Bernice and Garry: Bernice takes a year

Our final destination would be the city of Phoenix and the two-bedroom condo in a dreamcicle colored condo complex called Anasazi. This would be the best homecoming of all. This would be the home we would make together, the home that would last us for the rest of our lives. Bernice and Garry: Journey West

Rookies
July 1996
Locale: Squaw Peak (as it was known in 1996 when Bernice and I first hit Phoenix). Since renamed as Piestewa Peak In honor of Army SPC Lori Ann Piestewa, the first Native American woman to die in combat in the US military, and the first female soldier to be killed in action in the 2003 Iraq War.

Imaginary conversation: (if Jeff Foxworthy were the clerk in the Circle K across the street from our condo in Anasazi)
Clerk: You're going to do Squaw Peak in July and this is the all the water you're taking? That will be $4.37 please. Thank you. Here's your receipt and here's your (Stupid) signs. Pray you don't get trampled to death when you fall out.

Actual Conversation:
Clerk:  (not Jeff Foxworthy) You folks planning on doing a little hiking today?
Garry: Yeah, thought we might try Squaw Peak.
Clerk: You might be starting a little late for Squaw Peak. This time of year (July) most folks want to get started between 6:00 and 6:30.
Garry: (upon exiting the store) Guy doesn't know what kind of shape we're in.
Bernice: Looks like we won't get to Squaw Peak until 8:30. (Taking a slug from her 16 ounce water bottle) We should still be ok.

Two hours later....
Bernice: (shortly after she slid down the bedroom wall onto her butt) Go get Ellie!
Garry: What's she gonna do?
Bernice: She's a nurse. Go get her.
Garry: What should I say is wrong
Bernice: I don't care, tell her I broke my leg. Just go get her. (as I head for Ellie one door away). Heat exhaustion, tell her heat exhaustion.

In the years following, Bernice would do Piestewa Peak for breakfast. Ok, maybe lunch. She and a girlfriend would do a smaller peak, North Mountain, daily and would top off their week with the Big Kahuna.

Phoenix Rising August 1996


We are sitting on the back patio, drinking some Two-buck Chuck, all the rage at the time. Beyond the golf course we can see Camelback Mountain, bigger even that Piestewa Peak but just another of Bernice's conquests.


Garry: You know, this whole desert thing takes some getting used to.
Bernice: How so?
Garry: Well for openers, the weather. There ain't none. The sun shines everyday ad naseum. It never rains.
Bernice: It rains.
Garry: Okay, maybe once in a blue moon it rains like hell and causes flooding and idiots get stalled in big puddles they weren't supposed to drive through in the first place. But that's not rain. That's a downpour. I'm talkin cloudy, rainy days. Days that make you want to stay indoors and work puzzles.
Bernice: We have stay indoors days.
Garry: Sure because it's a hundred and hot in the shade if you can find any. I mean what's the difference between summer and winter out here?
Bernice: Plenty difference. Summer it's hot twenty-four hours a day. Winter it's pleasant in the daytime and very cool in the evenings. Early mornings can be downright cold.
Garry: Ok, how about storms. Good old-fasioned thunder and lightning, winds blowing down powerlines, lawn chairs in the neighbors yard storms.

Bernice: Oh we've got them alright. They're called monsoon thunder storms.

Garry: Sounds like a solo piece for the Oboe section.

Bernice: Bassoon section would be more like it.
Garry: Know what the worst thing is? Those damned doves. That coo they have. It's the most mournful sound I ever heard. Makes me feel empty as a drum.
Bernice: I don't think it's the doves, babe. I think you're just homesick.

Garry: I haven't been homesick since I left home for Air Force Basic Training. As far as Detroit goes, I said my goodbyes. I'm good with being out here instead of back there.

Bernice: Different kind of homesick. Maybe not a place you miss, but something important you lost.

Your work relationships. Students, teaching friends, friends from you sites. The feedback, the reeognition you've recieved. All a big part of your life for a long time. Gone.

Backstory

At the time Bernice and I hooked up, my daughter Brett and I had a standing dinner date every Wednesday. Growing up, Brett spent weekends and summers with me and the rest of the time with her mom. This worked out ok until Brett approached her teens. At that point she began to develop her own weekend agenda. She needed more personal space and more hang time with her friends. Weekends one-on-one with dad clashed with that agenda. I understood Brett's need for more control over her own life; I just didn't want to relinquish regular contact with her. Impasse for sure. Brett's mom, Eileen, to the rescue:

Mom: Why don't you two have dinner together like every Wednesday or something.

Wednesdays sounded good to Brett and me so that became our plan. It was a good plan and we stuck to it all through Brett's high school years.

August 1996
Garry: (from his poolside perch at sunset over Anasazi) Are you sure you're ok with my going back to see Brett through her senior year?
Bernice: Of course. As long as you behave yourself.
Garry: Meaning what?
Bernice: Meaning I won't tolerate any backsliding.
Garry: (bemused) Backsliding?
Bernice: You know what I mean. Don't go back to your bar life. And don't be having any girls in our apartment (Clinton Township, MI) either.
Garry: Girls? What girls?
Bernice: Ok, girl. Don't be flirting with Flo down the hall.
Garry: I'm down with that. Both counts. Straight arrow. Scouts honor. (easy promises since I've never seen a bar that could hold a candle to Metro Beach and Flo was 92 and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day.)
Bernice: And call me every day.
Garry: That could get pricey.
Bernice: Save your money.
Garry: Not exactly my long suit.
Bernice: Don't I know. Three times a week then. Final offer. Take it or leave it.
Garry: I'll take it. (pause) Thank you for letting me do this, babe. It means a lot.
Bernice: I'm not through here. I don't intend to spend Thanksgiving alone. I expect to see your smiling face at my table.

Bernice Steps Out October 1996

Bernice: (Sitting on her patio with her coffee and crosswords, phone in hand) Hey birthday boy!
Garry: (remote control in hand, searching for a University of Michigan football game) It's not my birthday. It's your birthday.
Bernice: It's our birthday month, remember?
Garry: (finding his game) Right. I knew that.
Bernice: What you doin?
Garry: I was about to watch a U of M football game.
Bernice: Well, turn the sound down and talk to me.
Garry: (Obliging) Ok, there you go. Just you and me now baby.
Bernice: You and me and the football game.
Garry: I won't look. I missed the kickoff anyway.
Bernice: So, what you been up to.
Garry: Up to no good whenever I get the chance. You?
Bernice: Oh boy, where to begin. I've joined a hiking club. Great group of gals. Guys too. I'm in a book club with my new best girlfriend, Ellie. I call her Walking Ellie so I don't mix her up with my sister Ellie. Walking Ellie's in the hiking club. Boy what a hiker! Let's see, oh and I'm ushering at the Civic Center. Don't like the set up much. Not like Detroit. They insist on paying me so they can tell me when to work. But it gives me a chance to explore downtown. What else?  W Ellie and I go to movies in the afternoon. I love that. Then I go to Anasazi affairs with sister Ellie. Bunch of old folks, but we have fun. The rest of the time I just hang out in the pool with my Building Eight neighbors. We really fill up the pool. Such talkers! I guess that's about it.
Garry: That's it? I thought you were going to stay busy while I'm gone.
Bernice: You funny. (pause) I miss you like crazy.
Garry: I miss you too Sweetie.
Bernice: You do? You sure? You don't sound too excited to hear from me.
Garry: (turning game off) I miss you all the time. Especially at night. The apartment feels so empty. I really get the blues when one of our shows comes on TV. Miss sitting on the couch holding your hand. Miss snuggling with you to get us off to sleep.
Bernice: I'm sorry. Sometimes I get scared that you won't be coming back.
Garry: I'm coming back for Thanksgiving. I already booked my flight. I'm coming back cause you're the best thing ever happened to me. I'm not gonna let that go.
Bernice: (trying to sound like the brave girl she had been all her life) Ok Sweetie. I'll be waiting for you.

