Chapter 4 - Like Becomes Love

I had a boyfriend. Only my second – and the first who never expected more than I was ready to give. Our years long friendship had paved the way for a relationship built on acceptance, understanding and trust. We had (almost) no secret pasts to hide from each other, and we shared the same interests, values and goals. It just felt so easy. From May to July, we were inseparable. His parents were thrilled he had a “normal” girlfriend, and my family immediately welcomed George. We talked – and talked – about life, our hopes and dreams. I met his circle of friends and he met mine. We saw very little of each other on campus, but spent every free moment together. And not once did that nice boy, George, ever ask for more than a hug and kiss at the end of the evening. 

Early George and Paula

July, 1971  While George worked full time all summer at Firestone, I headed north with my parents, to their soon-to-be retirement home in a quaint little hamlet in Northern California. I was their uh-oh, third child – an unplanned “gift” they had not expected in their mid-forties. My college graduation coincided with their retirement schedule, and this trip would be my last family vacation with them. It would also be the first time in months I would not see George on a daily basis.

After work cat nap in his Firestone uniform

Life at my parent’s “home in the forest” was serene. The house needed some TLC, so trips included their fair share of DIY time. On this trip, Mom and I painted the decades old cabinetry, using a popular technique of the 70’s – antiquing. Dad and my nephew, who accompanied us, combined fishing trips with firewood gathering. We spent evenings stargazing – viewing the Milky Way – clearly visible with skies absent of big city light pollution. 

My parents little retirement fixer-upper 1969

A few years and a lot of TLC later

A crew of young logging workers were renting one of the houses in town, and the presence of a 20 year old, single female caught their interest. My nephew (six years my junior) and I had been invited to a barbecue at their place, and I assumed it would be a fun afternoon with the only other people under 60, in the town with a population of around 60. I was so naïve. 

I soon learned how easily I could be caught in an unwelcome situation - and I remember the fear as I hastily left, nephew in tow. Shaken, I returned to my parents’ house and was relieved we would be heading home the next morning. When none of us could sleep we opted to start our ten hour trek before dawn, and arrived home on a Sunday afternoon. I thought of my boyfriend at home. His tenderness and restraint. His decency and respect, as our friendship was slowly blossoming.

For the first time ever I realized how much I missed George. How much he meant to me. I had never missed anyone in my life like this. I could hardly wait to get home and tell him - he was the one! I was in love with my best friend! And I hoped he felt the same about me.

The Homecoming

“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.” When Harry Met Sally

That road trip home felt like an eternity. I passed the time imagining the scene in TV ads, showing two lovers running from opposite ends in a field of flowers - in slow motion - and into each other’s loving embrace. That would be us in just a few hours. He would be as thrilled as I was to be home, I was sure of it.

I ran that visual through my head for hours, and called his home as soon as I could. But he wasn’t there. I finally tracked him down, thanks to his pal Barry. George was at a GTO Club car wash, at a gas station in North Hollywood. Not the flower field of my dreams, but it would have to do. I hopped into my not-so-special Buick Special and made my way to the gas station, wearing one of his favorite dresses – a home sewn white mini shift with matching shorts. I was ready to wrap my arms around George and proclaim my love.

When I finally spotted him at the club car wash, he was happy to see me - I think. “Hi!” he said, bucket in hand, ready to soap up the next vehicle before him. “Need your car washed?” Not quite the response I was hoping for, but I wasn’t deterred. I always admired George’s dedication to whatever task was at hand. He was in full-on fundraising mode, offering car washes to anyone who drove by and making sure the club members were properly cleaning cars and drying them to spotless perfection – a skill he learned working at a bona fide car wash (for fifty cents an hour and tips) in his pre-Firestone days.  

Clean GTO's - and cheap gas. $.32/gallon!

I watched him, chatted when he was within earshot, and decided this would not be our “moment”. We kissed as I left for home, and he promised to pick me up later that evening for a homecoming night out. I would have to wait a while longer…

I always heard George’s arrival before his knock at my door – the four-barrel carburetor and 360 horsepower of his GTO announced his presence before he reached my house. As promised, he picked me up and we headed to the Santa Monica Pier for a beautiful July summer’s night out. I held his hand tighter, and leaned my head into his arm as often as I could. We were both happy to be back together, and I wanted the night to last forever. But I couldn’t find the moment to say the L word – yet. That would have to wait until we parked in front of my house.

