It was the summer of 2019. How did I get so old so fast?

I’m Greg Stevens. At the ripe old age of 66 and with time on my hands, I wandered into a Wednesday luncheon at the church where my wife and I started attending since we downsized to a 55+ community.

We moved mostly to be closer to my daughter and her family so we could help with the kids when needed. That’s where my wife was that day, so I decided to go to the luncheon stag. Being on my own was my chance to get closer to some folks in our new fellowship. When my wife was with me I never got to say too much.

Seriously, though, I was looking forward to the luncheon. My wife and I wanted to focus on building relationships with more folks our age, and there were a lot of nice people there amongst the crowd of about 70 seniors. We had only attended the church for a few weeks, so we didn’t know anyone and this was the first time either of us could take part in a church social event.

These monthly luncheons were for us old retired folks who have nothing better to do in the middle of the week. Strangely, the room made me feel young—probably because I barely met the minimum age requirement to attend.

I mingled a bit before I chose a random seat at one of the ten round tables that each held about eight people. Five other nice folks joined me as we heard the announcement that lunch was about to be served. Ken and Joanne Griffin were a lovely couple about my age that sat to my left. Across from me was Gloria Hill, a very pleasant older widow who I had guessed was in her mid-eighties. On my immediate right sat Bill Thompson, a single man, and next to him an equally single woman, Pat Newsom. They were, maybe, in their early seventies and they appeared quite interested in each other. Nothing like geriatric romance!

After the prayer, volunteers served a senior-friendly hot meal of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables. We were all here for the people and, for sure, not the food.

Pat and Bill appeared to be working up to dating, so they obviously had love on their minds. Pat decided to break the ice to get us all talking.

“Greg, I’ve noticed you and your wife in church, and you are really cute together. You both look like you’re really in love.”

For as long as my wife and I have been married we have been openly affectionate. We were always holding hands, or my arm was around her. We never shied away from opportunities to give each other little kisses or big ones for that matter. Face it—at 65 she was still hot—at least as far as I was concerned.

“Thanks, Pat, although she’s the cute one of the two of us. But, yes, we’re madly in love as if we were still teenagers or newlyweds.”

Ken’s wife, Joanne, took an interest in Pat’s comment. “Greg, is your wife joining us?”

“Not this time. She’s at my daughters taking care of the grandkids.”

Joanne continued, “That has to be a real joy for her. Grandchildren are such fun. I have to say, though, that I love how you describe your relationship as being like newlyweds. At our age, I don’t hear that often.”

Pat joined with a question. “Have you been married for a long time?”

“Oh yeah, but it’s still as fresh as if we met yesterday.”

Joanne continued her line of questioning. “I love a true romance story. How did you two meet?”

“Well, Joanne, that’s a long and winding story that could take up the whole afternoon.”

“Come on, Greg,” Pat begged as she shoved a bite of bland chicken in her mouth. “That sounds rather interesting. Let us hear it.”

“Yes,” Gloria added. “I’d love to hear it too.”

“Now, don’t get me wrong—I love to tell it. But it really is long, and I noticed the ladies here all want the story, but Bill and Ken look a little less interested.”

Wanting to impress his potential lady friend, Ken blurted out, “I’m interested in hearin’ about true love!”

Bill, not wanting to be the only uninterested guy at the table added, “I’m in. Tell us, Greg.”

“Okay, folks. I’ll tell it—but only on my terms. First, my wife tells it much better, so I need her to be with me. Second, I’ll only tell it over drinks and some decent food. If you are all available, say, Friday afternoon, we’ll meet at our place for drinks, then some good steak and grilled veggies. My wife will be home, and we can leisurely tell our tale.”

They all agreed, and we set the time. Pat offered to bring Gloria since she didn’t drive, and the plans were in motion.

We chatted about lighter subjects, pried into Ken and Pat’s budding relationship, learned more about Gloria’s departed husband, and watched Bill try to impose the same passion on his marriage as my wife and I enjoy. As our bland but pleasant lunch broke up, we said our goodbyes, exchanged a few numbers and headed for our homes.

I called my wife to let her know what I committed her to for that Friday, and she happily agreed. She said she’d be home by noon that day.

I arrived home, took care of our pets, and decided to sit in my rocker on the screened-in back porch to just enjoy the pleasant day. Before retirement, there wasn’t much opportunity to just sit. And without my wife there to give me lots of tasks to keep me busy, I decided to do—absolutely nothing.

I pondered the tale I knew so well to prepare for a ‘good telling’ when my new friends visited. I loved how our story came together. Although it wasn’t all pleasant memories, the end result was marrying the love of my life. After hours of blissful quiet, I fed our two hungry puppies, grabbed a sandwich for dinner, bored myself with summer replacement TV programming, and ‘couch-potatoed’ myself to sleep.

