The two-year anniversary of my re-marriage is approaching
like a shooting star. Where has the time gone? The journey started out with
two damaged souls who found each other on a forever-trek toward healing. There’s
something wonderful about bonding with a new mate who has an equally beat-up set of
emotional luggage as mine. Neither one
of us expected flawless, but we both needed a cocktail of respect, affection, partnership, and commitment—shaken,
not stirred. Age has advantages for adapting to a new relationship. Experience from botching things up and enjoying successes in life gives us boomers the ability to bypass all that nonsense of dancing around each
other’s insecurities. No modesty.
Jeff and I fell in love before we even met in person. Just as I was about to abandon my first online dating attempt, a connection popped up to ignite an
exciting exchange that lasted for two weeks. The communication began with Jeff's simple question, “Are
you enjoying your Sunday?”
After that, we texted each other for days about everything: childhood, interests,
goals, families, favorites, and our previous marriage woes. We both loved books. I was a writer; Jeff wanted to be one. We were both singers. I was a soprano and he was a first tenor. Jeff was a widower, who had three grown children and a middle-schooler he was raising alone. I was a barren divorced woman, all alone, who had always
regretted not having children. He was a man of the outdoors with a physically taxing job, I was a corporate executive with a mentally stressful career. We fit together like that image of Yin and Yang.. Our relationship enriched with a voice when our texts graduated to phone conversations. And what a voice he had, too!. Little did I know that he could put Freddie Mercury to shame. Tone, nuances and inflection added a whole new layer to our exchanges. I still find it fascinating that a laugh is like a fingerprint; everyone's is unique. I learned so much about Jeff from his..
Jeff and I finally set a dinner date to meet in person. We each wanted to
know if the other was real, a heart-pounder moment. For flight insurance,
we drove separately to the restaurant in the event one of us want to flee our disillusionment. But when I came around the corner to see
him standing by the entrance, all my fears evaporated. Jeff's online photo didn’t do him justice, not by a long shot. I saw his wide smile first, and then his chest heaved with a deep breath. Through some scary force of nature, I walked
up to him and planted a long kiss on his perfect mouth. It left him wide-eyed and me spellbound. I think he, too, was relieved that I hadn’t a Photoshopped a fake version of me.
“There,” I said. “We got that out of the way.”
“Okay then,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“So are you.”
Our dinner stretched on for nearly two hours, to the point where
the waiter got fidgety to re-seat the table. Jeff followed me home, with most
of our uneaten meals in to-go boxes. We held each other till dawn, with a lot
of yadda, yadda, yadda in between, most of which had been absent in our former
married lives for years. The newness was cathartic. We became inseparable after
that night, and proceeded to log hundreds of miles on the forty-five-minute drive between
our houses.
Two months later, Jeff sprung a marriage proposal on me at Christmas
for a suggested wedding in June. As a bona fide mountain man and an
experienced hiker, he wanted to take me to his favorite spot for our honeymoon: Mt. Rainier in Washington. I wholeheartedly accepted. We were going backpack camping in the Goat Rocks, an oasis that had been his personal
favorite. Until he'd met me, Jeff only enjoyed that area alone. He had waved me into his world, a new world where I desperately wanted to be.
We ditched the pomp and circumstance of a church wedding,
preferring the surroundings of the forest near Mt. Rainier. With only twelve
people in attendance—including the photographer and pastor—our
vows were personal and intimate. We
pledged our souls to each other among the old-growth trees. A warm breeze
carried the rich fragrance of moss. And upon uttering “I do,” I instantly became
a mom and a grandmother. I don’t know anything about birthin' babies, so starting
out with an eleven-year-old stepdaughter rollercoasted me from Mainline Menopause
to Planet Puberty. That was fine with me, because when I gazed into my new daughter's eyes, I saw
Jeff. His deep brown eyes and ebony hair were mirrored in her. And when she
gave me a hug, I filled with light.
With rings on our fingers, Jeff and I strapped on our
backpacks and laced up our boots to set off for a week of hiking. We soon left the trail. Thank goodness Jeff has an uncanny sense of direction, and that I'm an efficient packer. I carried only what I could shove in my pack. Here I was, a new bride at fifty-eight who was required to leave behind the required make-up, jewelry, perfume,
and honeymoon negligee. Instead, "freshening up" was a behind-a-log event. At least there were no mirrors (except for the smirk on Jeff's face) to remind me of my untamed, hay-like hair, Sweaty clothes washed in a mountain creek yielded a few critters after being hung from branches.
“It’s not a fashion show, my dear,” Jeff said. “And I hope
you don’t mind taking a bath in a freezing cold creek.”
“No one’s going to see me, except you,” I said, although the
image made every orifice pucker..
Shedding conveniences became worth it to emerge from the
forest to a panoramic vista of snow-capped mountains, wildflowers, deer, elk,
and a symphony of birds. Talking seemed downright
disrespectful at those special moments, so Jeff would communicate with me by
taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.
On day three, the huge paw prints in a burm of snow gave me
pause. They were the size of dinner plates and fresh.
“Jeff?” I said, halting to point. “Look at this.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “He’s a biggun’, and he’s close. I’ve got
bear spray, but we’ll need to hang our food in the trees tonight.” His voice instantly
became protective. I felt safe with Jeff by my side, but nature’s dangers needed
to be headed.
After setting up camp, we’d build a fire at night and talk,
just like we always had. The added element was to gnaw on jerky. From there, we built a foundation of wishes
and dreams that would carry us for the rest of our lives.
Now, two years later, we’re making those honeymoon wishes a reality. One of those special wishes is about to come true. For our second anniversary, we'll be hiking in our new home of Kalispell, Montana, just as we dreamed
about by the campfire.
Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer splitting her time between Milwaukie, Oregon, and Kalispell, Montana with her husband. stepdaughter, and their brainiac cat, Princeton. Courtney writes for the baby boomer audience. She spent 28 years as an executive in the entertainment industry and used her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.
The Dushane Sisters Trilogy concludes with Indigo Legacy, available now. There's love in the air for Olivia and Woody, but will family intrigue get in the way? Ride along for the wild trip that starts in a New York auction house and peaks in a mansion on Boston's Beacon Hill.
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| Photo: Micah Brooks |
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| Available Now! Book 3 of the Dushane Sisters Trilogy |
The Dushane Sisters Trilogy concludes with Indigo Legacy, available now. There's love in the air for Olivia and Woody, but will family intrigue get in the way? Ride along for the wild trip that starts in a New York auction house and peaks in a mansion on Boston's Beacon Hill.
The Dushane sisters finally get to the truth about their mother.