As my parents watched TV inside, George and I took advantage of his GTO’s front bench seat. I snuggled close and, as we “made out” (another term from the 60’s), I looked into his soft blue eyes and told him I loved him. His eyes and touch confirmed he felt the same. 

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, but must share one more reason I knew I was with the right man. George did not make the first move. In the parlance of that ubiquitous baseball metaphor, George never stole a “base” without my permission. That night, I gave him permission - to advance a base.

My love. My life. My Kahuna. My George.

Chapter 3 - The Courtship Begins

I loved having a friend like George, and so did my parents! Truth be told, my mother loved “That nice boy, George” from the moment he first knocked on my door, Christmas Eve 1968, with a gift in hand (I still have it – a red and grey wool scarf). I was at church with College Boyfriend, so George introduced himself and proceeded to win the hearts of my mom and aunt. The subsequent flower drop-offs for my birthdays and holidays sealed the deal for my parents. They recognized in him the goodness their daughter deserved. It took me a bit longer to recognize my “like” for George was also “love"...

May, 1971. The call came a day or two after that unexpected visit. Then others. Usually around 8:00 pm. “I just got off work. Want to go to dinner with me?” I always said yes, even though I had eaten earlier. He picked me up and we headed to Bob’s Big Boy Restaurant, where I learned the first of George’s lovable “quirks” – he always ordered the same thing. “I’ll have a Big Boy Combination Plate, heavy on the bleu (dressing for the salad), a side of onion rings, coffee now and Coke with my meal.”  Every night. No variations to his syntax or order. And each time he called – which was most weeknights - I said yes to his invitation. 

Bob's Big Boy. So many memories. 

We talked about everything and nothing. Two friends together. He would bring me home and we’d exchange a friendly peck on the cheek and a goodnight. I loved our not-a-date nights out. A few weeks into our blooming friendship, George invited me on what would be considered our first date. A Dodgers game.

We both grew up as baseball fans, and the Los Angeles Dodgers were our team. My dad was an avid fan. I can still picture him in his undershirt and belt-loosened work pants, a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon or Schlitz in one hand, Pall Mall cigarette in the other, on the patio on a warm San Fernando Valley evening. Listening to Vin Scully through the static of my little transistor radio, celebrating wins and critiquing losses. I remember the first game Dad took me to. The vivid green of perfectly mowed sod under the brilliant stadium lights; the crack of the bat to a well hit ball; and the roar of the crowd. It was a treat to go to a game with Dad. He taught me to love the game, and I made him proud with my card collection and baseball knowledge. 

If I loved baseball and the Dodgers, George was obsessed! He played as a youngster, made All-Star teams, and continued playing into his teens, until a shoulder injury sidelined him. He spouted statistics, remembered dates and cited ERA’s. 

Vin Scully. Baseball's All Time Greatest

He went so far as to risk suspension in junior high school to hear Vinny call one of the 1963 Dodgers/Yankees World Series games; transistor radio in his pocket, long sleeve shirt hiding the headphone cord, and earpiece in the cupped palm he held to his ear. The plan worked beautifully, until an inning-ending Sandy Koufax strike-out evoked a huge cheer in the middle of his otherwise silent English class. George remained a lifelong fan, and I found it a fitting tribute that his Boys in Blue pulled off a win on George’s last night on earth.

George's 1967 GTO

On a late, May afternoon in 1971, my friend George picked me up in his beautiful blue 1967 GTO, and we made our first trip to Dodger Stadium together.

We had great seats – Field Level – on the third base line. He bought a program and actually used the score sheet inside to record each and every play! George believed in getting to the game in time for batting practice, and we stood near the dugout in hopes of getting our program autographed by one of our favorite players. But the only player willing to sign my program was a rookie who was having a rough spring as a third baseman. He likely wouldn’t be on the team long, we thought, but he gladly signed my outstretched program. I had to take a second look when he handed it back to learn who it was. Steve Garvey! He went on to become a solid first baseman and Dodgers baseball legend.

George spared no expense on me. Dodger Dog. Soda. Peanuts. Frozen malt. And my souvenir of choice – a Dodgers Chinese yo-yo that I joyfully spiraled for the last couple of innings – and which I still have!