February 1997
Bernice: Garry, guess what. You know I told you I was going to try out race walking? Well I did and I won a meddle.
Garry: Did you race walk or power walk?
Bernice: Oh race walk. The are very strict. If you break form they disqualify you.
Garry: Wow, a medal. That is so cool. I'm really proud of you.
Bernice: Thanks. You still running?
Garry: You bet. I'm doing Masters Track and Field. I'm on a team. You remember the Motor City Striders, the long distance club I belonged to awhile back? Well they have a track team and I run the 400 meters. We go to this indoor college track and race every Friday. All comers. They put us old guys in with the kids. I haven't won a danged thing yet.
Bernice: You will. If you get in really good shape you can race walk with me. You won't beat me though.
Garry: I might.
Bernice: How?
Garry: I'll cheat.

May 1997
Garry: I'll never get out of here. Between packing and trying to sell your furniture I can't keep my head on straight.
Bernice: You having a tough time, Sweetie?
Garry: I am. Unloading this furniture is a real pain.
Bernice: Well, sell what you can and give the rest to Goodwill. But don't wait too long. Maybe Brett can help you. Don't get discouraged.
Garry: Brett will have to help. I'm giving her the couch and the home entertainment system. She may not want them, but I'm going to store them in her mom's basement.
Bernice: (after a long silence) Are you really coming out here?
Garry: What in the world would make you think I wasn't.
Bernice: I don't know. Sometimes I just get the feeling you aren't coming.
Garry: I came out for Thanksgiving, Christmas and spring break didn't I?
Bernice: I know but that's not the same as coming out here for good.
Garry: I am coming out there for good. I'm coming out there for the rest of my life. It's all I've thought about for nine months. You just be ready for me. I'm gonna want to hug you for a week at least. Ok?
Bernice: (Sounding small and far away) Ok, honey.

October 1997
There is a cool breeze on the patio and Bernice and I have been planning our birthday month celebrations. All of a sudden Bernice interrupts the flow.
Bernice: Oh wait. There's something I've been meaning to show you. (She scurries into the house and in minutes returns holding a book of some kind)
Garry: What you got there?
Bernice: I've got this lovely diary that Ellie (sister) gave me right after you left to go back to Detroit. I want you to look at it.
Garry: Sure. (I take the book and see the inscription on the inside front cover) "You are starting a new life. Use this book to record your adventures."
Bernice: Wasn't that sweet of her?
Garry: (Hesitantly) But Sweetie, there is nothing in it.
Bernice: Oh yes there is. Look at the very first page.
On the front page in her quaintly irregular handwriting was the one and only entry in the diary. It read simply,
 "This has been the best year of my life"

Over the years I have often wondered how much or how little I contributed to the best year of her life, being absent for most of it.

Bernice and Garry: Honeymoon Vignettes and Snapshots

Business First: A Trust Issue
When I admitted to Bernice that I owed the Federal Government $10,000, she asked to take a look at my financial profile.
Bernice: Your finances are all (......) up!
Those of you who know Bernice can appreciate  how rarely she resorted to swear words. Sure as (....) got my attention.
Bernice: I could fix all this but we will have to have an agreement.
Garry: What kind of agreement?
Bernice: From here on, you have to turn any money you make over to me. That simple. I will use your money to pay down your IRS bill, make you an investment plan, and maybe get you a new car.
Garry: Isn't that kind of like Jesus feeding the multitudes with a loaf of bread?
Bernice: That's the other thing.
Garry: What?
Bernice: You can't ever question me.
I pretty much knew that my financial affairs were in the toilet, but I had always thought  I would someday get my shit together, either that or I would write a book or land a job that would pay me enough money to handle my excesses with a little something left over. I even had a back-up plan if none of this worked. Simply forgo worldly success and become a beach bum, a free soul spending his days communing with the waves on public beaches around the world. Living on peanut-butter & relish sandwiches. 
Not to mention, I'm a natural born Doubting Thomas and I reserve the right to question anybody I damn well please. Male pride had my foot halfway to my mouth before my Brain stepped in.

Brain: Hold up, bro. Let's look at the big picture here. You're pushing fifty. You owe the government. You have no savings, your TV show just vaporized, and your car leaks/burns a quart of oil a day. If you weren't living with Bernice, you wouldn't have a a pot to piss in. Take the Deal and Be Happy!

After the Brain's tirade my pride held out for another two minutes, during which I pretended to weigh my options. Bernice had already walked off, either to give me space or to avoid a display of male ego run amok.
Later at dinner-
Garry: So if I take you up on your offer, can I at least ask how I'm doing from time to time. You know, financially speaking?
Bernice: You will be doing fine. Don't worry about it.
Garry: Well, does anybody else have to know about this?
Bernice: Who would I tell?
Garry: People we know. Your family. My family.
Bernice: I don't talk about my own finances. Why should I talk about yours?
Garry: You talk finances with your sister Ellie.
Bernice: We play the stock market together. We loan each other money whenever one of us needs it. Short term, no questions asked kind of stuff.
Garry: (with a shrug) What have I got to lose. God knows I could use some help. Let's do this thing.
Bernice: This is not a rap tune, babe. "Let's do this thing," means you're ok with it? All of it?
Garry: I'm ok with it. All of it. Are you ok though? Seems like you're taking on a lot of headache.
Bernice: Small potatoes. Just keep your day job. And so you know, you're calling the IRS to work out a payment plan and this year you're filling out your own taxes.
(She must have read the panic on my face.)
Bernice: Ok, I'll help you. But you're doing most of the work, mister. 

Honeymoon Snap Shots & Vignettes
I refer to the following memories as the halcyon days of our life partnership. The tears these memories evoke, 14 months into my grieving, are those of gratitude, more so than pain. I humbly extend that gratitude to those of you who have helped me get to this place.

