and birds" and my dad even took the time to measure Commander with a ruler so that the window ledges would be made wide enough for him to easily lie on them with comfort.

Commander died at the age of eighteen. That was four years ago. My mom still talks about Commander often and misses him tremendously... and so does my dad, which proves that not even the most adamant-dog-loving-cat-hating human being in the world can resist the charms of a cat once the cat decides he's moving in... to your heart.

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The Set-Up

By Sue Fairchild

Are we not like two volumes of one book?

~Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

"Hey! I wanted to let you know Dawn's nephew, John, will be here tonight. I didn't want you to think it was a set-up or anything."

Patrice was so cute when she lied.

My close friend and co-worker Patrice knew about my former fiancé breaking off our engagement. Heartbroken, I had sworn off dating and was taking some "me" time, but she remained convinced I would find someone.

My other co-worker, Dawn, had also recently heard my woes. Unfortunately, that led her and Patrice to start scheming about my love life.

Dawn had also shared her nephew's heartbreak story with me. John dated a woman whom he did errands and cleaned for, but she didn't appreciate him. I admitted it would be nice to have someone take care of me and, if he was such a good guy, the girl was nuts to treat him so badly. Dawn often mentioned it was too bad John lived so far away in Baltimore.

He had also recently sworn off dating after breaking up with the ungrateful girl. I didn't give it a second thought when Dawn told me about it because he lived so far away.

Tonight, I only wanted to spend time with my friends, not be forced into conversation with someone I didn't know. "No, absolutely not," Patrice assured. "John's here for the weekend and they're going to bring him. There is no pressure! Come and have some drinks."

I didn't care. Even if it was a set-up, I was not dating. I was, for the first time ever, okay with the reality that I might never marry. I had my own home and my dog for company; I could come and go as I pleased and could support myself. I believed my life was pretty perfect the way it was. Besides, John lived in Baltimore. He certainly wasn't moving up to Middle-of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

Having convinced myself, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.

Within minutes of my arrival, the unease returned. Patrice wouldn't look me in the eye, and she began to babble as she busied herself in the kitchen.

"You need to relax. You'll meet him, have a good time and he'll go back to his house and you'll go back to yours... If nothing sparks then you go on with life as usual," she said, barely taking in a breath.

Although she was right, her words and actions did little to relax me. My life was fine as it was, I reassured myself. I always looked forward to these nights as a way to relax and let myself just "be."

However, tonight would be different. My relaxation time was about to be invaded by a newcomer. I felt myself putting up the defense shields.

I headed outside to see what Patrice's husband was doing. Vinny was arranging chairs around their fire pit, which served as our party space. He seemed oblivious to any set-up. I helped him wipe off the cobwebs and dust off the chairs.

Dawn and her husband arrived and greeted me warmly but quickly escaped inside to Patrice. Their nephew leisurely made his way over to ask if we needed assistance. Not bad looking. Kind of geeky, but he was cute and had nice blue eyes. I tried to focus on wiping down another chair.

Vinny introduced himself, and me.

"Go get yourself a drink. Just follow your uncle," Vinny added, as he winked and motioned towards me, "and don't forget the lady." I rolled my eyes and tried to look uninterested as I continued to wipe down a chair. Vinny wasn't so oblivious after all.

A few moments later John returned with a couple of bottles.

"For the lady." He bowed slightly as he handed me my drink. What a nerd, I thought, but inwardly smiled at having some attention pointed my way. I mumbled my thanks and quickly retreated to a chair on the opposite side of the fire. I was not going to get excited about something that would not happen.

But within the next hour, I changed my mind. John and I were tossing jokes back and forth like old friends. It seemed so comfortable that I let down my defenses.

Then it happened: He made a joke in reference to a movie, and I was the only one who laughed. No one else got the joke. He looked at me and smiled.

"She got it!" He pointed to me.

My heart thawed a little. I was having a ton of fun with this guy.

This went on for a few hours. He would make a joke and I would laugh or I would start a conversation and he would continue my point of view. The weirdest thing was that John and I were already finishing each other's sentences. More than once we eyed each other after these moments as if to say, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Get out of my brain!" he said after I had completed yet another one of his thoughts.

I'd never clicked with someone like this.

Then, suddenly, it was over.

My mood crashed as John and his aunt and uncle said goodbye and gathered their things.