I don’t remember the outcome of the game. But by the end of that night I knew I had won. 

Yes, I still have my souvenir from our first date. 

As always, George was attentive and kind. Fun and generous. Well-mannered and respectful. He walked me to the porch, and for the first time we shared a romantic kiss. My stomach fluttered in that moment, and for the next few days as I remembered it. My boy-friend was now my boyfriend. I was thrilled. 

And so were my parents!

Paula and George, 1971

Chapter Two - Boy Friend, Girl Friend

The Friendship Years 1969 – 71

Those of you who knew George long enough have likely heard his account of "Our Story." He told it with great detail and wonderful embellishment! He and I both loved sharing the details, and hopefully this retelling captures the best of both our versions...

HARRY: (on having a girl as a friend) Yeah. It's very freeing. I can say anything to her. JESS: Are you saying you can say things to her you can't say to me? HARRY: Nah it's just different. It's a whole new perspective. I get the woman's point of view on things. She tells me about the men she goes out with and I can talk to her about the women that I see. JESS: You tell her about other women? WhenHarry Met Sally

I lived at home while attending college, and continued working at my parent’s dry cleaners. George and I saw each other infrequently in the two years after high school. But the friendship was always intact. We exchanged letters while I was visiting family in South Dakota. Gave each other birthday cards and token Christmas presents. When I was sick with a nasty, autumn flu bug, College Boyfriend came to the door with a HUGE pumpkin. George showed up the next day with red roses – his bouquet of choice.  As CB and I were dealing with a crisis in our relationship, I confided in George. I felt his kindness and comfort, and knew I deserved better than CB. Our relationship ended. I had my lifelong best friend, Lolly, and her boyfriend Ernie to keep me company. I was going to be okay.

Single Paula Marie, 1970

I opted out of dating while I healed my wounded heart and ego. George continued his miserable relationship with the girlfriend he came to refer to as “The Wacko”. And we were both busy college freshmen...

George, before Paula 1970. 

George and I chose our career paths in junior high – our generation’s term for middle school. George took an aptitude test that steered him in the direction of a law degree. He remained laser focused on that goal, and even severed ties with some friends whose drug use (it was the sixties, after all!) might render him guilty by association.

By his junior year of high school, George had reunited with his most responsible, “safe and sane” friend, Barry. They busted tires together at Firestone, saving enough money to buy their beloved GTO’s. Those impressive, gas-guzzling machines - and $.25/gallon “leaded” fuel - took them on fishing trips, and to Las Vegas to see Elvis and play slots. Not yet 21, their ID’s were their confidence - and receding hairlines. When Barry opted to change his major from Engineering to Law, he and George grew even closer as college study mates. Barry saw George through his tumultuous eighteen month relationship with The Wacko, and eventually posed the question that would steer his lifelong friend toward his Lovely Paula Marie.

George, 1970

Barry, 1970

Meanwhile, I didn’t need an aptitude test to know I wanted to be a teacher. My middle class roots, and the “mid-century modern” playbook seemingly predetermined a girl’s four career path options – nurse, secretary, teacher or mother. I followed the required course of study for a teaching credential – chose my major (English), and took my general education courses. I had gained self-confidence and a stronger sense of self in my year at community college, and in September of 1970, I transferred to California State University Northridge. George would transfer there in February of 1971. One day in the early spring of  our sophomore year, 1971, our paths crossed for the first time in over a year…

CSUN’s campus was sprawling, and my upper division courses were in two south campus buildings, while George and Barry frequented the northernmost campus. Between classes I took a break at the rooftop cafeteria of “my” building, Sierra Hall, and was headed to the elevator and my next class when I looked up and saw George and Barry. I didn’t know George had transferred to CSUN. We hugged and exchanged a few friendly words. I remember the happiness I felt seeing him. He had always been a wonderful friend, and I left the unexpected encounter looking forward to running into him again. 

That would happen a few weeks later. George would tell the story of how that chance cafeteria encounter changed everything, thanks to Barry. As I walked away, he asked George, “Who do you want to spend the rest of your life with? The Wacko or Paula?” George made his choice. His breakup soon thereafter was as dramatic as their relationship, but he was finally free of her and our friendship was about to rekindle…

April, 1971. A Sunday evening. My parents were out of town. I remember what I was wearing. A floral print A-line dress I had made – we called them shifts. It wasn’t late, maybe 8-ish, when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood George.  