Home is the Hunter
I credit Bernice for a myriad of blessings. One in particular was a job upgrade. Soon after we met at my Tuesday/Thursday evening class at the library, Bernice became curious about what seemed to her an unusual work schedule.
Bernice: So let me get this straight. You travel between three GED sites a day...
Garry: And a half day on Friday.
Bernice: A half day at a totally different site.
Garry: Right.
Bernice: Sounds like you're in sales.
Garry: Sales?
Bernice: Well you travel around all week with your books and attendance materials in your car, just like a salesman with his product. I know you love to teach but doesn't all that moving around get old?
Garry: That's how adult ed works. At least for full-timers.
Bernice: Wouldn't you rather do all your teaching at one site?
Garry: Sure I would.
Bernice: Then why don't you?
Garry: I guess because the way the system works, the Adult Ed Department is mandated by the state to open up new sites to accommodate more students. Sites open up, instructors get assigned. It's a funding thing.
Bernice: So let the new teachers take on the new sites. I know how hard you work to keep your classes open. There must be some sites that have an AM/PM schedule. You could keep something like that going.
Garry: Look, every year, especially when winter hits, I ask my boss to bring me in out of the cold. Let me have a permanent site. And what I get is, "Be glad you've got a full schedule to begin with."
Bernice: Maybe you're asking the wrong person.
Garry: Who else would I ask. Her coordinators handle the site staffing and she has final approval. I'm already talking to the top dog.
Bernice: Maybe it's the wrong top dog.
Garry: Maybe you're barking up the wrong tree. Sorry, I couldn't resist.
Bernice: If anybody's barking up the wrong tree it's you. Your boss is not the only boss involved. Every one of your sites has a boss.
Garry: Ok.
Bernice: So why don't you talk to one of them about extending the GED classes to reach more of their clients?
Garry: I suppose, but I don't know if any of the sites could bear that much traffic.
Bernice: What about the that Automotive Training place? MC something.
Garry: Michigan Career Institute?
Bernice: According to you they've got a ton of students, and classes morning, noon, and night. You're already there four mornings a week.
Garry: (as the light goes on) You know, that's true. And not only that, but the director approached me the other day about teaching math and report writing to some of the MCI training staff. And if I could talk him into allowing neighborhood students access in the afternoons...
Bernice: Well there you go then. Problem solved.
And it was. Within a month I was assigned a full work week at the Michigan Career Institute. No more night classes and only a half day on Friday.

Breakfast With Bernice
Even though I had no regrets about leaving my former lifestyle in the rear view mirror, I did not immediately embrace Bernice's regimen, especially her pre-breakfast routine. For the first couple weeks the best I could do was watch in awe as every work-day at five bells sharp she slid out of bed, fell into her exercise togs, and clicked on her exercise video with the aplomb of a sleepwalker. Then it was a full hour of step aerobics followed by an hour of weight lifting and stretching.

I had trouble keeping up with the step aerobics and to this day I abhor stretching, so I would follow Bernice out of bed, stagger into my running gear and lite out for a run in the streets of Southfield. I never ran for more than an hour, so Bernice would still be going at it when I returned home. I filled the downtime before breakfast by luxuriating in really long showers in my very own bathroom.

Breakfast for Bernice was a cornucopia of fruit and cereal that would put a smile on Paul Bunyan's face. Over time I was able to match Bernice's zest for fitness, but I never managed to hold my own at the breakfast table.

Cultural Differences
Bernice and I shared a love of the arts. Just not necessarily the same arts. Some of our likes overlapped, performing arts such as dance and theatre, and of course, movies. But our musical tastes were generations apart. I cut my teeth on R&B and was serendipitously positioned to witness the birth of Rock & Roll in my early teens. Bernice grew up with the big bands, Glenn Miller, Harry James, Benny Goodman & the crooners, Bing Crosby, Tony Bennett, & Frank Sinatra.

Both of us branched out from the music of our youth. Different roots, different branches. Bernice got hooked on classical music and became an absolute opera maven. I dabbled in jazz, went gaga over folk music, and like Barbara Mandrell I can honestly say, "I was Country when Country wasn't cool."

How Far Apart Were We?
(sitting on the couch in Bernice's entertainment room)
Bernice: Got a question for you. My kids just laughed when I asked them.
Garry: And you think I won't laugh.
Bernice: Better not.
Garry: Lay it on me.
Bernice: Don't laugh.
Garry: I won't laugh. C'mon already.
Bernice: Ok, what is The Moody Blues?
Garry: (with a kindly chuckle) I'm not laughing. They're a rock band. English I think. Pretty big back in the 60's. Still goin' strong far as I know.
Bernice: Well why would my kids mention them around me? Then laugh because I didn't know.
Garry: (treading lightly) I can think of a couple of reasons. For one thing, the band was so popular your kids couldn't believe you never heard of them ...
Bernice: I was busy raising my family. Maybe I didn't have time to follow the new music.
Garry: (back peddling like crazy) Fair enough. But you didn't let me get to the other thing it might be.
Bernice: I'm listening.
Garry: You love classical music, right? Ok, well The Moody Blues sort of fused rock and roll with classical music. So the kids may have just figured you'd appreciate a sound like that.
Bernice: I'd appreciate you all understanding my situation better.
Garry: Don't put me in with the "all".
Bernice: Why not?
Garry: Because I'm sensitive to your situation: working, raising a family, having all those husbands...
Bernice: Watch it there Mr. sensitive. You're digging yourself a hole and I'm about ready to push you in.
Garry: I'm sure I don't know what that means.
Bernice: Oh really? Ok, who was it who went all crazy when I mispronounced that Bob Dylan's name because I never heard of him.
She had me there. All the poor girl had done was ask me who Bob Dylan was, but she pronounced the "y" as a long "i" as in "Dilan. Just as she said, I "went all crazy" by dropping to my knees and begging her to promise never to make this mistake in public for the sake of both our cultural reputations. I was just clowning, but In hindsight it was not my finest hour.
Bernice: You know what I think? (no pause for my response) I think you're all too smug for your own good. I got something to show you. Come in here. (She was headed to the living room and I could not follow fast enough)
Bernice: You see this? (She points to a massive, multi-vinyl album playing machine, probably an RCA and probably expensive at the time she bought it)
Bernice: I can put ten albums on there and listen to every one of them in an evening. And before I started hangin' around with you, I would do that a lot. (pause to let that to sink in) Now look here in this cabinet. (not waiting for me to comment on the handsome wood cabinets and plethora of albums.) These selves here are for classical and these over here are for opera. That's twenty years of music right there. And I don't just have the records. I've seen most of this music performed live, either in Michigan or Canada. I have favorite tunes from every one of these albums and when a hear one of those tunes on the radio or out someplace I can tell which composer or which opera it's from. Now how about you Mr. Culture. How many of these composers do you recognize? How many of these operas do you know anything about?
Garry: (shaking his head ruefully) I guess I only really know about popular music.
Bernice: (as close to exploding as I've ever seen her) And that's another thing. That "popular". You need to be more careful with your words. What you all are talking about is "current". The music I'm talking about is popular all over the world. Been popular for a long time. Hundreds of years some of it. And millions of people listen to it ever year. Millions of dollars are spent on symphony halls and opera houses to make sure this music is around for a long time. So you need to look at the fact that there is a ton of "popular" music you don't know a thing about.
Garry: (hammered and nailed) Yes mam.

Cultural Resolution #1
From film Pretty Woman (one of our faves): Richard Gere (Edward Lewis) to Julia Roberts (Vivien Ward) at a performance of La Traviata
"People's reaction to opera the first time they see it is often very dramatic; they either love it or hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul."

I would amend the Edward Lewis sentiment somewhat. Here's my version: whether you love opera or hate it depends a lot on who "brung ya" to your first opera experience.

Bernice had established herself as a volunteer usher at the renowned Masonic Temple long before we met, and she was not going to let a little thing like having a live-in boyfriend interrupt her habits. 
Bernice: (as we go up the steps to enter Masonic Temple) I think you're going to love this.
Garry: You mean "this" the opera or 'this" the ushering.
Bernice: I mean the whole thing. That's why I wanted to come early, so we can do a little exploring. This is a wonderful facility. I like it better than the Fisher Theatre. So much to see, the shows, the artists, artwork, the architecture
Garry: You're starting to sound like a docent.
Bernice: I could be. I've spent enough time here.
Garry: I'll bet you would be a terrific docent.
Bernice: You would be better at it than me. You like to get up in front of folks. We'll just have to educate you some. Might be a new line of work for you.
Garry: I just have to get through tonight first.

