Do You Date? D is for David — Love with Roots

Mar 1

Mar 1 Do You Date? D is for David

Michael, my husband and best friend of 25 years was gone. He died of a heart attack at 52. And then, a harsh break-up with someone else left me mourning Michael all over again. One day a co-worker told the story of a young woman who wanted a former boyfriend to return to her life. She set an extra place setting for him at supper every night. He did come back and they were planning their wedding when the story was told.

The idea of actively inviting what I was missing into my life felt right. On a yellow sticky note, I listed: laughing, talking, dancing. Each night at supper, I set out an extra plate and silverware and put the note in the middle of the plate. I did this for about three months.

Then early one morning I had a spiritual experience, the crux of which was that I was okay ALONE. I felt both buoyant and solid, grounded and free.

And that very day a tall handsome stranger, looking fierce in his black watch cap and three-day old beard, struck up a conversation. When I mentioned my husband in past tense he said, “You’re not married anymore?”

“No. I’m a widow.” I expected him to say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

He said, “Do you date?”

The God I believe in has a serious sense of humor. She invented LOL. But really, what kind of timing was this?

My answer, “Yes, but I don’t know you.” And then basically asked him to list references (people we both knew), which he did.

A few days later we agreed to dinner on a Sunday night at seven p.m. giving myself an easy out—work Monday morning. I almost didn’t recognize him when he walked into the restaurant clean-shaven and without the cap covering his wavy gray hair. After three short hours of laughing and talking, I agreed to a second date.

By the way, the sticky note worked overtime. Just after David and I started dating, my daughter moved in with me while she looked for work closer to home. Another source of laughing, talking, and dancing. She found work quickly. I put the sticky note on the refrigerator. It was too powerful to toss into a drawer. And just a few years later, with David’s encouragement, we moved my parents to my hometown. Alone became a rare moment for me.

As for the dancing on my list, David and I danced together in public only once. We’d been dating just a few months. He knew how much I loved to dance so we drove to a place with a band. He surprised me by ordering a beer. I’d never seen him drink alcohol before. The band started up and I looked at him expectantly. He said, “Wait. I’m going to need another beer before I can do this.” He drank another one and then we got out on the floor.

I realized then, that with his height and wonderful posture, he felt very conspicuous. The free-form gyrations of everyone else weren’t natural to him. He loved music and actually danced with dignity, but he couldn’t see himself; only imagined the worst and wouldn’t believe my insistence that he looked good. We didn’t go dancing again, but he encouraged me to dance whenever the music struck me.

And David could dance on air. David learned to fly small fixed wing planes with an air circus. He was a crew chief in Vietnam then became an Army helicopter pilot. He flew in El Salvador, while stationed in Germany, and many other places. After he left the Army, he flew helicopters for oil companies with drilling platforms in the Gulf and also Life Flights for an air ambulance service. Sometimes when he described flight, I felt as if I was dancing in the air with him.

I asked him once how he felt about being grounded by health issues. He said he was grateful for all the times he flew and, in his memory, still had all those times. Although whenever he found a small plane for sale, he did toy with the idea of buying it and re-establishing his pilot’s license.

How to describe this poetic Pilot? Soft-hearted soldier, subtle storyteller, business-minded bohemian. These aren’t oxymorons, just unexpected combinations in one person. Through this soft-hearted soldier I found a deeper understanding of compassion. He served our country in two wars. He knew compassion from the place where it can be life threatening, where he made choices that haunted him the rest of his life. One of the hardest for him was his friendship with his Vietnamese interpreter and the man’s family. He feared they were killed because of the tin roof and Sears Roebuck towels he’d given them—evidence of American sympathies—when US troops withdrew.

He didn’t know how to close his heart. He brought light to the lives of so many people in creative ways. He rallied neighbors and family to save a lonely elderly woman, taught residents of a nursing home to choreograph kite flying, and matched business owners with unique opportunities. I’ve written pages trying to choose which David stories to share in this essay. I’ll just have to sprinkle them around in future blogs.

