The Swan

     We once played this parlor game.  You draw someone's name out of a hat; and the purpose of the game is to get the others to know whose name you drew by describing him or her as a type of tree, or flower, or breed of cat or dog or horse, or a color, or a favorite book -- something that uniquely points to the identity of the one whose name was drawn, the one who is "it."  So on my turn, I drew her name, and without hesitation I said, "A swan."  My Swan.  Everyone got it.  She got it.
     We met on the last Saturday of October in 1966.  By rights we shouldn't have met at all.  My original class had graduated the year before in June, but without me.  I took some time off; it was a decision mutually agreed upon between the dean of the college and me.  Let's just say I wasn't taking full advantage of the educational opportunity before me, more or less majoring in things that didn't involve going to the library.  True, there were some understandable distractions.  It was during my sophomore and junior years that my dad was diagnosed with and under treatment for his first waves of cancer, and there were many trips from Claremont to Hollywood Presbyterian.  So for many reasons, some of them perhaps legit, I was on the six-year plan.  Turns out, the timing was perfect. 
     For on this particular Saturday afternoon I was studying on campus.  This time through I did frequent the library; it had books and everything.  I took a break to walk down to the stadium where the Pomona College Sagehens were butting helmets with the Occidental Tigers, and showed up at halftime.  It was still an Indian summer, but November was close.  Shirtsleeves now, but it would cool down later, so all the guys were wearing the uniform of the day, the sweater thrown over the shoulders with the sleeves tied in a knot down front, like a cashmere necktie, loosened.
     There I ran into these buddies from my class, Don and John, and they were with their fiances from the current class, Linda and Nancy.  And there was this other girl with them.  They introduced us.  Tim, meet our friend, Liza Bean.  She's from Arizona.  Years later at a reunion one of the people from that circle would remind me that Liza and I just stared at each other, and that it was a little bit embarrassing for them.  Of course they felt that way; yes, we did stare at each other.  Oh, my gosh, how beautiful!   Elegant.  Tall.  Classy.  Her hair was cut short, like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music."  But it wasn't just the hair cut or her passing resemblance to the actress.  Her mom was born in Virginia Water, Surrey, England; so she was half British.  Those green eyes, that English skin, that regal UK bearing, that sense of reserve, that swan-like quality of the truly noble.  OMG, my heart was gone in...well, a heartbeat.  Now here is the amazing thing.  So was hers.  Go figure.
     Those first few dates we had were quite magical.  The late fall orange blossoms that filled the air with romance and nostalgia for my early years living in a grove of Valencias.  A truly hokey French Film -- "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" -- that created a common memory for us, both having lived in France as exchange students.  I spoke of my grandfather and of avocados and of sitting on his porch.  Dinner at The Huddle in Covina, and Teddy Buckner and his band playing until we were the last ones on the dance floor, and we closed the place.
     We were married in 1968 in Scottsdale.  Just a small wedding, family and a couple of friends each.  Maybe 20 people overall.  Everyone invited to the home of my new parents-in-law for dinner.  My dad pulled me aside and said, "During the vows I saw you two peaking at each other."  Got me, Dad.   
     It doesn't have to be a big shindig for the marriage to be successful.  Since then we have grown in faith, and in love.  We have raised three amazing, talented, beautiful, caring daughters.  We have gone through the checking-on-them stages; now they check up on us.  We have had careers.  We have lived in the same house for 35 years.  In some ways, an ordinary life.  Yet after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, she is still crazy about me.  Go figure.  And after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, I am still sneaking a peak every once in a while.  Over that time the swan has morphed into a girl scout:  loyal, faithful, strong, diligent, helpful, dependable, reliable, and kind.  Every merit badge imagineable!
     You are many things to many people, all of them worthy and of good report. 
     You are the one whose name I drew.  The Swan,  My Swan.  Happy Anniversary, Liza.
     I am so glad you made it to the game that day. 

     So what if they drew my name out of the hat?
     AT TIMES:  Border Collie (I'm in charge here, and you're not gettin' away with anything), Regular Collie (OK, you're in charge here; what can I do for you?), German Shepherd (You are so busted, kid), Dachsund (Actually, I'm the one in charge), Bulldog (Yes, you will), Jack Russell (Lemme at 'em), Bloodhound (The kid can't dodge us forever), St. Bernard (A little something to chase away the chill?), Chesapeake (Can I slobber you a little bit?), Golden Retriever (So, you wanna hang out?), Pit Bull (Try me), Corgi (Wow, what's next?), Sharpay (Yeah, I'm starting the diet tomorrow), Doberman (Not on my watch), Beagle (Where's my dish?), Basset Hound (Where's my doggie bed?), Lab (How long do I have to chase this stupid tennis ball?), Poodle (I'm so smart...), Irish Setter (...and so good-looking).        
     NEVER:  Borzoi (Huh?), Whippet (C'mon), Chihuahua (No way), any smash face dog (Uh Uh), any dog with so much hair that you can't tell the front end from the back end (Sorry), yappy dogs (Seriously)
     Of course like all guys I really want to be a lion (Lie around in the shade all day, play with the cubs, make more cubs, roar occasionally, eat the best portions, and she does the shopping.)  More likely cat?  Smooshie, my neighbor's grey tabby with the long and curious tail (Can't bother, curls up almost anywhere for a nap.)