After a whirlwind tour of the facility we are passing through the lobby on our way to our pre-show briefing.
Garry: Wow, just look at these folks all gussied up. They look like pretty high rollers to me. I can imagine taking one of these guys to the wrong seat. He'd probably choke me with his cummerbund. And I'm sure that lady over there would swallow one of her Tiaras if I stepped on her toes.
Bernice: Get over how they dress. They are just people. Most of them are season ticket holders and they know where their seats are. Sometimes you get newcomers. All you have to do is help them find their row. Sometimes you get people in the wrong section. You just send them to the head usher and let him straight things out. You'll get the hang of it. What's really important is to keep your eye out for a couple of empty seats for us. Be looking for me when the curtain goes up. (pause) By the way, you look real nice in your coat and tie. First time I've seen you dressed up.
Garry: You should talk. I've never seen you in your usher outfit either. Navy Blue jacket over starched white shirt. Sharp as a blade. And with your glasses and hairdo, you got authority written all over you.
Later in the choice seats Bernice had scoped out.
Bernice: (whispering, her hand slipped into mine, our shoulders touching) This is La Traviata. My favorite. I'll tell you all about it at intermission.
Richard Gere, eat your heart out.

Cultural Resolution #2
It has been said that Negro League Baseball great Cool Papa Bell was so fast that he could enter a room, flick on the light switch and be in bed before the light came on.

Friday night, just after sunset, Bernice sitting alone atop the covers on her bed, beer in hand, primed for our big experiment; music piped into the darkened bedroom from Bernice's Big Music Machine in the living room. It's my turn to provide the culture for the evening, so Bernice is not sure what to expect. Somewhat reluctantly she has agreed to let me prime the Big Music Machine and I am in the living room doing just that. I chuckle like a cat burglar as I pluck five surprise albums that I have cleverly wedged into the gaps between her classical records. With the care of a jeweler, I load the albums onto the BMM's hold/release mechanism. As I press "Play" I wait just long enough to hear the unctuous sounds of a hydraulic system that would put Detroit's finest autos to shame, and then like Cool Papa Bell I run to reach Bernice before the first record drops.

Two hours later both the quaint little bedroom trash containers are full of beer cans, and the two of us are arms around shoulders, singing at the top of our lungs. Our musical fare has been modern country western music with offerings from the likes of Garth Brooks, Reba McEntire, Brooks and Dunn, and of course the Outlaws, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and Johnny Cash. My treat to Bernice, myself and the Big Music Machine, a cultural lube job for all of us.

Bernice: Oh hear it comes again. Our favorite. (Bernice belts out the lyrics in a Dylanesque style, under cutting the high notes, and raising the low notes an octave so she can get at 'em.) Come on babe, here comes the chorus:
"Mama's Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys 
Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such..." 

Sign of the times
Coming home to Bernice was always a treat. Always that effusive, crooked smile, a hug and some conversation. Plus I never tired of playing with the garage door opener. Usually I would cruise down the drive path in front of her place and hook a left into the garage I had already opened three blocks ago. Rarely did I glance to my right to observe the ornamental front yard.

In fact, the only time I remember making this glance was on a snowy day in December, 1995. As I hooked my left I glanced right and caught site of something sticking up in the yard. It was like suddenly getting a speck of dirt in your eye. You have to do something about it before you can can complete your routine. So instead of entering the house I walked around to the front yard to investigate.

Prior to this day I could have counted on one hand the events in my life that had totally upset my apple cart. What I saw upgraded the speck in my eye to a clod and informed me that from this day forward I would need two hands to count my major upsets. The Klu Klux Klan could not have struck a more fearsome symbol in that yard.

For Sale

Contact Owner

(Bernice's home & work numbers)

In my preoccupation with the speck in my eye that had become a dagger in my heart, I hadn't noticed that Bernice's sporty two door, white Honda Civic was nestled into its side of
 the garage. That meant that Bernice would most likely be waiting for me in the kitchen which is where we would wind down from our workdays. In my blackened mood I thought it a good thing that Bernice was doing the greeting on this night. If I had been home first our string of greeting smiles would have been severely frayed if not  broken.
Bernice: Hey there stranger. Welcome home. (That wide, crooked, heart rending smile)
Garry: Hey
Bernice: Hey? What's up, babe?
Garry: I don't know. You tell me.
Bernice: Nothing to tell here. Come over here. Give me my kiss and tell me what's on your mind.
Garry: I think it's more like, 'What's on your mind?'
(I'm leaning against the door frame.)
Bernice: I don't like the sounds of this. You better come sit down.
(This is where often the one arriving would swoop in, playfully sit on the other's lap, pull a face and grab a kiss. On my way to my chair I did none of the above.)
Garry: So when were you going to tell me?
Bernice: When was I going to tell you what?
Garry: I can't believe I'm the one who has to bring this up. You're the one who planted the (___ing ) sign in the yard.
Bernice: Oh, you saw the sign? Yeah, I put it out this morning. I guess you already left for work. Didn't get any calls though.
Garry: So you were going to just up and sell the house without even telling me?
Bernice: What are you so upset about?
Garry: I'm upset you're making some kind of major move here, and you didn't bother to tell me about it.
Bernice: I did tell you about it. I've been telling you all along. Ok, maybe not lately.
Garry: How could you have told me if I don't remember anything about it?
Bernice: Maybe you just don't pay attention to things I tell you.
Garry: I pay attention. Maybe you think you say things you don't say.
Bernice: Maybe you think you hear things you don't hear. (with the patience of Job) I started telling you when we first got together.
Garry: (losing patience) Telling me what?
Bernice: I told you that when I retired I wanted to move to Phoenix and live in the Anasazi complex where Ellie lives. I know I've told you I bought a couple of units there.
Garry: You told me you were going to move to Phoenix?
Bernice: Yes, after I retired.
Garry: You retired a month ago.
Bernice: And I figured it's about time to get a move on. I have to sell this place, maybe have an estate auction, and we have to find an apartment to live in if I sell before summer.
Garry: So you're selling the house and we're looking for an apartment? I know you didn't tell me that.
Bernice: You really don't remember my telling you what I planned to do when I retired?
Garry: Yeah, well maybe but that was a long time ago and you never said for sure. I don't remember any updates.
Bernice: I updated. Sometimes you only hear what you want to hear.
Garry: Maybe so, but I swear I didn't see this coming.
Bernice: I believe you. I get it now, why you're so upset. We probably should have talked about it more.
Garry: Well we're talking now, so let me see if I got this straight. You're selling this place and you and me are going to find an apartment together.
Bernice: Right.
Garry: So what about Phoenix? Are you going alone or am I coming with you?
Bernice: That part's up to you, babe.

