So now into the breach steps June, named for the Roman goddess Juno, queen of the gods and patron goddess of the Roman Empire, albeit better known as the goddess of marriage. June is the first month of true warmth for most of the Northern Hemisphere, 30 days of optimism and excitement, a festive occasion for the parade of brides which lines up on the beach to marry at the Summer Solstice. If Romance lives, it resides in June, where it plies its trade turning hearts of stone into buckets of mush, unskilled hacks into short-term poets and simple florists into millionaires.
Ah, Romance! Who is this mysterious character who lies dormant eleven months of the year, then turns up in June with bells on? Where does she get her mojo, her magic, her ability to infuse a relationship past friendship? A simple answer, really, but a complicated one, too. Romance understands the nature of the human heart, the secret desire of the mind to be swept up in a vortex of unique delights only available at a certain time, in a certain place. No one knows in advance at which stop Romance will depart the train, but everyone quickly recognizes her when she arrives.
Some people are favored by Romance, able to understand her ways better than others. Rebecca was a formidable figure in a Manhattan brokerage house, a miracle of face and form, but interested exclusively in business, in climbing the corporate ladder. Her prominent office was a fortress of stone and steel, that of an impersonal warrior, with not a whit dedicated to whimsy but for a small window alcove lightly festooned with suffering African violets given to Rebecca by her father, recently deceased. For several years, this wunderkind had fended off the advances of pursuers skilled and simple, famous and anonymous, in pursuit of her own Holy Grail.
Isaac was a new hiree of the firm, a quiet man of delicate sensibilities, talented at his work but reserved in nature, not one to make a fuss and be noticed. Alas, poor Isaac, the new kid on the block fell head over heels for the Queen of the Office, a target hopelessly out of his league. But where others proffered glittering gifts and lavished her with attention, Isaac barely acknowledged her at all. But what Isaac did was brilliant.
Noticing Rebecca’s failing efforts to save her fathers gift, Isaac went to the library and investigated the care and nurturing of African violets. He learned the soil must be kept moist and that the plants required room-temperature water. He discovered that the leaves were susceptible to rot if kept in high humidity, thus the violets must be watered from the bottom to avoid getting excess water on the leaves. He learned to dust dirt off the leaves with a small, soft brush. He read that the soil around the plants should be loose and well-drained and that high organic matter content is beneficial.
As the days passed, Rebecca’s violets perked up, got a new lease on life, sparkled. She was mystified, but one day arrived at an unusual hour and noticed Isaac at work. She said nothing but continued to observe the ever-increasing splendor of her tiny garden, which soon became the talk of the office. She had calculated Isaac’s plant care schedule by this time and finally interrupted him at his work, praising his competence and persistence. “What I would like to know,” Rebecca asked, smiling, “is why in the world you went to this much trouble?” And after all this time, you knew that Isaac would be prepared with the right answer. “I did it,” he said, “because I knew it would make you happy.” Rebecca, the stone maiden, the mistress of all she surveyed, took a step back, put her head in her hands and wept.
Georgia On My Mind
Opportunities for Romance abound if you, like Isaac, just look around. Most of the time they require some observation, a little work and exquisite timing. Romance usually arrives best when accompanied by the element of surprise.
Early in our relationship, Siobhan mentioned that she particularly liked the work of artist Georgia O’Keeffe. She’d been trying for days to find a print of O’Keeffe’s Red Poppy No.VI, with little luck, this being in pre-internet times. I tracked one down just a couple of days before we were to spend a night at St. Petersburg Beach, then had it framed and placed carefully in the trunk of my car. While she primped in our room to go to the beach, I went downstairs, allegedly to check the worthiness of the hotel restaurant for dinner. I found the perfect table in a little nook and told the maitre d’ my plan, which was greeted with excitement. I have found that people always like to be participants on these hallowed occasions and will do whatever it takes to help construct the perfect moment. We took down the painting above our table-to-be and replaced it with Red Poppy No. VI.
When we arrived for dinner, Siobhan noticed the O’Keeffe right away, while I barely acknowledged what she was talking about. She continued on, considering this quirk of Fate to be some kind of omen. Dinner was superb, and as we rose to leave, Siobhan told the waiter how much she enjoyed looking at the print while she dined. “Well,” he smiled, “if you like it that much, I’ll take it down for you.”
Siobhan was stunned at the offer and adamantly refused, at which point the maitre d’ came back with the painting which previously hung there and commenced to reinstall it. Everyone laughed as Siobhan finally realized the prize was really hers. She did not take a step back, put her head in her hands and weep but I think I detected a hint of mistiness in her eyes. With Siobhan, that’s as good as ringing the largest gong in China.
