Chapter 7 - The Girl On The Hill

College Park Maryland, 1961

My mom and Dad's love story wasn't always perfect.

It was a dance. My dad tells the story like a fairytale. - fate and destiny and having to work just a little bit to get the girl.

1961, University of Maryland.

Dad was walking across campus with a fraternity brother, laughing loudly, horsing around like a guy who was in the party frat with the nickname "Psycho" because his hands were huge and he wore leather gloves.

Then he looked down the hill and saw my mom.

He stopped mid-sentence.

The friend disappears, never to be heard of again.

In that moment, the world narrowed to one pretty girl playing badminton.

He went down the hill, approached and struck up a conversation with the pretty girl.

And then because my dad has always been a salesperson at heart and was always closing, he asked her to accompany him to Mass the next day.

The Catholic boy moves.

The "see, I'm serious" right out of the gate play.

My mom always starts the story later.

Mom's version begins with, "I had to make sure your father could dance."

Because in my mom's mind? Sure, she would go to church with you. She went to lots of places with lots of guys.

But if you were going to be her guy, there was a requirement.

You had to be able to dance.

They went out to a local bar. Everyone danced back then - nobody was glued to a phone, pretending to text while avoiding eye contact. There was music, there was dancing, and the men outnumbered the women.

Mom told him flat as a judge, "If you cannot dance well enough, I reserve the right to dance with other people".

That was my mom in one sentence.

Blunt, ready to have fun, but setting the terms.

And my dad became a student in how to dance with my mother.

He knew what he wanted.

He wanted my mom.

So, he learned how to dance.

I loved this part of the story because they would tell it together.

No doubt about who said what or what the outcome was.

And they could dance.

When those two took to a dance floor, they ruled the floor. They were in their own little world.

They were always better than everyone else. They didn't do complicated moves like you see some professional dancers. But they moved well.

They moved together. Holding hands and twirling around, doing their own little flourishes, but always coming back together.

I can close my eyes and see them dancing. Mom's hand on Dad's shoulder, his hand on her lower back. Their smiles.

They were happy, and it was like their joy in dancing could infect a room.

As a kid, watching my parents go out on a dance floor was like watching your team go out to dominate a competition in the Olympics.

Of course they are going to be the best.

Because this is where they belong.

People would stop talking, they would give them room on the dance floor.

I have my parents' music in me, but I don't know how to dance with a partner.

It's because my dad - the best dancer I know - never taught me.

He was already dancing with the perfect dancer.

I used to think it was the most romantic love I had ever seen.

Later, when the hospital visits started and he had to move, and the word guardianship came into our lives with an unwelcome dose of legal reality, I understood the cost of that single-minded devotion to one person.

It can make a man helpless.

Because when your dance partner leaves the floor, the person you built your entire life around isn't there anymore.

And you find yourself alone. But there is strength in reaching out for help and my dad found that strength.

And even as my mom slipped away,

He would always offer her a dance.