Bernice and Garry: Dawn of the Honeymoon

An obelisk can be any object that when touched by two people can become a portal to their future together. author unknown

When Bernice and I met, we were both comfortable in our own skins, both avowedly single and free from any current romantic entanglements. Sparks flew from the first day we met and it was not long before we discovered that we were simpatico in all other ways we could measure. And yet we came from  altogether different worlds. I had lived in a Detroit neighborhood pocked marked with the poverty and drug trafficking that had filled the gaps left by the  massive "white flight" of the '70s and '80s. Bernice lived in the upscale community of neighboring Southfield. I had recently returned to teaching from one of my many artistic detours. Bernice was on the verge of retiring from a forty year medical career. Also, I was an admitted barfly. Bernice was not. It got down to this: Bernice was not about to hang out with a bunch of rounders, and I simply had no idea what Bernice's world consisted of, let alone how I would fit into it.

In hindsight it's obvious that a brand new world had to be created to include the new Bernice and Garry. I now know what the brand new world was like; I had the good fortune to live in it for twenty years. But how did the new world come about? And how did we transition into it? That's where it gets dicey. Whenever I think on it I get the same vision (more like a phone camera video).
Reality
The setting: A roped-off section of street outside an East Detroit neighborhood bar called Sharon's Place.
The people: Bernice and Garry along with a sizable assortment of bar folk buzzing about the prospects of
a) making a little money;
b) watching me make a fool out of myself;
c) catching a few drinks on the house just for coming out on a Sunday afternoon
The Scene: The crowd lines a short segment of street in front of Sharon's Place. The street itself is chalk marked in five yard increments ending at 50 yds. The 50 yd end mark represents the distance I have boasted I could throw a regulation football. It also matches the distance I once threw a football when I was sixteen years old on the varsity football team. The game, pick a distance and win some cash depending on how close I come to your mark.
The Action: Like a skinny, aging Joe Montana I'm standing with the ball dangling from a relaxed arm. I focus on the end mark. I imagine the ball in flight, I imagine the roar of the crowd when the ball bounces a good ten inches past the end mark. I start my run-up, I cock my arm...

How far I actually threw the ball on that day and the party that followed belong to the bar lore of long ago. The only thing I carried forward from those days is this unshakable bit of amateur cinematography, courtesy of my imagination.
Imaginary
Wide angle shot: Same scene, same action, same run-up, same cocking of the arm, only now when I release  the ball it arcs high above the city.
Long Shot: moving like a space shuttle the ball disappears into the atmosphere.
Switch frame: Bernice, alone on the grassy commons of her complex. She stands with arms reaching skyward and hands open to receive...what?
Long Shot: Holy goat-cheese, it's my football wreathed in fire as it re-enters the atmosphere.
Wide angle: A rocket is headed toward Bernice and she is acting like she is going to catch the damned thing with her bare hands. I'm helpless, maybe not even in the picture, "Get out of the way," I scream. Faster and faster comes the sphere. Closer and closer to Bernice. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
Close shot of Bernice's arms and hands: The ball is on her...but wait, the flame has disappeared and I hear the plop of a well thrown football as it strikes a seasoned receivers hands? Cold leather on cool skin. Bernice makes a perfect catch...
Wide angle to include me twenty yards from Bernice:  ...and only then does she acknowledge me, turning and firing a perfect spiral in my direction. I catch the ball and the game of our life is on.

That orange football was our obelisk, our portal into the new world of Bernice and Garry. And like any self-respecting obelisk, it was there from the very beginning.

The Back Story
Very early in our relationship, before it became a foregone conclusion that I would be spending my Sundays with Bernice, I extended my barfly persona for a few more Sunday's at Sharon's Place, a watering hole for bikers, retirees, homies and Monday Night Football fans. It was there that I hatched a plan to bring purpose and joy into the lives of my fellow bar folk, mainly because I had great affection for them and wanted to leave them a piece of me. An appreciation thing I guess. For I knew I couldn't keep them and still move forward with Bernice.

I drew my inspiration from two of my all-time favorite movies, Cool Hand Luke and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Key plot points in both those movies was the uttering of an impossible boast designed to bring the other characters out of themselves long enough to engage in a communal activity. An activity that focused on the raw core of the human condition, chance and hope. Paul Newman (Luke) betting he could eat fifty hard boiled eggs. Jack Nicholson (McMurphy) betting he could escape the asylum by throwing a massive marble plumbing fixture through the window.
Garry:  I bet I could throw a football 50 yards!
Barfly's: (hoots of derision)
Cuz: (Cuz was a good 280 pounds of bad-ass with a wry wit and a heart of gold) What-the-hell do any you guys know? Any you ever played football?

Barfly#1: Don't have to play football to know a skinny runt when you see one.
Barfly#2: What, you think we don't know football? Fifty yards is half a football field. The pros can't even do it half the time. No way he even comes close. No offense, 'Teach'. (term of endearment reserved for anyone who had even walked through a classroom since puberty).
Cuz: I think he can do it. He played high school ball. He runs all the time. He's in shape.
Barfly#3: He's 40 years old if he's a day. Get the (bleep) outta here. (I was 48 at the time)
Barfly#4: (AKA bald-headed Jimmy) I don't think he could throw a softball fifty yards.

We amble further down the bar out of earshot. Cuz is smiling.
Cuz: I knew they'd take the bait. And nobody else would believe you could throw a ball that far either. Can you even throw a spiral?
Garry: Thanks for the confidence dude. But yeah, I can throw. Don't know how far but I fool around with my kids all the time. Even taught my daughter how to throw a perfect spiral. She's got a rocket launcher for an arm. It's in the genes.
Cuz: Man, we need to get Sharon (proprietor) in on this. We could make an event out of you. Spread the word, get some bets down. We set the date for the big toss two, three Sundays from now and we push it. "The mighty Teach goes for fifty!" On the big Sunday we get folks in here drinkin', get us a pool goin'. Sharon makes some money and me and you drink free for a while. We might even get a 50/50 raffle going. Whaddaya say pal, you up for this?
Garry: Up like a sailor's yard arm. One problem though
Cuz: What?
Garry: I don't own a football.
Cuz: So buy one. You can autograph it. We could probably raffle that puppy off too.
(Pause for reflection)
Cuz: Two things I can think of. One, you gotta have a team. You know, like the real jocks-a manager, a trainer, training partners.
Garry: Well Bernice could be my manager. If I could talk her into spending a Sunday afternoon in a bar. You could be my trainer. Don't know about training partners.
(More pause for reflection)
Cuz: Here's what we do. It may cost you some beers, but we get two, three of the regulars to play catch with you out in the parking lot, say three times a week. I know bald-headed Jimmy still plays softball. Oh, here's a good one, Dart Bitch (self induced nickname for one of Sharon's bartenders) is tomboy as hell. Guys would love to watch her jumpin' around in that tight skirt. Then I could work you out some. Talk shit about your technique if anybody's watchin'.
Garry: You said two. What's the other thing?
Cuz: A trophy, you need to receive a trophy.
Garry: So go buy me a trophy.
Cuz: I'm thinking I should steal you one. You know, like Marlon Brando's boys did for him in the Wild Ones? (Did I mention Cuz rode a Harley Sportser?)

Bernice took it upon herself to buy me a football on her way home one evening. Why she bought an orange ball I'll never know, but at least it was regulation size. She wrote our names on the ball and put the big event on her calendar. On the anointed Sunday she rode over to the bar with me and cheered me on. When she figured I'd had enough to drink at the after-party, she took the keys and drove us home. Neither of us ever looked back.

