How does love begin? When do we feel ready to open our hearts unconditionally to another and feel theirs in return? How do we know or can we know when it’s right to take that first courageous step of meeting the other, trusting that unguarded space that allows us to know loving another is real?

It was what I always longed for with each meeting? And invariably scared away some I thought were right because I wanted it so. I admit, I was usually terrified of making that first move, which probably explains why in every loving relationship I had, I was picked rather than being the one to choose. The first was a wonderful woman who approached me in a writing class after I had read my latest story. She came up to me and said, “I love you. What a great story.”

Stumbling over the compliment like an embarrassed fool, I said something to the effect of, “Why don’t we go out?” We ended up living together for a year, and it taught me more about how bad I was at this relationship thing than how wonderful it could be. The next one stopped me after a show I was stage managing and wanted to work with me. This one also taught me how little I knew about not giving it all away in hopes of being loved.

Then it happened, again. 49 years ago, Laura picked me up hitchhiking in front of the Miracle Auto Body shop on State St. in Santa Barbara. It was a cloudless June day. The onshore breeze barely perceptible, and yet enough to cool the recent summer transition. I had been standing out on a strip of highway that had yet to be converted to freeway, in this beautiful California coastal city. It was a patch of grass well-known to hitchhikers and their brethren for years. In this case, there were four of us and the brethren being a small dog named, Jackson.

We had all been there for about forty-five minutes, when I realized a car had pulled around the corner and then stopped, making it clear they intended to pickup at least one of us straggled wayfarers from our perch. I quickly ran toward the car. When the passenger door opened and a lovely blonde woman began to get out, I proclaimed, in my most engaging voice, and without knowing why, “angels of mercy.”

When the passenger door opened and a lovely blonde woman began to get out, I proclaimed, in my most engaging voice, and without knowing why, “angels of mercy.”

 In one grand gesture, the blonde lady asked, “How many are you?”  “Without hesitation I said, “Four and a dog.” She, also unhesitatingly, invited us all along.

The car was a boat-like maroon 1973 Mercury Marquis.  There was one more person, the driver, already seated in the front seat. As we soon found out, it was the blonde lady’s, Aunt Cherie, who, it would soon be revealed, was just a few years older than me.  There was a quick coin toss to see who would sit in the front seat with the ladies. To tell the truth, there was no way I was ever going to lose that fateful flick. I was prepared to cheat, of course, but then, as the gods would have it, I won without deception, heads rather than tails, fair and square. As I slid into the front seat, I introduced myself, smiling at my good fortune. The blonde lady followed suit. “I’m Laura.” There were no explosions or showers of rose petals. I just felt lucky to not be in the back seat with the dog. And so the journey began.

This was 1976, and we were not 10 minutes up the highway when I asked the obligatory question of the era; “So, uh, what sign are you?” Laura sitting next to me gave me the “who is this guy” look and said, “Scorpio.” My first thought, well, so much for anything developing out of this. I had never had a yearning for a Scorpio that I could ever recall. Cherie answered, “Cancer.”  Now, it’s true, I have always connected with Cancer women, but Cherie wasn’t a blonde and “my type,” have always been blonde.  Obviously, there was a disconnect going on inside of me. Somehow, my “longing” and “my type” were immediately establishing a whole set of unrealistic constraints.

When I realized how far afield I had gotten, in the blink of an eye, I pulled myself back.  Fortunately, my astrological question hadn’t been a total conversation killer. I had already forgotten about the three guys and a dog in the back seat, so I blithely went to the next question in, what had become, my well-practiced hitchhiker script. “Where are you headed?” “Oregon,” was the quick reply. “What’s in Oregon?” This question was designed to ferret out if either of these women were involved in any awaiting relationships. For Cherie, she was headed home to Salem, and Laura was just keeping Cherie company on the trip, north, after her graduation from her university. Well, at least their journey wasn’t for a pending wedding or because of an over-anxious boyfriend who was eagerly counting the moments of their expected arrival.

Then It was their turn for questions, and Laura wanted to know where I was going. It was the question for which I was, of course, prepared. “Eventually the City, for a huge party” I said, as if there were only one city. “But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, I’m hoping to make Los Gatos. Tomorrow, my friend Tracy, his girlfriend and I are heading up for the party. From what I understand, they’re expecting about 450 people, so it’s an intimate affair.”

