Chapter 1

((OCTOBER 7, 1993))

It was our 7^th wedding anniversary; I took my wife, Martha, and my parents, Ray and Katie to dinner to celebrate. Martha's parents, John and Sarah, hadn't been feeling well, and deferred. Besides celebrating our wedding anniversary, this was also Martha's Birthday; she turned 25 today. I do love her very much!

I was also celebrating the outcome of a deal at work that put an additional $22 thousand dollars in our bank account.

My name is George Michelson. This story I am about to tell you, is completely true. The circumstances are remarkable, but sometimes - Life Can Be Remarkable!

((SEPTEMBER 8, 1985))

I met my future wife, Marty, short for Martha, while in high school. We were in the same homeroom during our senior year at Greenwich High School in Nebraska. I was a basketball player and she was a cheerleader. I know it sounds cheesy but, after the first basketball practice was over, I was still out practicing my free throws. Not because my coach wanted me to, I just was trying to get better. She came up to me, in her cute little cheerleading outfit, and introduced herself to me.

"Hi, I'm Marty. Marty Washington."

"Hello, I'm George Michelson."

"What're you doing after you're through practicing, George?"

"Nothing much!"

"Aren't you going with the rest of the players to AJ's?"

"Don't think so ... it's not like I'm a starter or even second string. I'll never play in a game unless we have a 40 point lead or are losing by 40 points."

"That's too bad, George. I saw you make some baskets during practice."

"It's easier to make them during practice, than during a game, Marty. Why aren't you hanging out with the rest of the cheerleaders?"

"Well, I'm the newest one, and Pam, the head cheerleader, doesn't seem to like me very much."

"Who wouldn't like you, Marty — You've got a pretty smile."

"I'm pretty sure that Pam doesn't like anyone who doesn't bow down at her feet, and treat her like the goddess that she thinks she is."

"That's pretty harsh, Marty. How about you and I go to Rosemary's for some ice cream? I'm always hungry after a practice. I'll be out in 10 minutes. What do you say, want to go?"

"Sure, George — I want to change from this cheerleading outfit. Meet you in front of the Biology Lab?"

"Sure. See you in 10 minutes."

That was how we met, six years ago -- After a basketball practice. The trip to Rosemary's to get ice cream was uneventful. We were both way too nervous to say much anything. I thought she was kind of cute, so I got us a chocolate shake, with two straws.

"This is really good ice cream, isn't it George?"

"Yeah, Marty."

"You seem like the old-fashioned type of boy, getting two straws, so we can share. It's actually quite romantic, don't you think?"

"I never thought of that, Marty ... I just knew I couldn't finish one all by myself, so I got us two straws."

She had me pegged from the get-go. I was trying to be sly and romantic ... and she 'outed' me! A few weeks later, we were back at Rosemary's. This time, she said she'd buy. I discussed this with her, but she insisted. She got us a vanilla shake, with two straws.

"I haven't had a vanilla shake in a very long time, Marty. Thank you."

"Sure, George."

"Now, did you get it to be practical, or to show that you're a romantic, as well?"

"George Michelson! So you're admitting that you're a romantic?"

"Yeah. I tried so hard to hide it the last time we were here, when really ... I got the two straws only so we could drink at the same time and look at each other."

"Aw, George. That's so sweet of you."

"Well, I don't think that I could hide anything from you. You seem like the kind of girl that deserves honesty, nothing less. So, I have a confession to make to you."

"Yes, George. What is it?"

"I like chocolate a lot more than vanilla!"

"Actually, so do I! I was just getting vanilla to see which you liked better."

"Marty — Are you seeing anyone, you know, dating anyone?"

"No — George. I'm sort of a late bloomer, and I'm kind of embarrassed to admit it, but this is the closest I've been to a boy, ever!"

"Since we seem to be on an honesty kick, you're the only girl I've ever talked to, not counting my Mom, of course. I've just always been uncomfortable talking to girls, but something's different about you. I like you, Marty!"

"I like you too, George. There's something I haven't told you about me -- it's a little embarrassing!"