But our orange obelisk stayed with us like a member of the family. We played catch nearly every evening after work. We did hundreds of road races, playing catch before the starter's horn blast. Any able bodied family member, sisters, kids, cousins had to have a catch whenever they came over. It was the first thing to be packed when we went on vacation. It helped me bond with Bernice's grandchildren. Much later in Phoenix, Bernice and I would beat the summer heat by tossing the ball in our condo pool. To this day when I'm blue I'll throw a football around, either with a friend or by myself. It keeps me connected to Bernice and helps me move forward with my life at the same time. 

Post Script: I did receive a trophy for my effort, a softball encrypted with these words "to the Mighty Teach, U shouldda thrown a softball" and signed by a score of bar friends. I still have the trophy.

Hall of Famers Among Us

One of the themes of this blog is that running will make better people out of us. I would like to share the stories of two exemplary runners it has been my privilege to know, train and compete with.

Over the years, the Arizona Senior Olympics along with the Arizona Masters Track & Field venues have crowned many state champions and ushered through many potential National and World champions. Rarely, however, have we had two Hall of Fame Athletes step onto the same track to contest the same event. Enter Jack Rickard (75-79 age group) and Dave Doerrer (70-74 age group).
Although competing in different age groups, these two luminaries are set to toe the line for glory in the gruelling 400-meter run. Like many older athletes of their ilk they each bring to the line stories of dedication to their sport, laudatory professional lives, and significant contributions to their fellow man. 

Halls of Fame
Jack Athletic Hall of Fame for Track & Field for The College of Emporia, Kansas
Dave The Arizona Track Coaches Hall of Fame

Championship Credentials
Jack current Arizona Olympics 200 and 400-meter champion (age group 75-79) also 400-meter champion in 1997, 2002, 2003, 2007
Dave Gold medal winner at the USA Masters Track & Field Championships in both the 400-meter hurdles and the decathlon.

Jack and Dave in their own words
RFYL: You both have so many accomplishments. Name one you are proud of.
Dave In 1973 I took over the Thunderbird Invitational, the oldest high school cross country meet in the state with usually over 500 participants. (Dave ran this meet until after he retired.)
Jack My sprint medley relay team set a national small college record ath the Kansas University Relays.

RFYL: What made you decide to be a runner?
Jack: When I was eleven and twelve years old we lived on a farm west of town. There was a high hill on the road and everday I ran up that hill imagining that several pretty girls from town were standing at the finish line cheering me on..."
Dave In 7th and 8th grade I was better at the warm up laps we ran before basketball pratice than I was at playing basketball. Darn! I still think playing basketball is more fun than just running.

RFYL: Who had the most influence on your running?
Jack Andy Hornbaker in high school, my friend who was a senior state miler when I was a freshman. He took time to run with me and to give constant encouragement. Unusual for a senior to do that with a freshman.
Dave Dale Torrence, my (HS) track and cross-country coach. He had a way of inspiring us with clever visuals. I remember him saying, often, "Doerrer get out of that 'Sheep herder shuffle.'"

RFYL:You have both dedicated your lives to education Can you share some of your experiences with young peopl?
Jack One of the highest compliments I ever recieved came from Dr Jeff Messer, the girl's cross country coach at Xavier (three state championships in a row) who told me that I was an inspiration to the girls. We had been running on the same Central High track at 5 am each morning for workouts whn the girls were not running the canals.
Dave I've coached a lot of great kids, some with outstanding talent. Helping them develop personally and athletically has been very rewarding. One of my student athletes even coached our Olympic track team!

RFYL: What makes a successful runner?
Jack With running you have to be self-motivated. It is very important to set goals, maybe more important as you grow older. It helps to have work-out partners when you can. It is also very important to take time off to heal an injury and not run through it like saome runners are inclined to do.
Dave Setting goals, working hard to reach those goals, coming back after getting your butt kicked or an injury. Life is a lot like athletics

RFYL: What advice do you have for remaining healthy after age 70?
Jack Good diet, strong training program. And keeping a positive mental attitude to combat the frustrations of aging. Setting goals is also very important.
Dave Good nutrition, fellowship, setting goals, and light beer.

RFYL: Setting goals seems to be a theme with both of you. What are your goals for the future?
Jack to complete three books, a trilogy of the Great Plains, and various art projects
Dave Spend more time creating memories for/with my wife Marge and my 11 grand kids!

RFYL: When will you hang up the spikes?
Jack To paraphrase Yossarian in Catch-22, I'm going to run forever or die trying.
Dave Play as long as it's fun

RFYL: For those who may not know, what is it like running a 400 meter race?
Dave I used to say run until you get tired then gut it out for the final 100 meters. Now when I get tired I'm only half way through.
Jack It's like deliberately making yourself throw up. Only those people who have a thing about self-punishment and pain run that race.

RFYL: I did ask both Jack and Dave if they would like to run the NYCMarathon with me. They declined.

Final Comment
As our elder statesman in the pursuit of a healthy lifestyle we will give Jack the last word.

I consider running to be my lifelong endeavour. I don't ever intend to stop. I'm continually amazed how the human body adapts and how one can gain physical strength at any age. The benefits of physical activity are well documented. Life is a Joy. We celebrate it by running.

Notes on Grieving: You Can Go Home Again

It is summer, 1996. Bernice and I are driving her stuffed-to-the-gills Tarus on our way to our new life in Phoenix. After an interminable drive through flat-ass, farm-riddled Kansas we had holed up at the Tucumcari Holiday Inn. We arrived there after dark and set our alarm for four bells next morning. It was still dark when we drank our fist coffee on the road. Since we are both from the midwest we were still feeling like we had been driving forever without getting anywhere. That was about to change.

As the dawn broke slowly we peered out at some pretty errie structures. Nothing new about that, cornfields and barns and silos can look pretty eerie in the pre-dawn. But as the dark gave way to light and color we found oursleves driving straight into sunrise on the Sonoran Desert. The world had changed before our eyes. At first we could only marvel at the outrageous bolder configurations, the red desert clay and the "Wow, would you look at those monster (Sajuaro) Cactus." It was serendipitous that Bernice was driving becuase suddenly I was hit with a zolt from the past. Suddenly I am seven years old the summer before my dad died. He is telling me probably the last story about his time out west as a young man. As I listen to him I'm daydreaming about being a cowboy just like he was. The boy is now a fifty-four years old man who has harbored the dream of moving west forty-seven of those years. "Baby," I said through tears, "this may sound strange, but we are out west and I feel like I'm finally home."
 

My life partner, Bernice Betty Wagner, died on February 17, 2011. I am in my thirteenth month of grieving. In my journey I have not yet become whole, but I have changed. I recently attempted to describe this change through a letter to a woman I met in one of my grief counseling sessions. She had recently lost her mother. Through talking to each other about our losses, we became friends. I have her permission, as well as that of my two good friends Paul and Deanna, to share this letter with you.

 

Dear Teena, 

Just got home from my jeep ride through the Tonto National Park with Paul and Deanna. Thought you'd like to hear the story.

As the jeep rambles over daunting terrain, Paul and Deanna are like the kids in Jurassic Park when they saw their first prehistoric creatures. They, P & D, marveled at the dense desert foliage and the other-worldly rock formations. They kept asking, didn't I think it was striking, awe-inspiring. Later we sat outside their camper and watched the sunset. Again the questions, didn't I think it was spectacular, could there be anything more beautiful than the sun disappearing behind a pristine desert horizon. I responded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. But my mind was elsewhere.

