How I Fell for my Super-Hero
“You can’t stay over,” I blurted, then kissed him again for … awhile. We relaxed on my sofa on Thanksgiving evening, alone together for the first time.
He’d appeared at the front door of my petite Victorian house with a bottle of wine from his valley, where he’d grown up and still lived. Earlier in the day, he’d hosted his family. Everything had been cleaned up hours ago.
Not so in my house.
A sprawling bouquet of yellow and burgundy flowers, and a white damask cloth still dressed my oak dining table. Flames of white taper candles flickered, and had burned halfway to their copper holders.
The whole house smelled of roasted turkey, butter, celery, onions, apple pie — the delicious aftermath of 24 hours of Thanksgiving cooking.
I’d pulled it off — as usual with a lot of help from friends and by the skin of my teeth.
Everything Changed on Week 51
In the past year I’d risen from the ashes of a failed marriage, giving myself a year to hunker down in central Pennsylvania before deciding whether to stay or return to a good life in Maine. I’d found my way, leaned on my friends, ripped out the stained carpet of these rooms to find original, dark hardwood floors and repainted the walls a rich, burnt orange with white millwork.
My bargain, fixer-upper oak table was delivered the day before. My dad had arrived for the holiday from Ohio with his longtime girlfriend and a pair of oak chairs from his stash of old furniture, odds and ends. As the turkey roasted, he’d helped me hang pictures.
The kitchen was now a disaster, but no matter. I was riding high from the thrill of hosting my first Thanksgiving dinner, and not yet feeling any twinge of exhaustion from the preparation.
Oak Trees, Toyota Pickups and Baseball — Oh my
Now, a handsome, strong, kind man was in my living room. With wine. And he was talking about lots of things I already loved: A familiar, beloved oak tree landmark in the woods (I’m a tree-hugger whose last name means “of the oak”), his Toyota truck (I still miss my red pickup) and baseball movies (um, that speaks for itself).
And he was talking about interesting stuff I was curious about: His sons, 13 and 15, his home valley with a long, Native American-sounding name, his work over two decades as a teacher. How he would dress up as Thomas Jefferson when he was teaching history. Now, he was assistant principal at the middle school in a nearby town.
His principal had worked behind the scenes to be sure we met at her Halloween party, where I’d seen joy and light flash across his handsome face when he mentioned his sons. Smitten, I left the party hoping to hear from him. We’d emailed for a couple of weeks.
We had dinner with a big group of people and when they finally left, sat talking until the restaurant folks vacuumed around us. We got the hint and left. Outside in the parking lot, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
A Walk in the Woods
A few days later, on our first real date the Sunday before Thanksgiving, he’d placed my hand in the crook of his elbow and held it with his other hand as we walked in the woods. We’d had a first kiss and long embrace beside the lake, and I could hear his heartbeat through his thick, wool sweater. At dinner, after I learned he’d stacked fire-wood for most of the day, I held his scratched and sore hands in mine.
I learned he’s a hunter. Hmmmmm… thinking about that. I asked him if he had or wanted a bunch of stuffed, dead animal heads on the walls of his house? Because, I said, that would really gross me out.
Nah, he said. I don’t have any and I don’t want any.
He was old-fashioned, a gentleman. He was courting me and I was falling fast.
Skiing in Control
And now, we were alone.
“You can’t stay over!” I blurted.
The abrupt reminder was for me: Take it slow.
I felt like I was standing in my skis atop a steep, snowy slope, feeling gravity’s powerful pull. Enchanted with sparkling snow against a deep blue sky, I was dreamy and anticipating a thrilling, freeing run down the mountain.
I so wanted to lean into his comfort and care. But I had to be careful.
A beginner skier learns to slow and stop by pointing the tips of her skis toward each other but never crossing them, for that’s guaranteed disaster. Like the edges of a snow plow, the blades of the skis push against the snow.
Staying safe means skiing in control, making sweeping turns into the mountain, working with gravity for a sweet ride. In time, a skier learns to work the sharp edges and shape of her skis to carve and ride the mountain like a surfer rides the giant waves.
Falling in love with him was easy, fast and delicious — as much fun as giving into the mountain’s pull, trusting my edges would grip and let me enjoy of the swift ride. Just like flying down the roller coaster’s first hill.
Still. I could be wrong (again). I could crash. Falls are painful. Falls are dangerous.
Should I lose control of my speed, soon my body would awkwardly smack hard against the sharp, bitter packed ice, tumbling down-mountain like a messy snowball of limbs, skis and poles in a painful wipe-out.
Take it slow. A snow-plow would be useless versus the pull of this vertical drop. I needed my A-game — to point my skis into the mountain to slow down.
Hunting Camp & other Mysteries
“I can’t stay,” he said. “We’re heading to camp tomorrow.”
“OK, good,” I said. “What’s camp? How long will you be away?”
The next day, he left for five days at hunting camp — a cornerstone of traditional Pennsylvania culture where the men gather for a few days to eat, nap and play cards, or so I’m told — until the deer hunting season begins, traditionally on the Monday following Thanksgiving.
But I didn’t know much about any of that then. I just knew he’d be away in a place without cell service, so I wouldn’t hear from him for several days.
Getting Real
On Saturday morning, I pulled a hand-addressed card from the mailbox. Three pears with a shimmer of gold graced the front with the words “Thinking of you…”
Inside, a note from Mike: “Just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you.”
Printed on the inside cover: In some parts of the world, pears symbolize longevity and affection. This is true.
But I didn’t know any of that either.
Just that I liked him a lot, and that I liked the lovely shape, color and sweetness of pears. That he was so nice and it felt great to be with him. I felt crazy-lucky. I’d waited so long, wasn’t sure I was ready and needed nonetheless to leap.
I let myself believe he was real, and trusted the mountain would gently carry me.