"You aren't obligated to tell me anything, Marty. We're just friends."

"No, George — this is important. My name isn't Marty — it's Martha."

"So? That's a nice name. Marty's a nickname?"

"Yeah, my given name is Martha Washington — don't laugh."

"Well, my name is George Michelson."

"At least your name doesn't make you sound like an old fuddy duddy."

"Oh! — Martha Washington! Now I understand. Did you ever ask your mother, why she named you Martha?"

"My adopted mother says that Martha came from a grandmother and was a 'strong robust' name. I can't wait to be married, and lose my last name."

"You could end up with some guy with a last name like Zuckermann or Westinghouse."

"Or, I could end up with a cool last name like Michelson?"

That was the moment. You know! There are moments all through your life that tie together the fabric of one scene to another. I've had a few of these moments previously, but this particular moment was easily the most significant of my young life. The next day, at school, Marty came up to me and we talked.

"George — I'm sorry how I sounded yesterday. I've never really liked my name. I found out I was adopted when I was 12. My adopted parents, John and Sarah, thought that I should know I was adopted. It sort of made me feel, like nobody cared about me, and I just happened to end up with them, as my adopted parents.

"Marty, I have no idea what it must've felt like, for you to find out you were adopted. But you're wrong about one very important detail. I care about you."

"Oh, George. That's so sweet of you to say. It does actually make me feel better."

"Does everybody call you Marty?"

"Yeah — the cheerleaders, my parents, other relatives."

"Can I please call you Martha?"

"Why?"

"Because, I like the name Martha ... and I like you, a lot."

"Sure, George — only you can call me Martha; nobody else, OK?"

"OK!"

It all seems so silly now, talking about her name, but if I had lived with the name Aaron Burr or Theodore Roosevelt, I kind of understand what she must have gone through. Well, after that conversation, we started talking to each other all of the time, walking down the school corridors to class. I would even carry her book bag for her; like my Dad told me he used to do for my mom. I was kidded about it, by all of the guys, but I didn't care, because I was really starting to enjoy Martha's company.

I'm 5ft 7 inches tall, brown hair, brown eyes with a size 10 shoe. That's all you're going to get about me. Martha is 5ft 6 inches tall, blonde hair, but it looks colored, and brown eyes. If I were to guess, her measurements are a 33 or 34 C-cup, a 24-inch waist and a 32-inch hip measurement, eerily similar to my mom, but definitely Martha's bust has a little more to it than my mom's.

About a month after the 'Call me Martha' scene, I was walking from the school to my car.

"Hey George! Can you give me a ride home, please?"

"Sure, Martha. Where's your usual ride?"

"My car's in the shop, getting a front-end alignment and some other stuff, done. My folks asked me to get myself home the next couple of days, so they wouldn't have to leave work to do it."

"Not a problem, Martha. I'd actually been trying to figure out, how to get you into my car, now you're asking me for a ride. It's fate."

"What do you mean by 'get you into my car, ' George?"

"Oh! Sorry, how that must have sounded. I just like talking to you, and talking while driving seemed like fun. I didn't mean anything at all sinister about it. So, are you secure that I'm not Ted Bundy?"

"Yes, you don't look a bit like Mark Harmon!"

"Nice, movie reference! OK, where do you live?"

"You know where Sycamore Street is?"

"No, I don't — jump in and be my navigator. Every good pilot needs a navigator, especially one as pretty as you!"

"No one has ever called me pretty before, George!"

"Well, then — I'm sorry for all men you've ever met, because I really think, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever met in my life."

I remember how she giggled every time I called her pretty or beautiful. She still makes me shudder every time I look at her. I took her home, memorizing the way. I got out of the car, and opened the door for her, and as we walked up to her house, the front door opened, and a lovely woman stepped out.

"Who is this handsome young man, Marty?"

"This is George Michelson, mom."

"Thank you for bringing Marty home, George. Would you like a glass of lemonade before you head home?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Washington!"

"Oh, my name is Johannsen, Sarah Johannsen."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Johannsen. I should have asked Martha. She told me she was adopted -- I just missed the last name protocol."