It was a complete surprise - a happy one - and I invited him in. I don’t remember anything more than general conversation about school, work and family – until he dropped the breaking news story. He had broken up with The Wacko. The details were still fresh in his mind, and I sensed his relief to be extricated from what was such a dysfunctional relationship. He described the fights. Her jealousy. His fear she might do something violent – as she had threatened - if he left her. I listened, just as he had when I shared my “situation” with CB the previous year. 

My bond with my friend, George, became stronger that evening. We had now both shared our most personal boyfriend/girlfriend stories, and felt safe and understood. We exchanged a friendly hug and he left, but not before assessing my relationship status (I didn’t have one!), and getting my okay to call me (I said yes).

Unbeknownst to me, the pursuit of Paula Marie was about to begin...

The Story of Us - Chapter One

When Paula Met Georgie

My all-time favorite romantic comedy is Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Besides the classic scenes that made Top 100 lists, my favorite moments were the “older” couples sharing their “meet cute” stories, and subsequent happily ever-after’s.

Cancer stole our fairy tale ending. But George and I had a wonderful Once Upon a Time. I have decided to share our story – a way to remember the boy I met in high school, who became the man I loved – and who will forever be my one and only. The story of George and Paula… 

I have an overworked and underpaid high school counselor - a man I met only once - to thank for the happiest 50 years of my life. Without his begrudging acceptance of my request to opt out of advanced Economics class, I never would have been transferred into the English class in which the trajectory of my life would be determined...

September, 1968. My last semester of high school. I spent my entire high school career on the periphery, as an observer. I was most comfortable when I went unnoticed. I quietly studied, and silently admired from afar, the fun and frolic of the popular kids. A safe distance, I thought, from what I feared would be their rejection. I knew who they were, and I envied the ease with which they navigated high school – making friends and memories from “their” lunch tables and gathering spots. 

There was one boy in particular who always caught my attention. He seemed to fit in with everyone. And he seemed to own the campus in his own special way. As a junior, he would routinely appear out of nowhere, ambling into my in-session biology class and perching himself on the window ledge to “hang out” in the class. Mrs. Swanson, the teacher, obviously knew him. And she never booted him out! The rule follower in me was fascinated by his casual disregard for classes and hall passes. He never disrupted her lessons, and left with the same ease with which he appeared.

George, Class of  Winter, '69 Voted the Friendliest Boy in class.

Paula, Class of Winter,'69 Always flying under the radar.

“Oh, that’s George,” his next-door neighbor informed me. She was a casual acquaintance of mine, and ambivalent to George’s high profile, high school persona. To her, he was the boy with a ‘57 Chevy who gave her a ride to and from school when she needed it. George’s command of high school culture fascinated me. And never in a million years did I imagine being noticed by him. Frankly, I was happy to be a “nobody” in school. It was safer that way.

By my senior year I was more interested in war protests than muscle cars. Baez over Beach Boys. High school boys? Too immature for my taste. And, at 17, I had a boyfriend! My first. He had been the laundry delivery boy for my parent’s dry cleaner business, and had a year of college under his belt. He took me to prom four months earlier, and I felt some satisfaction in finally attaining boyfriend-worthy status. I walked a little more confidently down the halls of high school, and counted the days until graduation.

With one semester left, I had already decided to attend a nearby community college. The reason wasn’t my SAT scores or grade point average. It was my insecurity, and fear of being away from home. The traumas of  childhood left me scarred, and moving away to attend a university was simply terrifying. This decision meant I could coast through my last semester. College prep classes? Didn’t need them. I was looking for an easy A, and advanced Economics was not that class!

Enter the counselor. Mr. Friedman. I don’t recall ever making a trip to visit him, but two days into my last semester I signed my name on the counseling office roster, and took my seat. I would state my case, and hope for the best. Try as he might to guilt me into staying in that Econ class, I stood firm. He searched the schedule and found an opening in a senior English class. Bingo! That was my ticket to an easy A, and I jumped at it.

The only downside? I had to waltz into the class - already in progress - to present my transfer papers to Mrs. Barry, the teacher. To add to the discomfort, the only entrance to her room was at the rear of the class. From there, I had to walk the gauntlet between two rows of desks to the front of the room and her desk. I took a breath, and marched in, never making eye contact with a soul - but feeling their steely stares as all eyes turned to see why teaching had been interrupted.