He was on his way back to Baltimore.

He lived in Baltimore. That was over 180 miles away. Once again I had let myself hope for something more and now was faced with the reality of being alone. My giddiness ceased, and I sobered up to the reality of the situation. Even though he seemed the perfect match to me, we had many miles separating us.

As John turned to leave, his eyes lingered on me for a moment, but before I could think about giving him my e-mail or number, he was gone.

However, the connection was just too much to dismiss. A few days later, I obtained his e-mail address from Dawn and sent a tentative note.

"Hey," I wrote, "was it just me or were we hitting it off the other night?"

"I agree," he wrote back. "The way we connected the other night was a bit... odd. I felt like I had known you for years instead of just hours."

We began conversing every day. Before we ever had a real date, we knew almost everything about one another. One month later, when we did have our official first date, it felt like we had known each other forever. Within six months we were each considering moving to be closer to the other.

Patrice and Dawn always have claimed they didn't set us up that night, but it's really just a joke now, because three years later we were married and settled into our home in Middle-of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

People always say that you find your perfect love when you aren't looking. In our case, it was so true. Neither of us thought we needed love in our lives, but our friends saw the potential for happiness.

Even if it was a set-up.

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Children in the Snow

By Shawna Troke-Leukert

A grown-up is a child with layers on.

~Woody Harrelson

My husband Eric and I awoke to the loud sound of a howling dog. "Nanook wants to go outside to do his business," yawned Eric, stretching his arms into the air. "I'll take him." Eric rolled the covers back and slowly made his way out of bed.

A minute later I heard, "No way! I can't believe it."

I opened my eyes again. "What is it?"

"Shawna, the entire front door has been snowed in. We can't get out!" Eric's voice carried through the house.

Eric had opened the inside door and was staring at the glass window of the outside aluminum door. The door that was usually transparent was completely white.

"We'll have to use the back door," I said.

Eric shook his head. "It's also snowed in."

"What are we going to do?"

Nanook the Husky let out a howl as he paced the floor. He needed to go outside to do his morning business.

"I know," said Eric. "I'll try going out the window."

We walked into the living room and opened the drapes to expose our wide window. "The snow is just below the window frame," he said. "I'll get my coat and boots on and jump down first. If it's safe for the dog to come out you can guide him through."

A moment later, Eric stood on a living room chair and turned the window handle. A rush of cold fresh air flowed into the room as it opened outward, leaving a space large enough for an adult to fit through.

He put one foot up on the window ledge and then the other. The ice beneath him made crackling sounds.

"Be careful," I admonished.

Eric crouched down so he could sit on the ledge. He pushed his bottom to the edge of the windowsill until his right foot lightly touched the snow just two feet below. Grabbing onto the edge of the windowsill he tested the stability of the snow under foot.

"It feels solid." He slid his second foot down. "Okay," he said, "you can send Nanook out."

I clipped the leash onto Nanook's collar and tapped on the chair below the window with my free hand. He looked at me and then looked in the direction of the door. He had never gone out the window before and couldn't understand what I wanted. I had to lift his front legs onto the chair and then his rear end quickly followed. Outside the open window Eric kept repeating, "Come on Nanook, this way."

"Go with Eric." I encouraged. "Go outside." As Nanook leaped out the window I let go of his leash. Jumping around in the snow and wagging his tail while Eric patted him on the head, he was finally free to do his business.

"Come out and join us, Shawna," Eric said with a big smile on his face.

I quickly put on my boots and coat. Standing on the living room chair I climbed onto the ledge of the open windowsill. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined I would be leaving my house through the living room window. It made me feel the way I did on my first trip to the playground as a child — nervous, but excited. I let go and jumped down into the snow below me. Once my feet were firm beneath me, I joyfully jumped around with Eric and Nanook. I looked up at the white snowdrifts and glistening ice that covered the walls and doors of our house. It looked like a house made of snow from a children's storybook.

That day the child inside of me let loose. My husband and I romped around in the snow with our dog for hours.

"Nanook probably thinks he is back in the Arctic," I said, as we watched him roll around on his back. And then we both laughed at our dog. It took us a few days, but we did eventually clear paths to both our doors.

Nineteen years later, we don't usually get the same snowfall amounts on the southwest corner of the island of Newfoundland as we did back then. But every winter my husband and I find ourselves reminiscing about the day we had to use the living room window as a door, and the fun we had playing like children in the snow with our dog. That winter storm left us with truly precious memories.