"You call her Martha, George?"

"That's what she asked me to call her, and my father told me, a long time ago, never argue with a pretty girl. They know how to get even."

"Your father is a smart man. Sit down you two, I'll get the lemonade."

"I'm sorry, George — I should have told you about the last name difference."

"It's OK, Martha — it all works out just fine."

Mrs. Johannsen, Martha's step-mom, seemed a likeable lady. I've often heard horror stories from some of my schoolmates about stepparents being impossible to get along with.

"So, Martha — I can take you home from school whenever you want. I don't live far from here, actually, I could even get here and take you to school, whenever you have any problems with your car."

"I heard that, young man. That's very kind of you. Could you bring her home the rest of this week? Her car should be done by Friday. Here's the lemonade!"

"Certainly, Mrs. Johannsen. Let me pour it for you ladies. I would love to ... I like having pretty girls in my car. I could give you a ride sometime, too, if you ever needed it."

"Well, now. Aren't you the sweet talker, George? I'll remember your offer, but you don't want an old woman in your car."

"I would be honored to take Martha, or you, in my car, anytime you need it. It's a very reliable car and I'm a very reliable person."

"I believe you are, George. Well, I'll leave you two alone for a bit. Nice to have met you, George?"

"Same to you, Mrs. Johannsen."

"You certainly made her day, George. I think I'm a little jealous."

"I was just being kind, Martha. That's my nature."

"I've never met anyone like you before, George."

"Is that good or bad, Martha?"

"This lemonade is really good, let's put both our straws in it."

That was my first meeting with Martha's mom. I would go on to meet her father, John, in later visits, when I brought her home from school. Martha and I talked to each other whenever we got a chance. We became something of a couple, simply because we were always standing next to each other or sitting by one another at lunch. It was nothing more than that. About a month later, Martha came up to me after school, and we walked together to her car. She asked me to sit with her for a minute.

"George?"

"Yes, Martha!"

"We've known each other about ten weeks now?"

"That -- sounds about right, Martha."

"And we talk about things."

"Yeah!"

"And we've shared a milkshake or two?"

"Or three or four."

"And you've met my stepparents?"

"Yes!"

"Then, why haven't you tried to kiss me?"

"Oohh, I see. Have your cheerleader buddies told you that all that guys want to do, is kiss you and get in your pants?"

"Almost exactly the words they used, George -- How did you know that?"

"I heard from some of my buddies on the basketball team, that all the cheerleaders were slutty and were waiting for one of us players to 'make a move' and that the cheerleaders always 'put out' to the players. I may have been a basketball player, but I'm not the kind of guy who expects a girl to do anything she didn't want to."

"I haven't kissed you, because the moment ... just hasn't felt right. My Dad told me once that when he first kissed my mom, they were in his car, just talking, and suddenly, something in his heart told him that the moment was right. He said he moved over to her, took her by the hand, and softly kissed her on the lips. They both told me it was - absolutely electric. Like the perfect moment in time."

Then I stopped talking, scooted over right next to her, put my hand on the side of her face and leaned in and we touched lips. It was, indeed, the perfect moment! We separated our lips. She broke into a cute smile and I leaned into her again. This was the kiss of our young lives, a little bit of pressure. I opened my eyes and saw that she had her eyes open as well. I parted my lips just a little ... then she did as well. I felt her breathe on me. She was my first kiss, as I was hers. We stopped. She looked at her watch, which meant she was expected at home.

"Goodbye, George!"

"Goodbye, Martha. See you tomorrow."

"Not if I see you first!"

That became our expression. 'Not if I see you first!' It's funny how words can be tied to memories. I still remember her breath — it was like ... peppermint. Our next moment came about two weeks later when I stopped her in the hall to ask her a question.

"Hey, Martha!"

"Hey, George!"

"Martha, are you doing anything on Friday night?"

"No, George. What's on your mind?"

"Actually, you! I'd like to take you to the movies, unless this is too short of notice?"

"I'd have to make sure by asking my mom. It'd be my first date with a boy, and she has always told me, to talk to her before saying 'yes' to anything involving boys."

