Off the market

After shopping around for the better part of 30 years, I’ve finally found what I was looking for.
Her name’s Jessica. She’s wonderful, and she knows it. I had to come up with a way to remind her that’s how I felt, too.
So I bought her a ring.
It’s a big, honkin’ ring, which can cut glass or a frisky fiancé’s left temple. And I’ve never been happier in my life.
At the risk of sounding sentimental, I’d like to share our story about Jan. 14, 2006.
Jessica and I headed to Holmes County, home of the Amish and little else, for a well-earned weekend getaway. Lissie, her 4-year-old daughter, stayed with Jess’s sister, and all was set for a nice weekend. Her employees chipped in for a gift certificate for most of our stay.
It would’ve been nice, but it needed to be perfect. I upgraded from a regular room to an “executive suite,” which was really quite sweet, with a fireplace, Jacuzzi and a 32-inch TV we didn’t watch all that much.
Saturday itself was nice. We went to a woodcutting museum, where it was warm, and enough sweets shops to give someone a cavity. Then we went out for a simple enough dinner at Der Fuhrer, err, Der Dutchman, restaurant where we exchanged pleasantries.
Here’s a little insight I have after the fact. I was nervous all day long, knowing what was going to happen, so I channeled that nervous energy into humor. Apparently I was pissing Jess off, but she was good enough to never tell me that.
After dinner, we returned to our oasis, the room. She wanted to check in with her sister to see how Lissie was doing. I wanted her to not do that. She won. I’ll get used to that.
Once she sat down to relax by the fire finally, I turned on the ol’ CD player to crank out a few tunes I’d put together.
First song… Billy Joel’s “Tell Her About It.”
Second song… James Taylor’s “How Sweet It Is.”
At this point, I went to a cupboard in the room and pulled out a box of chocolates from county-renowned chocolatier Christie Tabler, who’d delighted us with fudge in the past.
Jessica opened the box of chocolates. She saw the somewhat large white box in the center. She uttered the words every man wants to hear… “What is THIS?”
I told her to open it. She figured out what it was when she took off the top and saw a beautiful Mohogany jewelry box. Ring size, in fact.
She started crying. Whether or not I did is not terribly relevant to this story. (But I’m enough of a man to admit I did, for about 10 seconds or 10 minutes, depending on who you ask.)
I read her a little ditty I’d scribbled down to describe how I felt about her and Lissie in my life:

BEAUTIFUL
Jessica, you’re a beautiful person.
Your beauty isn’t just what people see from the outside. Sure, you have a radiant smile, dazzling eyes and immaculately soft curves.
That’s not why I love you, though. I see a beauty inside you that changed my life.
It’s evident as you calmly dress Lissie in the mornings despite her cries for more sleep.
It’s obvious in your reverence as I look down the pew at the two of you in church.
It’s apparent in your work, as you use compassion and determination to do the right thing.
You have a beautiful way of thinking about the world that’s clinical, cynical and cheerful, all in one.
I see that beauty in you, and I’m grateful God put us together.
I have little to offer you, yet it’s everything to me. I offer you my heart. I offer you my love. I offer you a beautiful life together.
Will you marry me?

She didn’t really answer. Maybe she did. It was hard to make anything out through all the blubbering, half hers, half mine. I just know that before the end of the song, “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You),” she stuck her hand out for me to place the ring on the appropriate finger.
Being a stickler for tradition, and understanding the legality that if it’s a “gift” instead of a “proposal” I can never get it back, even if she says no, I said, “I don’t want to be a stickler, but I’m going to need to an answer.”
She said yes. She got the ring, and I got the best thing to ever happen in my life.
Third song… “You Say It Best (When You Say Nothing At All)” by Allison Kraus
That’s our song. We slow danced to it, and there was a magic there that even a man of many words such as myself can’t describe.
Fourth song… “Amazed” by Lonestar.
Fifth song… “Make You Feel My Love” by Garth Brooks.
Sixth song… “Thank You” by Dido.
That one would’ve been embarrassing to hear if she said no. “I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life”…
Seventh song… “Ice Cream” by Sarah McLachlan.
What can I say, “Your love is better than ice cream” just seemed appropriate.
Eighth song… “Lucky One” by Amy Grant.
Ninth song… “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton.
I just can’t burn a CD without Clapton.
Tenth song: “Open Arms” by Journey.
She’s got a thing for Journey. Sensitive men pick up on things like that.
Final song: “Unanswered Prayers” by Garth Brooks.
I’m not the biggest Garth fan in the world, but I can appreciate meaningful lyrics when I hear them. When I hear the line toward the end that says, “As we walked away, I looked at my wife, and then and there I thanked the good Lord for the things in my life,” my eyes tear up at realizing I have something that good.

I could tell you about the rest of the night, but then I’d have to start taking credit card numbers and verifying ages, and that’s not what this blog’s about. [Just kidding, Mom. We sat around and read the Bible.]
The date’s set for July 29 at a location already determined, but I’d hate to publicize it here because we’re already trying to figure out how to pay for 300 people we barely can stand to eat and drink at our expense.
Just kidding; we’ll be happy to have everyone there, so long as they give us at least $17 worth of gifts per person who will be eating and drinking on our dime.
Jessica wanted to chip in. She said we’ll have the most beautiful, amazing wedding that’s ever been pulled off in six months. She’s almost as good at qualifying things as I am, which is obviously part of the charm for me.