Light wasn’t on my sticky note list, but David brought it to my life anyway. We lived in northeast Minnesota (the state of more than 10,000 lakes). David’s favorite ‘ride’ when I met him was a pontoon boat. He kept it on Burntside Lake, a large lake where three generations of his extended family shared a grouping of small islands. One warm, September afternoon, we invited our friends Wende and Scott for a pontoon ride. We drifted among the Conard islands and landed on one. Our footsteps stirred up the sweet sharp scent of juniper and pine needles. As we stood in the shadow of a white pine, a raven landed on a branch above us. The large bird was so close we felt as if it had just become part of our circle. We watched Raven and Raven watched us. After a few minutes, Raven launched into the sky. We were still celebrating its visit when a bald eagle landed on the same branch. David, of the Army 101st Airborne “Screaming Eagles,” saluted him. Eagle eyed us a moment, then lifted off. We felt the force of its wingbeats on our faces. Even house flies were ‘fellow aviators’ to David so these two showing up gave wings to his laughter.

Back on the pontoon, David motored into the open where we drifted and ate a picnic supper. We sat in comfortable silence and watched shadows stretch lazily across the lake. A full moon rose behind serrated pines. Damp evening air lifted the life-rich smell of lake water up to our noses. A few lights came on in cabins along the shore. Reflections of the moon, the lights, and stars floated all around us. David, who loved technology, had an app on his phone that helped us identify constellations. Then, despite the bright moonlight and topping off all the Gifts of that day, pink and green northern lights began streaming intensely across the sky. Pink in an aurora is a rare treat. Wende noticed that two decorative lights David had on the boat gleamed with the same colors as the northern lights so he plucked one from its holder and gave it to her. The chilly night limited how long we could stay out on the lake. When we dropped Wende and Scott off at their truck, Wende looked back to see David and I out on the boat silhouetted before dancing northern lights.

No, David didn’t conjure Raven, Eagle, and the northern lights any more than my sticky note did him, but he was piloting the boat. I wouldn’t have been out there if not for him. And his celebration of the happenings deepened them for me.

David moved out of my house to his cabin just down the road (it didn’t have running water) when my dad moved in, then moved back into my house to hold me when my dad died.

Dad died in early August. David and I planned to go to his family’s gathering in North Carolina for Christmas but just before we were to leave my mom took a turn for the worse. David went on without me, rendezvousing with one of his three sons and a six-month-old grandson on the way. On Christmas, he spent the morning with his ninety-two-year-old mother and all his siblings. He asked his sister to take him to the nearest VA hospital that afternoon. He had a heart attack but survived. I flew down a few days later. We spent the day together but he ordered me back to the motel early. I was to spring him from the hospital the next day and drive us home. The doctors recommended he not drive for a few weeks. He wanted me rested to drive. I worried about keeping my Pilot in the passenger seat.

That night there was a beautiful storm. Sheets of rain as dense as snow swept across roofs and a literal rushing stream swept down the motel parking lot. Water and wind rocked David’s Audi parked in front of my door. The car alarm kept going off. At 9 pm, I called David to find out how to deactivate the alarm from the door locks. “Just keep it unlocked, Cricket. If someone is out in this storm stealing things, they need whatever is in that car worse than we do.” His bed was too far from the window for him to see much of the storm so I described it for him. We talked for a few minutes before he ordered me to bed.

“I love you, David. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He had another heart attack just after midnight. I imagine he relished the rough air of that magnificent storm during his last take-off from Earth.

My daughter says, what stands out for her about my story is that I’ve lost two wonderful men and yet I’m still grateful. Gratitude isn’t something I can conjure with a sticky note. I have to spend time in the numb, pissed, raging spaces. Throwing temper tantrums on my bed or yoga mat helps. Journaling afterward, sometimes gratitude shows up like David did, summoned but unexpected. Yes, I wanted twenty-five more years with Michael. I wanted a lot more than four with David. But stars don’t quit shining just because we ride the spin of the earth into sunlight. David and Michael’s gifts of love and light aren’t erased from my life. How can I not be grateful?

Gratitude list: D is for David, and daring to date him, and darkness through which love throws wild auroras.

For more on David check out my essay, “Pontoon Pilot,” and the poem, “Flying Coach,” on my website. He’s sure to show up again in my gratitude alphabet, Love with Roots.