First Comes Love, Then Comes Courage

Photo by Caitlin Molina

Last Sunday, I met an 80-year-old man who wanted to talk to me about love.

He is a prominent person in his field, with decades of professional accomplishments and public accolades. Experience has taught me that such a man is typically eager to share his knowledge, with or without prompting.

This man was different. He was in love.

After nearly a decade of widowhood, he married a woman he’d known as a friend for many years. She, too, was widowed, and much to his surprise, she found him lovable. We were standing on a patio at sunset, and the air was cooling. As he talked about his second chance at happiness, everything about him melted away except the look of wonder on his face. I can’t describe his hair for you; nor do I remember how many age spots peppered his cheeks, or if he was wearing glasses. I do hope never to forget the soft timbre of his voice as he spoke about his wife, and the way his eyes glistened as if he were on the verge of tears over his great luck.

At one point in his monologue, he touched my arm. “You’re smiling,” he said. “Am I talking too much?”

I assured him that it was impossible to talk too much about love. He had cast his spell, I said.

On cue, we felt the breeze.

When I began writing this essay several weeks ago, central Ohio was in the middle of a brief and glorious cool spell. For the first time since early June, when we moved into this house, the nights were cool enough for us to fall asleep with windows wide open. This allowed us to hear the night’s mysterious murmurs and awaken to familiar birdsong. Hello, mourning doves. Greetings, blue jays and chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dees.

That heat wave was something. On the day we moved, we drove two hours south of Cleveland and arrived in the tropics of Columbus. I may have said this to Sherrod multiple times. On one such occasion of my grousing, he looked to the sky and noted the absence of palm trees, but that was as far as he was willing to goad me. He’s no fool.

I may have mentioned once or a thousand times how I was born hot—not in that way—and how even in winter I love to crack open a bedroom window. Whenever I feel impatient with Sherrod, I remember how often he has claimed he loves this about me. Sometimes he says this through chattering teeth, which is my cue to thank him for his sacrifice.

That heat, though, and the drought it brought with it. Except for dog walks and errands, I spent much of the summer hermetically sealed within the confines of our house. Good thing I like this joint, as this would be a terrible time for buyer’s remorse. One evening in late July, I elbowed Sherrod as he was drifting off to sleep to recite the latest data from the Weather Channel app: At 11 p.m., it was still 94 degrees, with 92 percent humidity.

“Good thing we’re not outside,” he muttered into his pillow. Point taken. He loves me more than he hates air conditioning—and he really hates air conditioning--so in the dead of summer he was sleeping in long-sleeved t-shirts, plural.

“My hero,” I said, ruffling his head of curls before returning to reading Virginia Evans’s novel, The Correspondent, which I highly recommend.

In my heart, it’s not autumn until I share this favorite photo of my mother, from the mid-70s. I had asked her if she wanted to smile for this photo, but she demurred. “It’s important to know when you’re not the star of the show,” she said.

Through much of September, the temperatures continued to climb but my optimism was sturdy. During our final dog walks before bedtime, we strolled to the serenade of the cicadas. My mother always said their song was the surest sign that Autumn was packing her bag of colors for her trip to our patch of the world.

“She’ll fly in on chilly winds,” she’d say, cupping my face. “Before you know it, she’ll be painting our leaves and turning your cheeks candy-apple red.”

It’s October now, and no matter how hot the days, the evenings are cool. Autumn has begun her dance. Whenever the leaves begin to turn, I find myself whispering to my mother.

Mom, look at this maple.

Mom, I saw a burning bush today.

On the night when the first bright leaf landed at my feet, I held it to my heart and whispered her name. A breeze embraced me. I’m not going to try to convince you this means anything. I also won’t claim it doesn’t. To believe in the enduring love of someone who is gone is to know the power of hope. I don’t see the downside.

John and his beloved Michelle.

A few more words about love. Five days after my 68^th birthday, we went on a road trip to Bloomington, Indiana to attend the wedding of our dear friend, John, who is 65. Witnessing a second chance at love for two people in middle age sure can lift one’s spirits. (I hear my mathematician son’s voice in my head: “Middle age? Really. So, you plan to live until 136?” Yes, son, that’s the plan. Lucky you.)

We made the road trip with our friends Carmen and Denny, whom Sherrod has known for more than four decades. I met them soon after Sherrod and I started dating, so they’ve been my friends for more than twenty years. I got to know them a lot better on this trip, which is one of the benefits of being stuck in a car together for three-and-a-half hours, twice. I’ve never seen such an array of snacks stuffed in the smallest of spaces. I wasn’t good at that even when my kids were little, a guilt I carry around for not one moment because there are so many other credible critiques of my mothering.

Sherrod and I rode in the backseat because both Denny and Carmen love to drive. I wish I were that person. I also wish I were singing onstage with my sistah Bonnie Raitt to sold-out crowds, night after night. Some dreams just smack you in the head with their feathers before whooshing right past. I’m close to accepting this. Also, I should probably admit I’ve never met Bonnie Raitt, which is a real shame for one of us.

About two hours into our trip, our car slowed to a crawl before stopping altogether on I-70 in Indiana. We had been sitting there for 20 minutes or so when Carmen pointed to the 18-wheeler in front of us and said, “I’m going to get out and ask that guy why we’re stuck here. Truckers always know.”

Immediately, I’m thinking: In 2025? No, no, triple no. Stay.

Denny nodded. “Okay,” he said.

This is Carmen talking to the trucker, who was very nice once he comprehended that the tiny woman in the bright red sweater was not going to stop pounding on his cab door until he opened it.

She returned to our car, slammed the door shut and delivered the verdict. “It’s construction.”

“Ah,” we all said in unison. “Construction.” We’re all Ohioans, after all. We’ve lived with summer road construction through every autumn of our lives.

At the wedding reception, Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable lured even my husband to the dance floor. It was the first time in years we’ve slow-danced, and something took hold.

Now, whenever we’re home, Sherrod asks Alexa to play that song right before bedtime. His hand reaches for mine, and we swirl across the dining room floor.

In these times, it feels like an act of rebellion. We refuse to be robbed of joy. Even in the darkness, we will dance.

Mom, look. (Photo by Sherrod Brown.)