If you’re reading this, though the day isn’t over, the Mayan prediction of the apocalypse has foretold one thing: Their calendar is wrong. Probably a good thing, but now I will have to go back to that old mine in the desert that very, very few people know about and retrieve all the survival items I had stored for me and my gal.
Anyway, all plans had to be postponed due to her extended heart issues (that’s what happens when you have such a big heart) and I certainly wasn’t going to run off to our hideaway without her.
Since last night was also St. Agnes’s Eve (What? You didn’t know?) and my gal begins cardiac rehab next week at that hospital, I didn’t tell her that the above “Eve” is regarded as a time when a woman is supposed to dream of her future husband. This faithful beau of 45 years hopes she only dreamed of all the fun we’ve had spanning the last six decades.
When it all started, as far as this army private with a butch haircut was concerned the jet wasn’t fast enough to get me from Ft. Lewis, Wash., to Fresno for a two-week Christmas leave before returning to finish basic training. I had called from a phone booth a week earlier and proposed to my gal, and because of the short notice, the wedding was planned for a Thursday — the sooner the better...