It’s a sunny, chilly, very windy day here in St. Simons, and I just came in from a long walk that reminded me of suppertime treks home from Adele’s Club in Park Slope, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. (Adele’s Club was an athletic club that met in Prospect Park after school). Those were the days… and 7th and 8th grade days were my favorites, particularly the ones when Peter and I were the only two left to share the last lap of the walk, and he’d linger on my stoop talking, acting like he never wanted to leave me. It was like we were magnetized to each other, with smiles on our faces. (Well yeah, self, that’s what attraction is like… Duh).
Several weeks ago an elementary school classmate of ours connected with me on Facebook asking, “Did you and Peter McCall ever get married? You two liked each other so much.” It was sweet – sweet to hear from her and sweet to hear from her with those words. We did like each other and after being married 45 years, rearing four daughters, and cavorting with nine grandchildren, we still do, more than ever, actually (most of the time).
Last night we were at a Super Bowl party and a woman I hardly know came over to me and said, loudly, so that the other four or five women there (whom I had just met) could definitely hear her, “ Let me tell you something, Cathy, if anything happens to you, there is going to be a line miles long to your house. No foolin’ ladies, her husband is so kind, and thoughtful, and sweet, every woman on this island is gonna be after him.”
And this is where my blog ends, because I don’t even want to think about it.