It's Getting Easier

I still count the loss in months. Can it really be sixteen? Emotions well up as the 19th of each month approaches. George was always mildly amused with my penchant for recalling what happened a “week/month/year ago today”. I was his personal almanac of otherwise forgettable moments that somehow left an impression on me - worthy of my recall...

16 months. It’s getting easier.  

George, my love...
Every morning I wake up to your absence. The empty space in our bed. The void that will never be filled. I blink away the fog of sleep and accept it. You’re not here. The reality sinks in and I prepare for the beginning of another day without you. 

It’s getting easier. 

I look at your picture on the wall beside the bed. Your eyes beaming your reassurance that I can do anything. I pull myself out of bed to begin my day. I fill the moments with ordinary activities and paint on my happy face, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. I know that's what you want me to do. 

I talk to you. You often answer with specific songs on my Pandora channel, played with a frequency and timing unexplained by any "thumbs up" algorithm . Charlie listens to my conversations, both with you and with him. His soulful eyes and gently wagging tail give me comfort and purpose. 

He's particularly attentive today, and as I write this blog, he has nudged me periodically. "Is Daddy with you?" I ask him. I imagine Charlie's snuggles are from you, letting me know you're nearby. 

I get through the day, and to most people I look “healed”. After all, it has been 16 months since That Day. But those who know me best understand. 

It’s getting easier.

The Grands visit often, and squeal with delight when your face appears on the scrolling digital frame.

“Grandpa!” they exclaim, doing a little happy dance, with my encouragement.

They hardly knew you, my love, but they will never forget you.

And my day goes on, without you. The routine. The mundane. The business of living. And the delightful distractions. Lunch with friends. Grand time. An occasional road trip to visit loved ones. My weekly pilgrimage to our favorite place for Happy Hour, where I get my dose of hugs from those who miss you too. Smiles and laughter. Music and memories.

Everything reminds me of you, honey. I cherish each reminder, and smile often. I  watch the video of our last dance and feel your arms wrapped around me.

I imagine your voice, your laughter and your no-nonsense, take care of business confidence. Your blue eyes, and the fringe of hair peeking out from under your ever-present Dodgers cap.

It's getting easier.  

As darkness fills the sky and the day comes to an end, I make my way to our bed once again. Another day further from you. I feel so small at night. The void you left touches the deepest parts of my being. I look at your picture again, and as I say good night I invite you to visit me. I hold your pillow. The one you took to your hospital stays. The pillow your head rested on when I kissed you that final goodbye. Now I caress it, imagining my hand on your chest, feeling your heart beat. I close my eyes, eager for sleep to numb my loneliness. Relieved to have made it through yet another day - without you.

I miss you Georgie.

It’s getting easier. 

But it will never get better. 

Sorrowful Seconds - An Anniversary for One

Dear Readers,

Before I share another tale of widowhood woes, please know that I have many good moments. Every. Single. Day. I am surrounded by my family and friends who make sure of that. I've come to accept the reality that where there was immense love, deep prolonged grief will follow. Learning to coexist with the daily tearful - and happy - moments is getting easier. But once in a while, a tidal wave hits...

I'm learning the hard way. Some “Seconds” are as difficult as the Firsts. Tomorrow, July 6, would have been our 45th wedding anniversary. Instead, That Day hijacked our happily ever after. Canceled our dream of so many more anniversaries. Last year, our 44th anniversary came just weeks after saying goodbye, and my widow's fog blurred the reality - the permanence of his death. This year I think I feel it more deeply. Want the truth? I have not "gotten over it!"

July 6, 1974

July 6, 2017. We didn't know it would be our last anniversary.

You would think, after almost fifteen months, I’d be better equipped to face my second Kahuna-less wedding anniversary. Apparently I am not. For every step forward I have taken in the past year, milestones like this one are still a heart-breaking, meltdown-inducing gut punch.