As I quickly glanced up to make the turn toward the front of the class, I saw him. Seated in the last seat at the back of the class. George looked up from his book as I entered, and as I approached his desk, he quietly made a comment directed at me. I don’t remember his exact words, but whatever he said made me feel welcome. I handed Mrs. Barry my papers, and took the seat she offered. Smack dab in the front row. I was relieved to sit down, and imagined 35 pairs of eyes looking at my back – feeling the discomfort of the attention I so carefully avoided. I focused my attention on the teacher, took out my pencil and notebook, and settled into the safe haven of English composition.

Day two in Mrs. Barry‘s class ignited an unexpected friendship. As I sat down at my front row desk, the seat next to mine had a new occupant. George would later tell me he had negotiated a seat swap with the boy to my left, using his nearsightedness as an excuse to have a front row seat. In that move, our friendship was born.

He was friendly. Funny. Well-mannered and respectful. He made me laugh and I felt comfortable for the first time in any high school class. I listened to his painful breakup story, from which he had not fully recovered. 

His first high school sweetheart. Tall. Blond. Beautiful  They remained friends to the end...

I shared College Boyfriend stories. CB was a child of privilege, a pampered only-child who didn’t apply himself and lost his football scholarship after a year. I was flattered by his attention and overlooked his flaws. He was nothing like George. 

George, like me, was the child of solid working class roots, and spent every day after school and weekends as a “tire buster” for Firestone Tire Company. He made excellent money for the time - a whopping $4.50 an hour when minimum wage was $1.25 (tire busters were also card carrying Teamsters Union members). He was understandably proud to have purchased a replacement to his mom’s 57 Chevy - his royal blue, 1967 GTO. I wasn’t impressed by his muscle car, but I appreciated his work ethic. I was content to sing folk songs in College Boyfriend’s VW square-back.

For 20 weeks we spent an hour together, Monday through Friday. George would call me occasionally after school to chat, eventually steering the conversation to discuss the novels we were reading for class. He would ask my opinion about the plot and characters, or whatever the written homework assignment called for. And I willingly shared my thoughts as, I found out later, he took copious notes. I can safely say my A in Mrs. Barry‘s class was earned, while George’s B was directly influenced by those evening chats!

College Boyfriend wasn’t interested in any of my high school activities, so my new friend George graciously offered to sub in. He drove my girlfriends and me to and from football games (where girls were still required to wear skirts or dresses). Being with George gave me a sense of belonging, and it felt wonderful. 

When a bout with flu sidelined me from attending the Senior Class Breakfast (where he received the “Friendliest Boy” award), George took me to IHOP a week later as my consolation breakfast. I finally had happy memories from high school. I had a boy - friend. And he was “Popular”! My fragile ego felt a wisp of that oh-so-precious teenage commodity – acceptance. We graduated in January 1969 (baby boom overcrowding necessitated staggered enrollment with two graduating classes each year), and we went our separate ways.

Our paths would only cross a handful of times over the next two years. We never dated during that time, but our friendship never faded. And I had no idea it was the beginning of a fifty year love story.

Thank you, Mr. Friedman!

Prom 1968. Before Paula met Georgie

After 45 years, I finally made it to the cool kids table!

Year Two in the Widow-hood

Year two in the Widow-hood is different. The shock and fog of year one has given way to the reality of my future. The absence of  US - the intimacy; the kisses; the love. The loneliness only those who have lost their partner can understand.

I will never forget that first kiss. Read about it HERE

I miss him.I feel the quiet more keenly now. Less afraid of my future than resigned to it. What now? I am in complete control of what lies ahead. I just have to figure out how to face it - without my Kahuna.

I am writing again. I quietly added a few new posts that capture random thoughts. I’m also writing our story. It’s a work in progress, with no deadline. It’s personal. I haven’t decided if I’ll share it. But I need to write. Why? In year two, I’m afraid I’m going to forget him. Forget our 50 years of friendship and 47 year love affair as George and Paula. So I’m writing everything I recall. The good and bad. Happy and sad. In the years to come, I want to have a place to turn and remember our time together.

So this must be life - in the widow-hood...

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