“I Thought You Might Like This Little Remembrance.”
A framed print is nice, a Tesla Model 3 downright engaging and the Kohinoor Diamond pushes generosity over the cliff, but how about gifting your main squeeze a Taj Mahal? Talk about one-upmanship.
In 1612, India’s Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan married the Persian princess Arjumand Banu Begum, and who could blame him? Mughal court poets claimed Arjumand’s beauty was so great that the moon hid its face in shame before her. Shah Jahan was enthralled at first sight and despite having two other wives he moved her to the head of the class, giving her the name ‘Mumtaz Mahal,’ meaning ‘jewel of the palace.’ A loyal and devoted wife, Begum accompanied her husband on various military campaigns and the couple rarely spent time apart.
In 1631, after 19 years of marriage, Mumtaz Mahal died giving birth to her 14th child, and who could blame her? Distraught at his powerlessness to help her, Shah Jahan made a deathbed promise to build his wife the greatest tomb the world had ever seen. The Shah threw himself into the project, summoning the best dome-builders, masons, painters, calligraphers and other artisans from far and near to work on the project. No expense, nary a painstaking detail was spared. Overall, it took 22,000 laborers more than 21 years to complete the epic monument. Mumtaz Mahal’s cenotaph stands at the perfect center of the symmetrical Taj. Upon his own death, Shah Jahan was placed alongside her. The Shah’s memorial is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, attracting millions every year. So far no one has outdone him, even Elon Musk.
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| On the set of Last Tango In Halifax |
Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? Nope.
A few of you may have seen the BBC television funfest, Last Tango in Halifax, in which a couple of ex-high school sweethearts in England find one another again in their seventies. The show goes on for several seasons but the early episodes are easily the best as the characters, Alan and Celia, fret over rapprochement, waffle about their decisions and finally meet and decide to pursue the relationship with reckless abandon. The high-spirited hijinks of the principals in the early shows carry the day, but the creators of the program also deal well with the fickle finger of Fate. Virtually all high-school couples eventually break up for a plethora of reasons, thank God, but in the case of Alan and Celia the catalyst was unique. Near the end of their senior years, Celia sent Alan a note via her best friend, asking him to meet her later in the day. The friend never delivered the message and a despondent Alan skulked off into his future, eventually marrying the evil friend, a union which had lasted decades until her recent death. Celia, of course, was unaware of all this until Alan related the sad story. Naturally, this gave everybody plenty to think on, mope over and get ticked about. The what-could-have-beens were falling on Alan and Celia’s heads every time they opened the closet.
Virtually all of us can relate. Who among us has not had a high-school or college sweetie who’s hard to forget, a co-inhabitant of an era where everything was new and shiny, where romance was a heady brew and with a person we thought might be by our side always? Maybe he or she is out there now, rampaging through Facebook, searching avidly for us at this very moment. Preposterous as it seems, this sort of business is going on all the time in contemporary life and on a few rare occasions it leads to fruition.
June Chapman was 16 years old when she met Eric Turner at the English aircraft factory where they worked. They became inseparable, dating for three years before Eric left their home town of Swindon, Wiltshire to begin his National Service. Letters were exchanged hot and heavy for awhile, but after a year or so the two lost touch. Over the next 50 years, they both married and were widowed before being reunited last year. Mr. Turner proposed in October.
June remembers “Eric and I met in 1950 and from the moment we began dating I knew we were made for each other. We had so much fun, he was always making me laugh. I never forgot about Eric. Every time I heard our song---‘Jealous Heart,’ by Connie Francis---I recalled the first time Eric kissed me.”
After her husband died of a stroke, June met an old friend and the two reminisced about their teenage years. “A couple of weeks later, I was serving at the bar when a voice I’d not heard for nearly 40 years asked me if there was a chance he could get a pint. I looked up and there was Eric. The hair was greyer and the face a little more wrinkled, but other than that he was just as handsome as ever.” After six months they moved in together. “Our relationship is just as passionate and physical as before,” June confessed, “but now we’ve lost all of our teenage inhibitions.”
Eric said that his first marriage was great, but his wife, Gwen, died of a heart attack at 58. “June was my first love and I never forgot her. When I saw her again, all the old feelings came rushing back. I wasn’t going to let her go a second time.”
Au Revoir, Mes Amours….
Sweet dreams be yours, dear,
If dreams there be,
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.
I wish they may and I wish they might,
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight.
(meredith willson)
That’s all, lovers….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