All kidding aside, for the time being at least, I’m happy to share my happiness with friends and strangers alike. For the last 10 years or so, I wondered if that perfect love was something you only find in sappy movies and catchy songs. Now I don’t have to wonder anymore. I can understand the pain and disappointment I’ve felt earlier in my dating years… they merely set me up for extreme joy I’m experiencing, waiting for the perfect woman for me.

Santa suits can show true meaning of season

Column published in The Lima News, 12-17-05
Thank goodness for the innocent belief of children this time of year.
Only they have the love in their hearts to see the true meaning in Christmas when they see a Santa Claus on every corner.
If you spend any time walking through a mall this time of year, and most of us must at some point, you realize how hard it is to avoid ol’ St. Nick. He peaks out from nearly every advertisement. He hawks toys at the toy store as easily as spatulas at the home goods one.
And they all look different.
You’d think that would be confusing to a young child. A 4-year-old child runs only to the arms of her mother, after all, and can cer-tainly tell the difference between one old man claiming to be Father Christmas and the next.
Somehow they see behind the different facial features. They ignore a real beard vs. a fake beard. They don’t care if he has blue eyes or brown. He can be black as easily as white or any other shade in between.
That’s not what the children see.
They see generosity.
They see compassion.
They see love.
In short, they see God.
It’s not popular to say you see God nowadays. There’s a tendency to substitute out the word “Christmas” and use “holidays” instead, for fear of offending a non-Christian religion.
Most major religions acknowledge there probably was a Jesus Christ, though. Those same religions generally acknowledge He was a good person and something of a prophet. Acting like Him isn’t the worst idea in the world, no matter what your ideas might be of the Christian religions.
Which brings us back to Santa Claus or whatever other term you might like for the guy in the big red suit. His heritage generally traces back to St. Nicholas, the bishop of Myra in Asia Minor, in what is now Turkey. He supposedly came from a wealthy family but gave all his money to the poor.
The Dutch introduced the red suit with their Sinterklaas, who wore a red bishop’s costume including the large cap.
Over time, society transformed him into a jolly old elf who kindly delivers toys to all the good boys and girls in the world.
Some see a Santa on every corner as a sign secularism and sacrilege somehow took over the spirit of the Christmas season. Certainly the season took on a more economic tone than originally planned, but the basis remains love and charity for your fellow man.
If anything, the Santas on every corner prove the true meaning of the season is as pure now as it was when a baby laid in a manger some 2,000-plus years ago, if only to those who realize the power of the jolly old elf.
Children universally love him, and they know the importance of believing in Santa Claus. Even the ones who run and scream from him understand what he stands for; his presence just somehow terrifies them.
They know they’re seeing generosity, compassion and love personified in every face. They’re seeing God in every face. They under-stand the overwhelming concept of omnipresence unflinchingly.
We spend so much time teaching our children what’s wrong or what’s right. Now is a good time to start learning from them.

Modern-day nomads find their way home

Column published in The Lima News, 12-7-05
They wander from place to place, trying to make the most from the places they stay.
They may keep some communications with their homelands, by phone, e-mail or letters. They go off on their own, trying to make the most of their lives and find fulfillment.
They are the modern-day nomads. Instead of living off the land for as long as they can and moving, though, they live off a job and an area as long as they can until restlessness and homesickness drive them onward.
Author Steven K. Roberts calls them “technomads,” a nomadic person who remains connected through communications media. The rest of society may call them sisters, cousins or friends. Another term may be simply graduates.
There’s a constant concern about “brain drain” in this area. People wonder aloud what future their children might have, as there aren’t so many entry-level positions here for a well-educated student as there are well-educated students. They’ll go off to college, only to find they’re overqualified for most of the jobs where they were born. They’ll find seemingly far-off places to work in engineering, law or some other seemingly exotic profession.
The good news is it’s merely seemingly. In reality, the nomadic lifestyle seems to be quite temporary. As the clichés scream, there’s no place like home. These nomads do find their way back to a place they’ll call home.
You can drink the sweet tea and listen to the men howl about “them Dawgs” (the Georgia ones) in Savannah while admiring the ar-chitecture in the Civil War-era buildings downtown.
You can roam up and down the beautiful Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, sipping on the wines from the local vineyards and enjoying the breathtaking view of the bluish mountains leaping from the ground.
You can soak up the big-city life outside Columbus, traveling to Polaris for good shopping and food or heading to the old Horseshoe to watch the Buckeyes beat Michigan.
You can go all over the country and experience new and different things. Even the modern-day nomad feels the urge to find a place to call home, though.
That’s how it is for so many people of the 30-something generation, those folks too young to be X but not quite hip enough to be Y. You want to spread your wings and fly, and you do so for years and years. Eventually, though, that empty nest beckons you back.
You find yourself missing the little things in life. There’s no replacement for the loving hug of a young niece or nephew. Few things calm you as much as your father telling the car repair won’t be that expensive as he glances down on the engine. No feeling quite compares to the memories flowing back when you drive past your grandparents’ former home.
These things draw young, talented people back to this marvelous section of Ohio, whether you call it Northwest Ohio or West Cen-tral Ohio. This is home for many of us. There’s a comfortable feeling from knowing the back ways to your favorite places. There’s warmth in the memories from seeing the restaurant from your first date.
You can’t market these traits or put them on a postcard, for they’re as varied as the population here.
These memories and these warm feelings are just what it takes to bring a nomad back home. It may take four years of wandering, or it may take a lifetime of wandering, but eventually we all find our way back to where we belong.