Interestingly enough, it’s not the day. It’s the anticipation of a special date that wreaks the most havoc on my healing heart.

My low point came a few days ago. I painted on my happy, healing widow mask and proceeded through my very ordinary day. But the reservoir of tears and lump in my throat were always one Pandora playlist, and one memory away from spilling down my cheeks and stifling my voice, which they did - without warning - multiple times that day. I forced myself to meet up with my usual Tuesday night group of friends, resisting the urge to spend the evening alone on the patio with Charlie - and maybe a glass of wine. Tuesday date nights at our version of Cheers (where almost everyone remembers George, and now provide me much needed hugs) had been a ritual for us, and driving there – alone - this past year has become easier. Not this week. I parked my car, wiped my tears, and buried my sadness as best I could.

I smiled, chatted with friends and kept my emotions in check for the most part, with a few momentary breakdowns. But as our very talented musician friends played their closing song, "it" suddenly hit me. With no provocation, I had reached my emotional tipping point and made a hasty exit, sobbing as I drove myself home. My fifteen months of forward progress were suddenly buried by an avalanche of grief - and snot-nose ugly cries. Every irrational thought crossed my mind as I screamed to the heavens, “George I want you back.” “I can’t do this alone anymore.” “I hate this life." And, finally, as I lay in bed gulping back the sobs, I repeated the scariest words of all - until sleep provided a pardon, “Nobody needs me here. I just want to be with you.” I had hit rock bottom. I was sad, alone - and ashamed of my selfish grief rants. But in that moment it was all I wanted.

I’m “better” today. At least in this moment. This is my new life. I get it. These milestone dates will come around every 365 days, and I need to press through them. Tomorrow Daughter and I are headed to  Santa Barbara for a day/night of pampering, wine tasting, and story sharing. Just what the grief doctor ordered. My 45th anniversary - the second without him - will bring with it a flood of Facebook and TimeHop memories, doing their best to sink my healing ship. But I will get through it – one Kleenex at a time. I know that's what George wants. Let's see if I can pull it off!

July 6, 1974. Ready to begin the adventure. 

I never imagined I could miss someone so much.  I feel guilty for not being stronger. For all my steps forward, this week feels as raw as it did last year. I think I’m better at camouflaging my sadness, but I’m now keenly aware that forty five years spent in the warm embrace of a profoundly loving relationship can’t be neatly boxed and retired to a shelf of scrapbook memories. Those years ARE me. George continues to live and breathe within me, our children, and grandchildren.

July 6, 2014. Pebble Beach. Special wine. Special love. 

I will celebrate each milestone moving forward. I am not sure what that will look like, but hopefully in the years to come, smiles will replace tears – and I will do my best to celebrate and be forever grateful to have been loved so deeply by my Kahuna. 

Happy anniversary Georgie. I will always love you.

July 6, 2013

Chapter 6 - The Wedding

Time it was, and what a time it was,

It was, a time of innocence,

A time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph,

Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you…

Simon & Garfunkel

July 6,1974. We were babies. 23 years old. Earlier chapters told the story behind this moment  I will forever remember our special day. The love we shared. The love that will never, ever die...

The Wedding

We were both in college, living at home until the day we married, (except for my six month trial run sharing an apartment with a girlfriend). As college seniors in 1973, we considered graduation as merely a baton pass to the bigger prize – law school for George, student teaching and my credential for me. Our wedding would have to wait until one of us (me) had completed grad school and found gainful employment. 

I remember when (early spring, 1973) and where (headed to a Dodgers game) I pulled out the only calendar available (the back of my check register) and threw out some possible dates for our Big Day. I balked at a June date. Too cliché. We settled on July 6, 1974 – a little more than a year away. George would have one year of law school under his belt, and could step into his summer job - now managing  Firestone stores. I would have my credential and hopefully find a teaching position before school started in September.