It was just last summer (2011) and I had driven up to Flagstaff to spend a couple of days hanging with my writer friend Dan who had found means to escape the valley heat, a cheap hotel with a hell of a view of the San Francisco Peaks. I mention this because Dan was doing a lot of self-congratulatory expositories on his cleverness, beating the heat, getting a steal on the motel rooms, landing us a view that would rival any in the state.

First chance I got I wandered off alone, surveyed the mighty mountains, the more immediate pine forest, and the quaintness of Flagstaff from the edge. It all looked like the set of an old "B" western movie gaudily dressed in technicolor. For fifteen years, Bernice and I roamed the state in a mad love affair with its mountains and deserts. Standing in the motel parking lot in Flagstaff, I simply could not remember what all the fuss was about. I wasn't jaded. I was grieving. Love of a person, love of a place-when one is gone the other follows leaving hurt and apathy in the wake.

Not that I didn't appreciate Paul and Deanna's enthusiasm for the Park. It was the type of reaction that Bernice and I always expected when showing our guests the grandeaur that we lived in. It just that I was hearing them and not hearing them. Feeling them and not feeling them. Sharing and not sharing. My emotions were coming from the same source and not the same source. They reveled in the finding of this world, I reveled in returning to it. It has been so long since I could appreciate my land, my state, my home.

I stayed for dinner and we talked the evening away, telling of our struggles, laughing at our foibles. Paul is every bit as irreverent as I am. Deanna keeps him in line, more or less. They compliment each other. I love them and cherish the time I spend in thier company.

As always, thanks for listening

Garry 

Bernice and Garry: Love Finds a Home

February 17, 2012 marks the one year anniversary of the passing of my beloved Bernice. This post will begin with Bernice Remembered, a collection of love notes celebrating her life. After the love notes comes the latest Bernice and Garry episode, Love Finds a Home
 

Bernice Remembered

From Zach Perry, grandson

Hi Garry,
I hope you are doing well today on such an emotional day. I wanted to just share a small blurb about our grand canyon trip. I really enjoyed it very much and have indelible memories of not only Grammy but of you as well. I'm glad we all were able to spend so much time together as a family and am truly glad that we are able to still have an awesome relationship even through her passing. I hope today is not just a day of sadness but also another celebration of our time with Grammy here. I love you very much.

From Garrett Winters, grandson
Many, and maybe even most, of the best memories in my life so far
involve Grammy. If I were to go to my happy place in my mind, I
undoubtedly go to where I feel most at home: 4303 E Cactus Rd, 148B
#8, sitting on the porch in the sun with Grammy. The smell of freshly
cut grass and coffee is in the air, and we are watching hummingbirds
darting around the yard, and drinking from the feeder. In the
mornings, whether she was visiting us, or we were visiting there, I
would always climb into bed with her in the mornings, and we'd cuddle
and talk, or watch the sun rise over the golf course. Even in my
teens, when I felt that I was too 'mature' to do the same with my
parents, I never thought twice about cuddling up with Grammy in the
morning. I was always welcome, and always loved. I love you and miss
you Grammy. You will be in my heart forever.

From John Koze, brother-in-law

Here's my words for Bernice:

"What a stellar sister-in-law. I always felt comfortable talking and being with her and thoroughly enjoyed her calm demeanour and strength."

 

From Karen Koze, sister

My sister was such a wonderful person and such a great sister! I think of her every day and remember her laughter and her great sense of humor.  She was like a mother to me and a sister and a friend all in one. She left behind such wonderful children and grandchildren and a loving partner who adored her. She was my inspiration for keeping in shape and working out to Jane Fonda back in the day!!! I love her and miss her.

Karen
 

From Sandi Hill, daughter

Mom - I miss you everyday - I think of you often - I want call you when I'm having a bad day and equally when I'm having a good day. You've inspired me to be a better person, mom and friend. I LOVE YOU!

 

From Ellen Perry, daughter

So many things run through my mind when I think of Mom.

Little things I miss; Sunday morning in her bed with coffee watching Money Talk

Tuna sandwiches for lunch

reading the paper on the back patio

Friday nights at Eli's

The way she would rub my back and my hair when I layed in her lap while she read her book

Hearing her say "hi babe how ya doing?" when I was traveling

Spa day
A lazy week in the Florida Keys on the beach with her drinking rum runners at the tiki bar

walking the golf course in the days when she was faster than me

Having her try to explain the stock market to me, and I never did get it.

Her brilliant mind, even near the end, when she wasnt sure what year it was, she could still ask how the market was doing.

I miss her every day. The piercing pain is gone and in its place is an empty space. I try to fill that space with good memories.

I love you Mom. 

 

From Patti Winters, daughter

Quiet

Advisor

Watching

Hesitant

Strong

Friend

I miss you

Charles Tait, brother (as told by Garry Cox)

I first met Charles (Chuck) back in Southfield, MI. This may have been the first time I was introduced at a family gathering. Of course I was nervous. Especially about meeting Chuck. Maybe because he was so much taller than me. I was much relieved that Chuck turned out to be an amiable, witty guy whose company I came to enjoy. However, I did get one admonishment from Chuck, one that would last the rest of Bernice’s life. As he was leaving he shook my hand, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “Take care of my sister.”

 

Over the years Chuck visited us often in our home in Phoenix. Not once did he leave without saying, “Take care of my sister.” 

I did the very best I could, Chuck. Thank you for your friendship. 

Love finds a home
Dialogue for a long distance Love Affair
Bernice: How was your day?

Garry: A day. How was yours?

Bernice: Same. What you got up tonight?

Garry: Boozing. Trolling for women. You?

Bernice: My boyfriend’s coming over.

Garry: Don’t let him drink my beer. (Pause) Miss me Sweetie?

Bernice: Sweetie? From Mr. Romantic, Mr. Shakespeare I get Sweety?

Garry: Is that a yes or a no?

Bernice: It’s a yes but you don’t deserve it.

Garry: So tell me how you’re going to miss me.

Bernice: You serious?

Garry: Like a starched shirt on Sunday.

Bernice: I don’t know. Ok, so maybe I can’t stop thinking about you and I toss and turn all night.

Garry: Now you’re talking!

Bernice: You’d better be doing some tossing and turning yourself, babe. Alone.

Garry: You got it kid.

Bernice: You better! (Pause) Hey, call me if you can’t sleep.

According to the online almanac, Michigan is not a sunshine state. Witness Detroit in March. The almanac credits Detroit and Wayne County with thirteen days “with sun” and eighteen days “with cloud”. I had never paid much attention to the weather until the KISS that turned me into a zealous Week-end Warrior, living and working in the city and spending weekends with Bernice at her place.

Detroit in March, 1992 featured an inexplicable symmetry consisting of a most curious ratio of sunny to cloudy days. In any given week the “days with sun” began promptly at noon on Friday and ended at dusk on Sunday. Monday thru Thursday however, were not “days with clouds”, they were flat out cloudy. And wet and gloomy to boot.  

But weather, like real estate, is all about location, location, location. I spent the sunny days with Bernice at her home in Southfield, and I languished in Clyde’s closet over the cloudy days.  