“Quite.” Laura replied with a smile. “So, Tracy’s a guy?”

“Yeah,” I said. Did I miss her tell? Was she also yearning? I continued as unaware as ever. “He and I worked together at a professional theater in Los Gatos. He handled all the graphic arts and I was one of two resident stage managers.”

“Really?” Laura said, suddenly more interested. “I just graduated from Baker University in Kansas with a theater major.” After this revelation, I took another look at this very blonde Scorpio sitting next to me. It was clear, she really was lovely. Was that an inkling.

“Far-out.” I said with enough emphasis to convey my growing interest. “I’m currently working at the Mark Taper Forum in LA, at the Music Center.” If she wasn’t aware where it was.

“Is that good?” She asked, only slightly puncturing my bubble.

“It’s the leading theater in LA.”  Only slightly miffed that dropping the reference hadn’t thoroughly impressed her. “I’m stage managing a show at their Pilgrimage Lab space.”

“That is far-out,” she said.” I  was doing experimental theater at my school. In fact, I just completed six months in Spain, where I was exploring the underground theater that emerged under Franco’s nose.”

Now, that was impressive. “Really. How cool,” I said, making sure it conveyed how impressed I was. My mind was quickly being blown by the serendipity of this whole ride experience. What were the odds of being picked up by two lovely women, one of whom was already aligned with my world. I was starting to feel a bit nervous about this sudden serendipity.

Two days previously, I had broken off a relationship with the second woman who had picked me, and over whom I had nearly killed myself. But that was another story. Now, the universe had introduced me to this. Could life really be trying to make amends? Needless to say, Laura and I had lots to talk about as the Marquis made its way northward.

Cherie was not absent from the conversation, adding in plenty of her own perceptions of the world we were all driving through together. She had a very ethereal, breathy voice, and a very witty offhand delivery. What was most evident about our newly met trio was that we all liked to laugh, and there was no shortage of it. Of course, as a hitchhiker I took my responsibility seriously. My job, if I could call it that, had been to develop a rap that was designed to make folks laugh, and keep the driver alert. Humor was easy for me, and Laura and Cherie, fortunately were quick and easy laughers.

During the telling of one story or another I had taken an opportunity to look more closely at Laura, and was immediately struck by her crystalline blue-green eyes.

During the telling of one story or another I had taken an opportunity to look more closely at Laura, and was immediately struck by her crystalline blue-green eyes. The irises were surrounded by a dark ring which made the sparkling blue-green even brighter. My initial impressions are often based on appearance, a shallowness I know I share with others of my gender. But deeper impressions were starting to push through, and they couldn’t be ignored. Then I recalled my very first take, oh, yeah, she was a Scorpio. OK, so, my shallowness is not my finest virtue.

In spite of my virtue-lessness, I could feel a genuine lightness and joy present in the car.  It was something I had rarely felt with the woman I left two days before. Nothing was easy with that woman.  But as the miles churned beneath the Marquis, I found my humor emerging, tippling off my tongue, eliciting their response of laughter and joy, for which it was, of course, designed. We were all having a great time.

As I gazed at Laura, I thought of a show we had done at the Taper – a Story Theater production. One of the pieces was a retelling of Pygmalion, with the wonderful comic actor Avery Schreiber playing the sculptor, Pygmalion, and the stunningly beautiful Leslie Ann Warren, playing the statue he was carving. As he chiseled away and the sculpture began taking its resplendent form, Schreiber would turn to the audience and say simply, “She’s so real.”  He would then return to his work, chisel a little more and again turn to the audience and say, his trademark bushy mustache waving on his upper lip, “She’s so real.” After two or three of these exclamations, the sculpture was complete, suddenly coming to life. That night Pygmalion laid the now living sculpture down and he next to it. The next morning, Schreiber sat up and looked at the audience one final time, as the very alive woman next to him stretched languidly out, waking to the day. Schrieber smiled as he looked at her and then back at the audience with a joy and satisfaction radiating out of him, and said, of course, “She’s so real.”

When I looked at Laura, I felt that something radiating within me, and  I immediately thought to myself, without the least irony, “She’s so real.”