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When Staring Hurts

By Rosalie Ferrer Kramer

Be curious, not judgmental.

~Walt Whitman

Once upon a time, whenever I was out with my children — Iris, Marc and Danny — strangers stared at them and told me how attractive they were. But that was before my Marc and Danny became wheelchair bound due to muscular dystrophy. Then, going anywhere with the boys led to a different kind of staring.

It's sad that even in these times, when people are supposed to know better, my boys still get stared at. A quick glance would be one thing, but the veiled look, the pointing, or the unabashed, open-mouthed gawking is difficult to bear.

Watching us enter a restaurant is quite a sight and we get lots of stares. We charge in with our electric wheelchairs, we make adjustments to the table, we cut the boys' food, and they wear splints on their wrists so they can hold their forks. The boys like to go out to eat so we decided to do something about the staring. Here's what we do — we stare back.

However, just getting into a restaurant can be a problem. One time Marc wanted to go to the new Big Boy restaurant for his birthday. The eateries were being furiously advertised on television with the big Elias Brother's chubby Big Boy, in the red and white checkered outfit, going around and around on a thirty-foot pole beckoning to one and all. Watching that commercial caused Marc to think that he was being personally invited. So I wasn't surprised when he said that he wanted to go there for his birthday.

First I called the Big Boy to make sure our group of seven, including grandma and our aide could be seated there. I explained the situation to the manager but he said, "We don't take reservations."

I was dumbfounded so I explained, "Well I just didn't want to cause a sensation, and I thought you could put us in that quiet corner in the back where you have the super big booth. There will be seven people, two in wheelchairs."

"I told you lady..."

Mister, this is a special situation." He hung up.

I put the phone down and called the corporate offices of Elias Brothers who owned the Big Boy franchise. As an advocate for the disabled, one must be prepared to ask for help. Mr. Elias listened to me without interrupting. When I paused for a breath he said, "Mrs. Kramer, you just call me anytime you want to go to any Big Boy, and a table will be reserved for you and your party whether is it seven people or twenty-five."

We went, as quietly as possible, to the Big Boy near our home. The manager greeted us at the door bowing and walking backwards, like a maitre d' in a fancy restaurant. Every eye in the place was on us, but our son was very happy. He said with a grin, "Let's do our thing, Mom."

"Okay Marc, who seems like the prime culprit to you?"

"I see a kid in a red hat. Even his mom is staring; they're being very rude. And that busboy is standing stone cold still just looking and looking."

We stared away and it worked, as always. Sometimes everyone laughs — the starers and the starees. It breaks the ice and shows people around us that we are just a regular family with a few problems.

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Back to Exercise

By Andrea Atkins

I am grimy. Grimy like floor-of-the-Port-Authority-bus-terminal-after-rush-hour grimy.

I have been lying on the floor of the exercise studio, hoisting myself into push-ups with a five-pound weight on my back. I have been slamming a medicine ball at my exercise partner and catching it as she slams it back at me. I have jumped down from a high step repeatedly, jumped rope, and climbed up and down the bench in a kind of crazy quickstep. And that's just in the first forty-five minutes!

I don't think I have ever sweated more or felt more fatigued. Yet I couldn't be happier. I am back in my exercise class after nine months of absence. I had to stand aside because of a knee injury.

That day on the tennis court when I ran full steam ahead from the baseline to get a drop shot at the net turned out to be the beginning of a bad year. I was one step away from the fuzzy yellow ball and when I stepped forward to connect, it was as if I'd stepped into a hole. There was nothing under me and I went down in a heap, as my knee gave way. As I fell, I heard a snap inside my leg.

Following an X-ray, MRI and an examination by an orthopedist, I was told my anterior cruciate ligament was torn "less than fifty percent" and in those cases surgery is not recommended. A few months of physical therapy, and I'd be good to go. I was as dutiful about rehab as a puppy who anticipates a dog biscuit. I did the exercises at physical therapy. I did them at home. I did them at the gym. Three months later, the doctor gave me the green light, fitted me with a knee brace, and sent me on my way.

I marked my return to physical health by rejoining my women's softball team. In my first at bat, I reached first base on a fielder's choice. With two outs, the first base coach told me to "run hard" as soon as the next batter hit the ball. I did. One step away from second base, and again, my knee collapsed on me.