Friday’s, any time after we both got home from work, were most satisfying. Seeing her smile. Re-uniting after an interminable separation. Hugs. Home cooked meals. Watching re-runs of Northern Exposure. A Pistons game if I got lucky. Later getting very lucky.  

But Saturday’s took the weekend sweepstakes hands down.  For openers, we made it a point to never get out of bed before 10:00 am. And then just to get our first cup of coffee and bring it back to bed. It was no easy task, hiding under the covers as the sun flooded our bedroom in vain attempt to ferret us out. We would spend the last half hour in oxygen debt brought on by poking, tickling and giggling. 

Upon the final shucking of covers we would head for the kitchen for our ritual team breakfast. Team Bagel was our moniker. Running and power walking was our game. We even had matching warm-up suits, nylon-polyester, black with green trim. Very smart. As you might expect our training table restricted us to bagels, orange juice and additional coffee as needed.

Despite our lollygagging, we usually hit the Kensington Park about noon. By the first March of our relationship, we had already adopted the park as our personal playground. Although over time we drove, ran, or walked around the entire Park, we were especially keen on the lake path that circumscribed Lake Kensington in a precisely measured 8-mile loop. The two salient features of the path were its hills and its well-defined mile markers. The hills ranged from moderate to extreme with overlooks that allowed for observations of path traffic below. The mile markers, including corresponding half mile marks, were well maintained, always easy to read.

Both of us were more free, more our true selves on that path than either of us had ever been before. The only fly in the soup was the time factor. Although later, after we moved to Phoenix, we both became avid hikers and runners, the Kensington days found us totally compartmentalized. I ran and Bernice power walked and never the twain did meet.

The challenge: how did we both do our thing and still complete our workouts at the same time in the same place, neither of us left waiting too long? I didn’t have a clue. All I knew was that I wanted every inch of that 8 mile loop every time I set foot on the path. With my intractable position in mind Bernice came up with a plan.

She had already observed that I ran approximately twice as fast as she power walked.  That’s with both of us operating at peak efficiency. She concluded that she could stride out two miles and then back, giving her a four-mile workout. Given our 2:1 speed ratio, I could run the eight miles around the lake, arriving at our starting point within a few minutes of Bernice. At least that’s what we told ourselves. In hindsight, I don’t remember ever getting back first. Bernice was always sitting there waiting on me. And she was always coy about how long she may have been sitting there. I never doubted that she had done her miles. I just wondered, how fast is she?

The say timing is everything, but I believe without the aide of location, not so much.  It was the convergence of these two elements, a sunny Saturday in March and a specific point on the Kensington running path, that produced the visual that became my all-time signature image of Bernice.

As per Bernice’s plan, we attacked the path together. Me leading, not expecting to see Bernice again for another hour. I’m running freely, climbing easily. Feeling maybe a tad superior to anyone who can’t match my pace. I had just climbed a long, steep but gradually curved section when I hit a switchback that caused me to corkscrew towards the direction I had come from. Had to be somewhere in the first mile. As I was turning back I glanced down at a figure attacking the long slope with a vengeance. I slowed for a refocus and almost tripped at what I saw. It was Bernice. Shoulders back, head up, hands pumping high, elbows swinging back and deep. Long legs eating real estate like their lives depended on it. A woman having a blast with her own strength and mobility.  

And that was only her body. Her apparel totally matched her physical efforts.  Still wearing her blonde Fro, she sported a bright blue headband, wide and ribbed, sweeping from her forehead, over her ears, and knotted stylishly in the back. Form fitting running slacks. And then there was the jacket. Nylon. Tight on the body, a bit puffy in the sleeves, tucked tightly around the waist. The colors? To be honest I have never been able to account for all the swatches of vibrant colors. The closest I can come is from my six year old imagination of what the biblical Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors looked like. What a wondrous coat that must have been!   

I got lost in her for a time. In fact, the moment I turned to hightail it on to the next hill, I was in danger of being run down by a power walker. But also in that moment I heard myself say, “I can’t believe she’s my girlfriend. This beautiful, absolute force of nature is my girlfriend.”

Post Kensington, back at Bernice’s spacious condo. Almost as soon as I started commuting and staying over for weekends, I was afforded luxuries I was not used to. I had my own bathroom, which I used. My own bed, which I did not use. My own spot in the attached two-car garage. My own garage door opener.  My own computer located in a little office Bernice set up fore me in her full basement. She claimed she had clipped the computer from one of her Doctors. I liked the idea of clipping it more than I liked the computer. Doss was so not my thing.

I’ll never know now whether Bernice was thinking maybe I was taking these things too much for granted, or whether she just wanted a relationship upgrade. Either way it was probably a good thing she asked me to sit down with the beer I had just helped myself to. Usually I don’t care to be asked to sit since I can pretty much do so without being bid. This time I didn’t mind. My danger antennae didn’t register any eminent discomfort. So I’m sitting and Bernice is standing and I can see her wheels turning. Then abruptly she opens the refrigerator door and uncharacteristically fetches a beer out for herself. She squares her chair off with mine. Sits and just looks at me for a moment. Did I tell you at one time she had sat a mean chair in her poker club? What happened to the folded hands on the table gambit, I wondered. This was before I learned that she never made the same move twice, in anything.

Bernice: I’m just wondering about something.

Garry: (to self) WHAAAAT????

Bernice: Well, I’ve just been thinking…

Garry: (to self) I’m not jumping this pause for all the rice in China.

Bernice: Ok, you know you’ve been staying here every weekend for, what, a month or two.

Garry: (To self) Not good.

Bernice: You already have access to the house whether I’m here or not.  

Believe it or not, at that moment I actually shot past Bernice. I knew exactly where she was going with this. Not more than a week ago my friend/landlord Clyde and I were sitting around…sharing…ok we were doing what most ex hippies back in the early nineties did on a slow night. 

Clyde: So what do you and Bernice have up for this weekend?

Garry: Not much. You know, Kensington, maybe a movie. I think we might be starting ballroom dancing.

Clyde: So when are you leaving?

Garry: Friday, like usual.

Clyde: No, I mean when are you leaving here? 

 

I must have given him a puzzled look because he didn’t wait very long for me to answer. 

Clyde: Don’t play innocent. You know what I’m talking about.

Garry: Ok, I know what you’re talking about but I don’t want you to know I know.

Clyde: I swear to God, you’re just like all the rest of them. (ordinarily Clyde is not one to be cute or beat around the bush-?)

Garry: Who all the rest?

Clyde: Roommates. You think I don’t see the signs.

Garry: The signs?

Clyde: The signs that tell me I’m losing another roommate. The signs that tell me you are moving in with Bernice.

Garry: Why do you say that?

Clyde: Why is your business. I just know you’re about to do it. 

 

I had barely cycled the event byte through when Bernice popped her beer open and took a quick swig. 

Bernice: I’m just thinking you might as well move in full time. You’re already here. You clothes are in the closet. Your oil slick waiting-to-happen is parked in my garage. 

I don’t know how many swigs either of us took before I answered.  

Garry: Have to admit, you’ve made me very comfortable here. (slight pause) I could do that. Matter of fact, I would like very much to live with you. (slighter pause) I feel like, I don’t know…I feel like it’s an honor you asked me. Thank you.” 

Since that day I have never said an unkind word about either the month of March or the city of Detroit. For the same reason I’ve always known that almanacs are a bunch of hooey.

The sun shines when and where you want it to. Trust me on that.