My seventies fashion sense envisioned a wedding in a park-like setting, wearing a country-girl influenced dress. I worked for JW Robinson's department store and found my perfect wedding dress - a floor length beauty, complete with an eyelet pinafore - straight out of  Country Brides magazine. With my employee discount, I got my $120 dream dress for under a hundred bucks! A floppy wide brimmed hat would complete my John Denver/Country Girl-worthy, field-of-flowers wedding.

Farrah had the hat I wanted...

George had a different dream wedding scenario. I had not given away any secrets about my dress, when he said, “I have always imagined you walking down a church aisle, and lifting your veil for our first kiss as husband and wife.” I was so touched by his romanticism and honesty. How could I deny the man I adored his wedding moment? A church wedding it would be. There was one problem, though. My country girl dress would not work with that veil he dreamed of, and with a no-return policy, my only option was to buy a second wedding dress! I went all out - $150 for dress number two, plus a $20 veil and $10 headpiece. 

Dress No. 2. And the veil of George's dreams.

Home sewn bridesmaids dresses. Field flowers in baskets. And those wide brim hats!

I left the field flowers and wide brim hats for my bridesmaids, and walked down the aisle to the love of my life. He lifted my veil for our first, “Mr. and Mrs.” kiss, and I loved that moment as much as he did.

Veil lifted. Husband and Wife. Perfection

July 6, 1974. And yes, the tuxedos were yellow. It was the 70's!

Our wedding coincided with my parents’ retirement, and we knew they could not finance a large affair. Still our day was everything we dreamed of, surrounded by family and friends, with a reception at Brother’s beautiful home. 

On a shoestring budget, and in order to save the $10 delivery charge, we transported the cake in the back of George's Pinto - in 100 degree Valley heat!

George’s parents gave us a wonderful wedding gift – airfare for a two week vacation in Hawaii. It would be George's first air travel, and only my second. And George, as always, saved enough for our hotel and expenses. Our wedding night would be spent at a hotel near the airport. And it would be our first overnight together – ever. 

After the reception. Headed to our first overnight together!

And among other wedding night discoveries, I learned yet another sweet tidbit about my husband...

Did I mention George lived at home until our wedding day? My remarkably strong and capable man saw no reason to leave home. “Why pay rent when I can barely afford my law books?” he would reason. I would discover on our wedding night that his mom packed his suitcase for our Hawaiian honeymoon! He had to call home from the hotel to ask her where she packed his checkbook!

Let the adventures begin!

Honeymoon bliss. The love that lasted a lifetime....

Hawaiian Honeymoon Memories, 1974. I would have to work on my Kahuna's clothing choices!

To those who have been following my trip down Memory Lane, I thank you for indulging my shameless romanticism. I hope to write more chapters, if only for myself - recollections of our joys and challenges as newlyweds and new parents. Navigating all that life and marriage threw our way in our 43 years of marriage. We all know by now I'm a hopeless over-sharer, and writing has certainly been my grief therapy. 

As with the old photos I shared, time has blurred the focus of so many memories. The colors have faded, yet the images have reminded me that life doesn't have to be remembered in the detail it was lived. Remembering bits and pieces of our journey has softened the pain of my grief. I have smiled more than cried as the chapters have emerged from my memories to these posts. And I know. George is with me. Always. As I turn the corner and lean into my new life, I will cherish the years as his Lovely Paula Marie.

Chapter 5 - The Proposal

The Proposal

Looking back, I realize now how young we were when we found our “person”. From the day we met, George and I were perfectly suited for each other. We loved our families and looked forward to starting our own. We had our career goals in full view, and we were in love. All of this, and we had just turned 20!

Young love - young lovers

School, work and studying filled our calendars, but we always found time to be together. Sunday family dinners were spent at either his home or mine  – or sometimes both. An afternoon with my family followed by a trip to the Hultman house, where George’s family gathered for a summer barbecue and a swim in the pool. 

