LETTERS FROM HOME: LOVE HAPPENS

Feb. 10, 1994

Dear Diane,

Seven months ago I went to my 25th high school reunion to write a story about it for the hometown newspaper. As I walked in the Knights of Columbus Hall, a small group of people was at the entrance talking. Among them was a pretty, sweet girl -- now a woman -- I'd loved since the ninth grade. Only she never knew it. We had an English class together that year and both of us were in the band, but that was all. No dates, no love notes. I do recall a couple of heart-stirring smiles.

Through the years, I now realize, I'd somehow always kept track of where she was -- California, like me -- while never knowing or even questioning why.

Later that evening I saw her sitting somewhat alone and asked about her life in California. She had the same smile but a worried look around the eyes now. We discovered that during one recent period we had lived just seven miles apart in the Bay Area, going to the same shops and movie theaters. By the time of the reunion she had moved to the extreme northern part of the state not far from Eureka, another of my former homes. The conversation was short, though, because someone else came up to talk to her.

We promised we'd pick it up later and I walked away, thinking that was nice, and that was that. But later she intercepted me as I was walking in the direction of the door. She said she wanted to make sure I wasn't leaving yet. I wasn't. We walked outside to talk more, and others joined in, but the desire for a private conversation took us to a picnic table some distance from the hall. It was as if we knew the time for small talk was over. We were still there when the lights were turned out and the final car drove off.

I said, "I can remember the moment I first saw you." I could tell she didn't know whether to believe me. At one point she moved to the other side of the table, and I don't think she was kidding when she asked if I was a stalker.

At another point I mysteriously blurted out, "Can you imagine yourself married to me?" She said, "Maybe."

Less than two months later she said, "I do."

It was a fiber-optic courtship mostly, since we were living 1,500 miles apart. Some of our friends thought the excesses of the '60s had finally caught up to us. We had some two-hour conversations, often laced with doubt -- I saw where those worried eyes came from -- but finally we gave in to whatever magic had struck us.

DC must've wished on hundreds of shooting stars that August. I kept a smiling picture of her on my desk at work alongside a lucky 10-pound rock she'd sent from California.

Now I'm living with her in California, husband and wife, both of us for the first time. Before I leave Missouri I looked in my 1968 Central High School yearbook just to see if she'd signed it that graduation day. Sure enough, she'd wished me luck, "love, DC." Not much to foreshadow a marriage.

Shortly after arriving in California I was putting some of my books on a shelf when I noticed her high school yearbook. I knew I must have signed hers, too. Probably said, "To a far-out girl. Band was fun."

Instead it read: "If I forget everything else about Central, I'll remember the little girl with the big smile."

Love happens. Sooner or later.

I know, I should write more often. Happy Valentine's Day.

Sam