Had Me At The Plate

Fourteen years ago tomorrow, Jeff and I met walking at 6:30 a.m. on McCabe Golf Course with our puppies.  On that cold February morning, I left my condo at Parklane to walk Hunter in my pajama bottoms, warm coat, hat, mittens, and tennis shoes.  Teeth may not have gotten brushed in the early morning rush and glasses were a given as we hustled out the door – no time to put my contacts in as Hunter chomped at the bit to get in his morning walk about.  We needed to get out early before any golfers were there to catch us or complain . . .

As we made our way through the parking lot and toward the golf course clubhouse, Hunter pulled on the retractable leash until it snapped and would go no further.  “Hurry, Mom, hurry!” his enthusiasm and energy begged.  We headed for the cart path, our breath coming out in little cool puffs, frost glistening on the short blades of grass.  Below freezing the night before, the 35 degree morning is chilly though the sun is beginning to rise. No warmth has reached me yet; I walk faster, trying to keep up with Hunter’s mad pace.

The cart path skirts to both the left and right of the golf course but we head to the right this morning, in a counter clock-wise pattern.  Hunter sniffs each tree we pass and I pat my front pocket to feel for the Kroger bag I hope is there.  I hear the crinkle and feel the bag’s buoyant weight and am glad; no bad golf course steward award for me today.

My glasses fog up as the heat from my body escapes from the top of my coat.  I unzip my jacket to welcome some of the fresh air in – it feels crisp and clean and new.  We walk for about ten minutes and then Hunter begins to pull a little harder, his head and ears up high, searching the horizon.  We are far enough back on the golf course that I decide to let him off his leash for a bit.  I call him to me and make him sit though he’s about to burst with anticipation.

“Ahhhh!  Freedom!!!” he barks as I unhook the cold metal latch and off he charges – his compact, muscular, Labrador body looking effortless as he bounds up a small hill on the 16^th hole.  As I make my way up the small incline and crest the top, I see what Hunter is so excited about.  The cutest Golden Retriever puppy, maybe eight weeks old, is on the 16^th green, wiggling and smiling and a bit taken aback by Hunter’s full-throttle exuberance.  He is eight months old, strong, and much bigger than this little puff of love in front of me.  We are both immediately smitten by this sweet, sweet little one.  Hunter barks at her, gets down on his two front legs, rear in the air, as if to say, “Come on!  Let’s wrestle!!”  I crouch down to say hello and she wiggle-wiggle- wiggles over to me and nibbles on my mitten.  I laugh at her and then look up.

I see the owner – a tall man in a baseball hat and a green parka about 25  yards away.  He has a to-go coffee cup and I notice the steam escaping from the opening in the clear, morning chill.  He walks over to where the dogs and I are and says hello, formally introducing us to “Holly”. I must have complimented him on his precious puppy and he must have commented (note I did not say complimented!) on my effervescent, effusive, intense 8 month old toddler-puppy.  And then, we just started to walk . . . that morning, and for many mornings to come.  We’d meet close to the same spot at the same time and we’d walk and we’d talk and the dogs would chase and bark and wrestle and play.  Hunter was like a typical big brother sort – a bit of a playful bully who pushed Holly further than she sometimes needed to go; Holly was the do-nothing-wrong, adorable little sister no one could resist.

Two months after meeting Jeff and spending almost every day with him, I sat in my classroom grading my students as they did their sr. project presentations.  All of the sudden as I sat there, a poem came to me, and I started scribbling (while still trying to grade a presentation!).  This is what flowed from my heart to my pen that April morning:

Could I Tell You?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you not run?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not shadow our sun?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you not feel inclined,

            to return to me

            that one lovely line?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not seem a burden?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not seem too sudden?

Could I tell you I love you

            even though we don’t know

            where we’re headed, how we’re going,

            as we continue to grow.

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not be your cue

            to be anything more

            than authentically you?

Could I tell you I love you

            just to have you know

            how important you’ve been

            to the growth of my soul?

Could I tell you I love you

            in the middle of the night,

            as we lay breathing deeply

            as you hold me tight?

Could I tell you I love you

            in the early morning’s dawn,

            as you warmly lay next to me

            all my fear’s gone?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you believe what I say?

            And in saying it to you,

            may we live into that day.

            Where those three small words

            no longer need be weighed,

            where the boundaries do blur

            and the armor goes away.

            Where we openly and honestly say how we feel,

            Allowing our relationship to naturally unfold

            And our sails . . . to full unfurl.

Could I tell you?

That was at month two of our relationship, and the following December – after we’d been dating ten months – Jeff went home to Michigan with me for Christmas.  The first gift he gave me was a ceramic plate with a picture of a girl and a boy and two dogs on a golf course; at the bottom it had “February 21, 2000 – 6:30 a.m.”.  It was the picture of the day we met.  That he had gone to a ceramic studio and MADE.  As if that wasn’t absolutely perfect and totally enough, the next gift I opened was an Italy tour book with two tickets to Italy for my upcoming spring break in March – which he had researched and planned around . . . Are you kidding me???  I looked at him, touched his cheek and said, “You had me at the plate.”

But truly, he had me way before then.  And he has me still.  Fourteen years later and I am so grateful that we walked into each other’s lives that cold February morning.  Thankful for Hunter and Holly.  Thankful for our life together – our children – our good.  And our bright, bright future that continues to beckon as we walk toward it – hand-in-hand.

Could I tell you?