"Maybe you need surgery," the physical therapist said the next morning when I called to share my woe. The doctor said the same thing. So I went for another opinion, to a doctor who only worked on knees. One month later I scheduled the operation.

When I awoke from the surgery, which repaired my torn meniscus and replaced (with a cadaver's ligament) my ACL, I didn't feel as bad as I feared I would. But let's just say this is major surgery, and recovering is not easy. I couldn't drive for three weeks (the hazards of a right knee repair). I watched a lot of TV (favoringThe View and, I admit it, some game shows).

For someone who has always been active, being debilitated was eye opening. How much I wanted to just go out and run. How much I wished to be able to simply walk my dog. It made me realize how often I catch up with a friend by taking a walk with her. I couldn't even think about tennis, but found that I was missing the women whom I'd meet on the court each week. Mixing friendship and exercise has long been my secret for staying motivated. And most of all, I missed the exercise class that left me feeling so grimy.

With much determination and a lot of hard work, I got the post-surgical okay to return to full activity. I'm much more confident now — now that nine months have passed since the surgery, and I can feel the difference in my new knee.

So here I am, feeling my lungs about to explode in my chest, and noticing the exercise endorphins lifting my mood. I'm happy. Happy to return, happy to recover, and happy to know that though my body betrayed me once, I can now get back to the business of taking care of it — all over again.

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Between Friends

By Monica A. Andermann

Who hath a better friend than a cat?

~William Hardwin

I lay on my bed, curled in the fetal position. Why, of all weeks, did I have to come down with a stomach virus now? Only a few days earlier, I had promised to cover for the other payroll clerk in my department so she could go on a much-needed but impromptu vacation. Authorization for that vacation was based solely on my willingness to process her payroll that week. And now I was laid up. How were those 400 employees going to get paid?

With that in mind, I drifted in and out of a fitful sleep only to awake in the wee morning hours to discover my faithful red tabby, Moo, beside me. Normally I welcomed Moo, encouraged him, in fact, to share my bed. Yet now, even his small body at my feet was irritating. I tossed and turned, seeking a position that would give me some relief. With each movement, Moo drew nearer. Gently, I nudged him away but he kept coming back. Finally, too tired to fight, I gave up. Then my little tabby did something very odd — he lay flat over my aching belly.

Now, Moo had been known to sleep in the most unusual of positions and places: on his back in the middle of the living room floor with all four paws up in the air; under the pillow of his cat bed instead of on top of it; and once, cushioned in my husband's sock drawer. But never had he lain directly on top of me in this fashion. He wasn't exactly what might be termed a lap cat, preferring his own personal space. Moo was independent, his own man, probably the result of his early years as a stray. Yet for some reason, he sought out this spot close to me now.

I must admit that I found the warmth from my kitty soothing. It must have been as soothing, I imagined, as the warmth of my arms had been for him when I found him huddled next to my back door early one winter morning, a stray seeking shelter from the cold and wind. A massive snow had fallen the previous night and his tail was covered in ice. I had held him against my body until he thawed, terrified that his tail, and perhaps other parts of him, had been damaged by exposure. After he warmed, I gently dried his body with a soft towel and fed him an entire can of my best tuna. I'll never forget how he purred afterward, or my relief to see his tail swishing madly as he rubbed his body against my leg. The look in his eyes at that moment spoke directly to my heart. "Thank you friend," it said.

Moo stayed with me throughout that harsh winter and when spring arrived, I imagined he would go back to his rambling ways. Yet, he never did and Moo became a permanent fixture in my home.

As we lay together this night, I felt my stomach begin to calm within only a few minutes and it seemed as though the soft touch of Moo's body was drawing the ache out of me one breath at a time. Within half an hour, I was sound asleep and remained so until I was awoken by my alarm clock. Overnight, after I had fallen into sleep, Moo had resumed his usual position at my feet and when I stirred, he rolled over. Quietly, I slipped out of bed and readied for work feeling a bit weak, but still capable enough to face the day. Before leaving the house, I returned to the bedroom and ran my fingertips through the fur between Moo's ears. He lifted his head and looked back at me with one sleepy eye. Then I bent close, kissed him on his fuzzy cheek, and murmured, "Thank you friend."

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