Happy Anniversary. Wish you were here.
Tommy didn't like my fancy health club, so after our marriage in 1998, he continued his weekday mornings at the neighborhood YMCA where he had been a member for 40 years.
If he hadn't died in 2012, Tommy and I would have celebrated our anniversary of 25 years, today, January 13. I have no doubt we would've still been together because my trip to the East Bank Club and his walk to the Lakeview YMCA would've been the only departure from one another.
We argued once in the 14 years we were a couple. I don't remember the cause for our friction, but solid in my memory is Tommy ending it with, "Let's not go to bed angry."
He offered this gently as he was not one to raise his voice. Oh, I heard him shout when the Cubs won the game we were watching, and I heard his loud entry to our home after a round of golf with friends. "I hit 'em straight!" he would greet me as he offered the scorecard as evidence.
And his voice was loud and lovely when he sang at the side of our upright as I, a forever beginner, banged out the notes for "Blue Moon."
Friends often asked how we met because we were older sweethearts, and both divorced from our first partners. Tommy was 63 and I, 60. Hidden in their queries was the knowledge that our backgrounds couldn't have been more different. Other than our ages, it appeared we had nothing in common.
What did initially link us was old-fashioned proximity. Tommy lived in an apartment on the second floor of his longtime friends. I had moved into a fresh three-story townhome on the same Chicago block.
The more I think about our meeting, the worse I feel for those singles who are swiping left or right solely based on a photo and bio. When Tommy and I met, we knew what each other looked like, but had no clue as to our diplomas, jobs, incomes, religion, or families.
Of course, the most important evidence of compatibility was my Golden Retriever, Sasha. Each early morning when she and I returned from our walk and rested on our long stairway before going in, Tommy would halt his bike ride to pet my dog.
Was that enough to signal compatibility? Consider: we both loved early mornings, dogs, exercise, and coffee. That was enough of a start to keep our predawn conversations going.
But it was not enough to give Tommy the courage to make the next move. "Would you like to go to dinner one night?" I posed.
If he was surprised by my boldness, he didn't hesitate to respond, "How about tomorrow night?"
Tommy didn’t own a car, so for our first date we selected a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away. I can still see the Spanish decorations on the walls, tablecloth, and menu, and hear the iconic music. He sits opposite of me and never stops grinning.
Despite our differences -- I am Jewish; he Gentile. I was financially comfortable from my divorce settlement; he worked in customer service and earned a modest salary. I earned a master’s degree; Tommy never went to college -- we were a pair from that first night.
Fortunately, along with our fondness for dogs, we had similar pastimes We loved books. We enjoyed the same TV shows. Neither of us liked going out in the evening, preferring to stay home. And we had the same favorite song, Johnny Hartmann singing “It Never Entered My Mind.”
He made me feel like I walked on water. Before we went our separate ways to exercise, he left me daily post-it notes. I found them stuffed in a gym shoe; reminders that whatever happened that day, I should be aware I was loved.
We married in Las Vegas, with a dozen friends and family joining us. My adult children walked Tommy down the aisle with Hartmann on tape singing, “I’m Glad There is You.”
Alas, our fairy tale second marriage ended in 2012. Three years prior, Tommy was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Degeneration. Language ceased; brain deterioration increased.
He died at home. A hospital bed replaced our queen sized. Friends came to visit. One of my children read to him a letter he had written to me in the early years of our marriage. It was all there; his awe at our unusual match, his gratitude for my making the first move, his happiness in our years together.
Happy anniversary dearest; wish you were here.