Life was wonderful. We were in love – and in like. No quarrels or fights. We both continued living at home, and would never even consider spending an overnight together - imagining our parents' disapproval - and making our covert intimate moments more special. We loved whatever we were doing, as long as we were with each other.   

Oh the captions this image could generate!

At some point over the next year and a half, we both felt the excitement of imagining our life together. When I casually mentioned to my mother, “Mom, would you be happy if I married George?” her approval was instantaneous. I had chosen the boy of my parent’s dreams!

George was working fewer hours as pre-law coursework got more challenging, and he promised me a ring – someday – when he could afford one worthy of his Lovely Paula Marie. We strolled the storefronts of Northridge Mall, and stopped to admire rings in the jewelry store windows. I wasn’t in a hurry, and would have been happy with whatever he picked. But, as always, he had a plan…

Northridge Fashion Center, circa 1971. 

December, 1972 As Christmas approached, we found ourselves at the mall quite often. Engagement ring window-shopping had been replaced with Christmas present buying, and George confessed he wanted to give me a coat as my present. My coat obsession traces back to my winter, 1969 trip to South Dakota. Until then my Southern California born and bred senses had never seen snow fall, observed icicles, or felt chilled to the bone! Coats were essential there, and styles of the day had me hooked. While I wouldn’t need it often, I longed for a variation of the popular maxi length coat with wool shearling collar and cuffs.  

The coat style of my dreams. Perfectly unsuited for Southern California.

George was well aware of my very specific taste, and wanted me to pick out the coat. He would buy it, gift wrap it, and present it to me on Christmas. He mentioned on several occasions how bad he felt, having me pick my own present, but I assured him it was perfectly fine. I was eager to open the gift box and wear my gorgeous new coat, no matter how warm that SoCal Christmas weather would be.

Christmas Eve was the Hultman’s traditional night to gather for dinner as a family. George became Uncle Santa, happily donning the red suit and beard as he “Ho, ho, ho’d” his heart out, to the delight of my nieces and his nephews. My family always chose Christmas night for the family get-together, which eliminated the need to “choose” with whom we would spend the holidays. Another perfect fit!

Uncle Santa passing our presents 

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, 1972, George arrived at my door with the huge, recognizable Bullock's Department Store box holding my beautiful new coat. I looked forward to wrapping myself in all its mod splendor, and he looked happy presenting it to me. “Let’s go into the den so you can open it now,” he said. I was a bit puzzled he chose a room so un-Christmas-y, but off we went to our little TV room/den. He handed me the box, heavy under the weight of that mid length beauty, and we sat together as I untied the bow and lifted the top off the box. Tissue flew as I attempted to reach my coat. Instead, I uncovered…bricks! And hidden in the center of that oversized gift box I saw it – a two by two inch jewelry box. My heart skipped a beat! My boyfriend was about to propose.

I don’t remember his exact words. But I do remember the thrill of the moment. The beautiful, almost one carat, marquis cut diamond solitaire, set in a brushed yellow gold band. He had been saving for months, and drove to the LA Jewelry Mart to find the perfect diamond and setting – with all of the details from all the rings I admired in those jewelry store windows. He got down on his knee, asked me to spend the rest of my life with him and slipped the ring on my finger - and I said “Yes!” We were engaged, and I rushed to the next room and my parents – who had been in on the surprise all along. George was old school and had asked my parents’ blessing weeks earlier. Hugs and handshakes ensued. 

“I have to show Lolly!” My best friend lived a few houses away, and as we walked to her house, I held my left hand at arm’s length, admiring my newly adorned ring finger. We drove to his house, my arm still extended as I admired my beautiful ring, and his parents and family made me feel as if I was already a part of the Hultman clan. It was a Christmas Eve to remember. Paula Preston was going to become Paula Hultman.

And The Coat? It was in a box under our Christmas tree the next morning. A Christmas gift from my parents!

The Coat. Not a single photo of The Ring could be found!

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...