How I Met My Wife

St. Patrick’s of 1989 was on a Friday. It began as usual with my getting up and getting dressed for work. At that time I lived in an old log cabin in Washington, Ky, one of the earliest settlements in Kentucky. “Old Washington” as it is many times referred to, was built upon a plateau above Maysville, one of the more scenic river towns in Kentucky.

There are many interesting moments that came out of the time that I lived in the cabin but on this Friday, this day of celebrating the ridder of snakes, the day was nondescript within its wooden walls. As luck would have it, I had left early from work as I was scheduled to return to Prestonsburg for a weekend with another. Gathering my things, I stopped in for a short visit at the Last National Banque, my favorite, and only, watering hole.

Tom, the owner, usually arrived early and it typically took but a simple knock to gain access. Such was the case on this day and Tom, whose company I enjoyed immensely, was alone and more than happy to grant access. Conversation ensued, and with the Last National Banque being a bar, I thought I would have a beer for the road. One turned into two and with others arriving to the now opened bar, two became three. The count kept growing from there, as good company, music and alcohol complement each other well.

I rarely get drunk, an amazing feat considering my lineage, yet even when I do, I never know the “drunk” is coming until it arrives. Of course, when that happens, it is already much too late. This was one of those times and I am not sure what time of day I passed into a walking state of inebriated unconsciousness.

The remainder of the night has been relayed to me only in story. According to Paula, I greeted her with a green carnation adorned to my fly, using the classic pickup line: “Want to smell my flower?” I don’t recall this moment, but I have no doubt as to the validity, since the carnation was still attached to my blue jeans the following morning. I still have that paper carnation yet to this day.

We walked to Paula’s later that that night or perhaps in the wee morning hours, I can’t say for sure which. Her apartment was but a short distance from the Last National Banque and what happened after arrival will forever remain a mystery. I have my suspicions and regardless of the actual truth I continue to make light of what transpired that night, accusing Paula of taking advantage of my drunken state. Even though I remember very little, it is more fun this way. It always will be and the story will continue to morph with each retelling.

My next morning walk to pick up my car was short. However, given the leftovers from the night before it was a struggle to traverse the block and a half. My car had remained unlocked and the Canon AE1 and the 45 Service Colt that had been left in the passenger’s seat remained. I am lucky that the folks coming out of the Banque were not prone to pilfer. I don’t carry a gun any more nor do I leave expensive items in the front seat of an unlocked vehicle..

I departed Maysville for Prestonsburg to keep my date from the night before. On this day the trip detoured through Vanceburg, where my office was located. The drive there was not long and in just moments after arriving at the office, I came to realize that I wasn’t going to Prestonsburg and returned to Maysville.

I went straight to Paula’s and for the remainder of the morning we sat on her porch, which overlooked Maysville and its iconic bridge, drinking coffee. Nothing of note came out of our morning’s conversation, not even my inquiring of her plans for the remainder of the day. It was just a simple and tranquil defining moment provided the two of us by Tom’s arriving early the day before. Leaving Paula’s, I went home and slept a bit before returning to the Last National Banque later that night. I arrived at the Last National Banque somewhat refreshed and with no expectations other than a typical Saturday night among good friends. I was immediately regaled with stories involving my actions of the night before and later, while sitting among friends, Paula appeared.

Paula has a natural beauty that I have always been taken with and one that remains to this day. However, on this night there was a glow that accompanied her smile and beauty. Though I never rule out the impossible, I doubt there will ever be a time where she looked as beautiful as she did at that moment.

In many matters, I have always been on the shy side so, it took some prodding from Traci, “Hateful” as I still call her, for me to leave my seat and engage with Paula. Obviously, those that knew me best had readily picked up on something that I hadn’t quite yet figured out for myself. The beauty that Paula was projecting was a magnet of its own; hauntingly so in my memory as I write this now. Only a fool would have hesitated for much longer to join her company. I have my moments but I am no fool.

That was the beginning. The rest is history. The next day I met Pooter and Rooter for the first time and 39 days later Paula and I were married. That was 35 years ago come April 26th. For me, St Patrick’s day is our true anniversary though and for everything I have said here within, I can honestly say I believe in leprechauns, because there was a bit more than the luck of the Irish at work that night, I think there was Leprechaun magic as well………

Now, if you know me well, the reason for this story is twofold. One because it is a good one as far as I am concerned and two, because just in case I happen to forget April 26th this year, then my ass is covered.

HAPPY SAINT PATRICKS DAY!