I was ruminating on my life this morning and had to acknowledge that I have gone through it as if in a dream. I have never planned big steps – everything I have done that is a major life decision has been seat-of-the pants including both marriages.

I left Chicago in 1956, to live in New York and be on my own. I had been to New York to a science fiction meeting some months earlier, and while there, had gone to a Hydra meeting held in the apartment of a couple who were in with the sci fi crowd. It was in Little Italy on Sullivan Street in the south Village, a 6th floor walk-up, small but cute. In a conversation with the host, I learned he and his wife were moving to Long Island, so I asked about what would happen with the apartment – they were going to rent it out and the monthly was $17.34. Whew. I said to meself, if I can’t make it with a rent like that I should just shoot myself. So I leaned on the host to rent it to me and he agreed.

We made arrangements for me to take possession in October, then they called to say their move was delayed. This was bad news. I had already announced that I was leaving. My parents would lean on me to change my mind during the two-months’ delay. So I made the trip anyway, and wound up at The East End Hotel for Women on the upper East Side. It was a horrible place but served the purpose. I attended another Hydra and that’s where I met Jay.

We made a date to meet the following day in front of Nedick’s (now a bookstore) on 6th Avenue and 8th Street, a hub intersection of the Village. Jay was late, as he would continue to be for the entire time I knew him, but I waited. It was the day of the time change, so I attributed it to that. He took me for a ride on the Staten Island Ferry and then to his apartment where he made dinner – steak and lima beans, and red wine.

Two days later, I collected my things from the East End Hotel and moved in with him. Two months later we were married. I never moved into the Sullivan Street apartment, but that was not a problem because it was easily re-rented. We were married for 36 years.

Some months after Jay’s death, I joined a bereavement group where I met Ed. When it ended, the group continued to get together for dinner at different restaurants every month. Depending on the location, Ed would sometimes walk me home or to the subway. After a year or so of this we started to see each other more seriously but, I should add, I knew on the 2nd date that we were going to be married. He was all over the place in those days so I thought I’ll just have to wait him out. He once said that he would not marry again, that if he did, it would not be me (I wasn’t tall, I wasn’t blonde – you know, the usual crap), and no way was he ever going to live in Florida where he knew my sister lived and that she was putting pressure on me to move to be near her.
Don’t ask why he changed his mind, unless it was that every time he said something negative, I would smile and answer “fine”.

Incidentally, I wasn’t committed to living in Florida, but when we came down for a visit and stayed with sis and husband, they showed us a house nearby – next door to the one we have now, that was on the bay, stunning view and eminently affordable. We bought it and were going to enlarge it when our current house came on the market. So we sold the first house and bought this one, a coup, considering this one is larger, has a two-car garage, a pool, and a better view because it is on the curve at the end of the island. Sometimes things work out.

Ed and I had considered moving to a college town – some place like Durham – in the sun belt, away from cold winters, but somehow we never took that exploratory trip to look at areas and houses we might like. This one just fell into our laps. Ed was fond of saying that we moved here so that I “could be near my sister.” And I always replied that if Tula and Don had been in Iowa, we’d still be living in New York.

The road to the altar was filled with potholes, but 17 years later we are still married, so I do know something. I happen to think also that Ed’s Eastern European roots and my Mediterranean roots were compatible. Much more so than that Irish bimbo he was dallying with who could best have been described as "Gidget at 50."

xx, Teal