"You've never been out on a date before? Really?"

"I'm sure you have been on lots of dates, but there is a different standard for girls, regarding dating."

"I understand, exactly what you're saying. But, just to set the record straight, I've always been too focused on my grades to go on dates, so this will be my first date, as well."

((OCTOBER 7, 1993))

Remembering those conversations brings moistness to my eyes. My head came back to the restaurant. Martha had turned to me.

"Where were you just now, George? You seemed a million miles away."

"I was just remembering, asking you out on 'our' first date. How nervous we both were. And that first kiss we had in your car. How funny was that. Dad, I'd told Martha the story about you and Mom in the car, and how your heart told you it was time to kiss her."

"Son, that was a long time ago for me and your mom. We just couldn't our eyes off each other, and I couldn't keep my hands off this fabulous woman I ended up marrying."

"Your father and I had known each other for a while, but that was the moment we realized that nothing would keep us from being together. Not even our parents could keep us apart."

Martha and I looked at each other at this revelation. I had never heard anything about their parents keeping them from dating. It seemed silly enough, so I just let it go. I poured myself some water, and looked at my food.

((FEBRUARY 4, 1986))

Martha and I had been dating for a little over four months. I had yet to do or try to do anything more than kiss her at this point. It never seemed ... the moment! We held hands a lot, and went to a couple of school dances. Neither of us could dance more than just move back and forth to the music, you know, with my hands around her neck and her hands around my waist. After the second dance, I just mentioned, we went to Rosemary's.

"George, Remember the first time we came here?"

"Yeah, Martha — I was so nervous, I thought I was going to pass out. That was so much fun, sharing a milkshake."

"Chocolate, this time, George?"

"Yeah — baby!"

"Baby — did you just call me, baby?"

"I'm sorry, Martha — as soon as I said it, I realized I shouldn't have."

"Actually, George ... I liked it. You can call me Baby, anytime you want. Except, maybe in front of my parents. Speaking of parents, when am I going to meet your Mom and dad?"

This is another one of those defining moments in a relationship. Whether you've been dating a week or six months, 'meeting the parents.' I'm not sure I had even told my parents that I had met Martha, much less 'dating' her. We had gone separately to the dances. I guess I must have been 'hiding' her from my parents for some reason.

"Martha — I need to tell you something that may unintentionally upset you?"

"What, George?"

"I have never told my parents about you."

"Why -- are you ashamed of me, George?"

"No, no, no, no, no — it's just that I've never brought anyone home before, and I was worried that my parents might react badly."

"What do you mean, react badly?"

"I think that my Mom thinks that nobody is good enough for 'her little boy.' She's rather protective of me. I don't completely understand it."

"Where do they think you are, when we go out?"

"I tell them I'm out with some of the guys from the basketball team."

"I want to meet your parents, George -- The sooner, the better. OK?"

"Absolutely, Martha — when's your birthday, Martha?"

"October 7^th, 1968."

"That won't work. How about dinner on Friday at my house? This is Tuesday. We all eat dinner together most every Friday night. I'll tell them I'm bringing a friend from school home for dinner. I'll pick you up at 5:30 at your house. Wear that real pretty blue dress of yours, please? Whatever else you want to do in preparation is up to you. They will be dazzled by you, just like I've been, OK?"

"OK, George. That sounds like a great plan. See you on Friday. Love you, bye!"

She stopped in her tracks, suddenly realizing the words she spoke to me. She turned around.

"Martha?"

"Yes, George?"

"I love you, too!"

Boy oh boy oh boy. Three little words! They've written songs about those three words. We hadn't been avoiding them as much as it never 'came up' in conversation before.

"Bye, George — I'll wait for details."

I went home and very casually mentioned to my folks that I had invited my best friend Marty over for dinner on Friday. I mentioned 'he' didn't a car and I'd have to pick him up. Mom had said how lucky Marty was to have such a good friend. Friday, at school, I told Martha what I had told my parents.

"So, you told them that I was your best friend -- Am I your best friend, George?"

"Yes, you are, my loveable best friend Marty, otherwise known as Martha."