My new friends arrived on Friday afternoon with as much excitement as old people can muster, and gathered on my screened-in back porch. Other than Gloria, everyone wanted beer—my kind of people. Gloria, bless her soul, wanted single malt scotch on the rocks with a splash. She claimed it was what had kept her going for her 86 years.

Pat was the first to ask. “Where’s your lovely wife?”

“She needed to stay at my daughter’s a little longer, but she’ll be here by dinner. So you’re stuck with me telling the tale.”

After a few minutes of chit chat, Gloria brought us to the main subject. “Alright, Greg, we’ve waited long enough. Let’s hear this story.”

Everyone else murmured encouragement.

“Okay. Here we go. Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”

“Not Charles Dickens, your story, Greg.” Pat pretended not to be amused, although the others were chuckling.

“Okay, okay. To give you the whole flavor of our romance, it helps to know the details of my love life. I need to start back when I was a stupid kid. Like all dumb teenage boys, I followed the guided missile in my pants.”

Ken and Bill roared, while the ladies laughed with blushing cheeks.

“Sorry, but the guys know the truth. I had a few girlfriends and one or two less-than-professional sexual experiences, but basically, I struck out most of the time—also like most teenage boys. In the era of ‘free love,’ I basically struck out a lot. I assumed I was looking for the wrong kind of love in all the wrong places.

This was in the late 1960’s, so the Vietnam War and the draft were still real threats for boys my age. I knew I needed the college exemption, so I decided to study my favorite hobby—music. My second choice was architecture, but I wasn’t much of a student and was concerned I’d flunk out and end up drafted and up to my butt in rice paddies. I had a low number in the draft lottery, so the possibility was real.”

“Watch it, Greg. I’m a former marine, you know,” Ken proudly announced.

“Thanks for your service, Ken. It’s not that I wouldn’t do my duty if called. I was just never soldier material and really preferred not to be one. No offense to those who are more suited. But I also was not a war protester, as you know was common back then.”

Ken seemed satisfied, so I marched onward—pun intended.

“So I applied to various colleges and chose Temple in Philadelphia. I grew up and lived right outside the city, so I could commute instead of living on campus. Plus, Temple had a great music program. So, in the fall of 1970, I was set to start my college experience.”

Joanne seemed very interested in that. “Did music become your profession?”

“Yes. I taught music in several local school districts and directed church choirs since my second year of college.”

Joanne continued to question me. “What was your major?”

“Voice major, and piano minor.”

Joanne started to ask another question, and Ken interrupted her. “Let him tell the story, dear.”

“Sorry,” she relented. “But I want to talk later.”

“Sure. So, the summer before my first semester, I get notified that I’m supposed to attend a choir camp at a nearby church youth summer campground for the concert choir’s fall season. We were doing a concert tour later that semester with The Philadelphia Orchestra and eventually making a record with them, so camp would give us three solid days of preparation.”

Joanne couldn’t contain herself. “Was that when Eugene Ormandy was the conductor?”

“Dear!” Ken bellowed.

“Sorry,” she said shrinking in her seat. “Please, go on.”

“Well, yes, he was.” I felt obligated to give her an answer. “It was a thrill to sing under Ormandy’s direction.”

“Anyway, I went to the church youth camp for college choir and instantly experienced culture shock. I was pretty sheltered, I guess, and couldn’t believe the things I saw.”

“Like what?” Bill suddenly seemed very interested.

“I’ll get there, Bill. We arrived and went right into a rehearsal and I couldn’t believe how great the sound was. It beat the heck out of the high school choir. Then they fed us dinner, and most kids wanted to shower before the free time that evening. Feeling grungy, I decided that it was a good idea. So I got my stuff and walked down to the camp showers. Seeing there were both boy and girl shower rooms, I chose the appropriate entrance.

I walked in and immediately was shocked. I thought I made a mistake, but I was in the right place. Get this—the room was filled with guys and girls showering—all together—in the altogether!”

The ladies gasped, so I acknowledged their surprise.

“I know! I was shocked, too. But, when in Rome...”

“I’d never be able to do that.” Pat offered.

“Since it was the only choice, I decided to grin and bear it.”

They chuckled getting the double meaning.

“I took my shower, and then joined a bunch of kids at a bonfire. I sat next to a girl and she immediately struck up a conversation.”

“Was that your future wife?” I was learning Joanne couldn’t help herself.