There were a variety of stops along the way as Laura and Cherie shared the driving, and as the three other passengers and the dog were eventually dropped off at their destinations. Without fanfare, I was left alone with the two women in the marvelous Marquis. I was headed to Los Gatos and they to a friend’s in San Jose. At a gas station phone booth, they called their friend to get directions as to where to go, but there was no answer. Had cell phones been in existence, a text might have made things very different. Fortunately, they had not. On the news that they had been unable to reach their friends, I suggested the ladies take a short detour to where I was going, Los Gatos. And fortunately for me, they agreed. I certainly didn’t want the ride to end and it seemed, neither did they.

When I looked at Laura, I felt that something radiating within me, and  I immediately thought to myself, without the least irony, “She’s so real.”

It’s never really clear when these beginnings really begin? Is there some cerebral concoction that is mutually triggered and then ultimately released into the collective mindstream?  What causes the attraction, beyond the superficial? I clearly remember feeling the rumblings, but I had just escaped a dreadful experience with a woman that made me hesitant. This, however, felt very different. It was way too soon to be real, I knew that. But I felt an ease and comfort within myself that could only be described as “can carelessness.” I didn’t care what came of this encounter. I wasn’t looking for anything beyond a ride up north. It simply was about… feeling real.

When we met Tracy at a local club a bit later, we both suggested the ladies come up to Tracy’s house, ostensibly to smoke a joint, as it was that time of life, and meet Tracy’s dogs, a hairy white Samoyed named, Harpo, and a German shorthair named, Andy.

The dogs immediately won the women over, filled with personality, character and no pretense of anything beyond the loving attention being paid them. Even though the women chose not to smoke, which, admittedly, had been part of our pretense, there was something rather unexpected emerging, blossoming about of our time together. It appeared that something had already begun.

As we were getting ready to take the women back to their car at the club, Tracy handed them two invitations to the party we were going to the next night. “You can’t not come. It’s going to be something.” Tracy said, with the anticipation of an innate knowing of what was to transpire.

When we dropped them back at their Marquis, I gave Laura an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. And I reiterated that I hoped they could make it to the party in the City. I could tell that feeling, stirring as it did in those nether regions of the mind, was happening for her, too, and I knew it was something worth pursuing. On the ride back to Tracy’s house, we spoke briefly about the “great hit” of riding up with these two ladies. I said nothing about the more intense, amorphous possibilities, that seemed to be coalescing into a something inside of me.

The party the next night was as wild as advertised. 450 people of every possible persuasion milling about the carefully lit and  staged, three story, open loft building. There was a different band on each floor. A rock band on the bottom, a classical trio on the second, and a jazz quartet on the third. Of the 450 guests, approximately 300 were gay men, 100 women and 50 or so of us straight men. As the party wore on, I found myself standing between two lovely ladies on the third floor, trying to decide which I was going to ask to dance. At that moment, Tracy ran up with Laura in tow. “Look who I found,” he said swinging her in front of me.  She was radiant. I had been pierced straight through my heart, and now I knew it.

A while later, Laura and I made it up to the roof with it’s glistening view of the skyline of San Francisco splayed before us. Was there any sight more romantic. I think not. But to be honest, there was no more thinking. We embraced and kissed for the first time. Yes, the first kiss, with all the attendant bells and whistles. Ah, romance.

It was not the last kiss that night, but in spite of  what all those kisses promised, she refused to spend the night and much to my disappointment, insisted on returning to her friends in San Jose.

Laura later recounted,  as she and Cherie drove back the next day through the City on their way to Salem, Oregon, that Cherie, in her own mostly-psychic style said to her. “That won’t be the last time you see that boy.”

It, of course, wouldn’t be. Nearly 49 years later, Laura and I are still in love. We have two children and two grandchildren and we, now, live in Oregon. I write her love poems for no other reason than I love her. The most recent is here.

 Look into my eyes and it becomes evident
They see only you
Hold my hand and it is obvious
yours is the only hand I hold
Feel my heart
There is just one heart beating
It resounds, love, proclaiming to all
We are inseparable from its source
There is no join no seam no vein
There is just our flow
Circulating between us, together,
So that what you feel is what I feel
Our us dissolves, no longer two
Our one as one

It’s what can happen. It’s so real.