“No. Her name was Kat O’Neil. She was pleasant, but a plain-looking girl and, since I wasn’t any prize myself, I figured I had a chance with her. Truth be told, I did find her appealing. She was tall, a little gangly, she had large ... well, features—you know, and had striking long red ‘Irish-lass’ hair. So I was plenty attracted to her. Anyway, she talked—a lot, and was very animated. After about ten minutes, she got up, grabbed my hand and her blanket and ordered me to follow. She walked me hand-in-hand to a large grassy area, spread out the blanket, pulled me onto it, and started making out with me.”

“Did you get lucky?” Ken asked as Joanne smacked him in admonishment.

“In a sense. After a few minutes, she sat up abruptly, started taking her clothes off, and told me she’s a virgin and wanted to stay that way but we were still going to have fun.”

Gloria felt led to interrupt. “This is a church crowd, Glen. Don’t get too racy.”

“I’ll try to be delicate. Let’s just say that, after we dated a while, I saw a trophy on her dresser in her bedroom—sorry Gloria, this will be the worst part—with a plaque that said ‘Fellatio Champ of Philadelphia’ that a former boyfriend had given her.”

“Oh, my,” All three ladies exclaimed almost in unison.

“Sorry folks. That’s the worst. I only bring it up because, in some twisted way, that worked for me at that time. I hadn’t really committed to the faith at that point. And that will tie in later.”

“Go on,” Gloria encouraged.

“So the camp experience was enlightening, and the semester hadn’t even started. Once I did finally go to campus for the first day, it was to sign up for specific classes.”

“I remember having to do that,” Bill offered. “What a fiasco that could be.”

“Exactly. So I got in the first line for a required class and started talking with the young lady in front of me. She was a sweet little thing, and we had fun while waiting. She signed up, and off she went.

I finished and went to the next line, and there she is again in front of me. She turned with a big smile and said, ‘Are you following me?’ I laughed and said something like I knew she was taking all the good courses. We chatted some more until we both finished that line.”

Pat’s curiosity took her over. “Don’t tell me. Again?”

“Yep—almost. I got in the next line and was minding my own business, and someone came up behind me and poked my ribs. There she was again. I told her we had to stop meeting like this, and we laughed and continued to enjoy each other. We finally introduced ourselves. Her name was Cynthia Jeffries.

So we finished registering and while walking together we decided to have lunch at one of the many seedy food trucks that were always around campus. We sat on a retaining wall and ate something—I don’t remember what—and just talked. She was so friendly to sit and talk with. But then three guys walked by and said, ‘White boy likes his milk chocolate.’ I remember it exactly. Cynthia just told me not to pay attention and sort of shrunk into herself.

I had all the smoothness and sophistication of a porcupine, so I blurted out, ‘I’m sorry—you’re black, aren’t you?’ She just got up, and walked off quickly.”

“Why’d you say that?” Joanne was getting upset thinking I was a racist or something.

“Well, lots of reasons. Let’s start with I was stupid. Sometimes I forgot to engage my brain before I put my tongue in gear. But in reality, the fact she was black just never occurred to me.

You have to understand that, where I grew up, at that time there were no black families in the area. I had one black friend in high school, and he was the only black person in my class of 500 people. He was the class president. I never thought of him as my black friend, just my friend. I don’t ever remember crying as hard as I did when he was killed by a drunk driver in our senior year. He was a true gem.”

“Oh, how awful,” Joanne said with a tear.

“He was an impressive kid and had tons of potential,” I added.

“Drunks and damn kids texting snuff out too many promising lives,” Bill added.

“You’re right, Bill,” Gloria added. “It happens too often.”

“Other than my late friend, I could only count two times I had interacted with a black person. One time was with my family on a train when we went to Center City to shop for Christmas. I was about six and there was a black man sitting facing us. I pulled my dad’s arm, pointed at the man, and asked my dad, ‘What’s that?’ My dad was appalled and didn’t know what to do. But the man was nice. He smiled at me, and said, ‘God just left me in the oven a little longer.’ My mom and dad were really relieved.”

“That was a nice man.”

“Yes, he was, Gloria. Then the only other black person I had any contact with worked with my dad as a mechanic at a Chevy dealership. His name was Bobby. He was a huge man and the most ‘gentle giant’ you’d ever meet. When I was little and went to work with my dad, I used to ride with Bobby when he test-drove cars he’d repaired. I have great stories about him for another time.”

“So you really never noticed Cynthia was black?” Bill wondered.

“No, you may not believe me but I really never thought that way. I knew I met a sweet girl, tiny build maybe pushing five foot tall, and just the biggest smile I’d ever seen. For whatever reason, her color wasn’t something I noticed.”