Conversations with Quijote: A Poet's Decades-Long Quest to Reconcile His Ideal Love Affair with Reality

By Arturo Lewis Jaramillo

Love is the most consequential of all human emotions. To experience it is elation; to express it is to speak from the heart; to receive it, the finest moment; to lose it, the worst day; and to write about it is poetry. This book is a literary quest for love in its most idyllic form and the author’s journey, as a young man, to reconcile the love he discovers with reality. Using verse and prose in contrasting styles in collaboration with his imaginary sixteenth century mentor, the famous Don Quijóte de La Mancha, the author explores the depth and breadth of love in a literary style quite unlike most anthologies of poetry. Set in the late 1960s, the poet’s work explores a succession of romantic relationships influenced, pointedly, by the “love generation,” its freedoms, imagination and contradictions. As the author describes it, “it’s a series of love stories told, day by day, in a most unique and lyrical way.” While the pace, distractions and complexities of present-day America lessen our ability to be in love, Conversations with Quijóte reawakens the reader to the sensations and sensibilities of true romance, its rewards and consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunstone Press
• Release date: Mar 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781611395853

Arturo Lewis Jaramillo

Arturo Lewis Jaramillo is an eleventh generation New Mexican, tracing his roots to 1693, with the group of settlers recruited by Don Diego de Vargas to travel from Mexico City to New Mexico after the 1680 Pueblo Revolt. A poet in his youth, his early poetic skills brought energy and creativity to his legal and business writings as a trial lawyer and executive manager. Now, early in retirement, his life experiences, realized dreams and expressive writing style bring meaning and character to his poetry.

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Conversations with Quijóte

A Poet’s Decades-Long Quest to Reconcile

His Ideal Love Affair with Reality

Arturo Lewis Jaramillo

A Dedication

and

an Apology

To my loving wife, with enduring appreciation for your warmth, charm and inspiration, an apology, that all I had to offer were my dreams.

This book is a work of fiction, a composite of the author’s imagination and his idealized recollection of people and events he encountered nearly five decades ago. The names and personalities of the characters have been changed. The dialogue, events, occurrences and contributions in the book have been recreated for dramatic, narrative and other literary purposes. The perspectives and opinions expressed in the book are those of literary characters only; they do not necessarily reflect or represent the views or opinions held by the author or by any individual upon which the literary characters may be based.

Part I

Through Yesterday’s Eyes

An Anthology

1968–1973

Foreword

True love and common sense are too often lost on the young. Not for failing to embrace these values, mind you, but for neglecting to associate one with the other. For the college-aged protagonist and author of this anthology, his search for endless love is transformational. It is a timeless journey so eye-opening and consequential that as he achieves his idyllic romance, he is convinced no other moment will ever again be as fine. What he discovers about his star-crossed love is that common sense is of little value where passion and not reason rules his stars.

The love story that winds its way through this collection of verses and missives is as magical as it is improbable. What little our poet understands about love is gleaned from misadventure. Youth distorts his perspective, inexperience compromises his methods and a chronic reluctance to trust his lovers leads him from one hapless affair to the next. Still, as fate or fantasy would have it, one star-filled March evening in 1968, the poet finds his dream. Whether he is the unwitting mark of a sorcerer’s spell, or his storied romance is reality presented in its most idyllic form, he does not care to know its source or specter, for to him the outcome is true and endless love by any measure of those words. In perspectives that differ only by degree, his extraordinary love endures to this day, nearly five decades after history declared its passing as a casualty of the love generation. If there need be a moral to his story, it is that endless love respects neither the passage of time nor history’s ill-defined decrees.

In a chronologized succession of poems, prose and other miscellaneous writings, the poet and his characters observe that endless love is an obsessive and constantly shifting state of mind. The characters struggle in various ways to comprehend its nuances and cope with its consequences. As the poet sees it, endless love is replete with real and imagined perceptions, fears and volatile emotions, all of which soar and plummet within a predictable range of romantic interaction. This emotional spectrum is driven by two competing forces: the truths and inevitabilities of realism, at one extreme; and the simulations and folly of idealism at the other. The storyline of each romantic encounter leaves the reader to resolve whether the love professed by the characters is what it seems.

Throughout his quest for endless love, the poet searches for consistent emotional responses from his lovers to validate his own commitment to each extraordinary affair. The verses and missives he composes are designed to evoke, or provoke these sensibilities. He envisions that only by such affirmation can the love he seeks be true and enduring. On the many occasions where his journey strays across the ill-defined boundaries of realism and idealism, the poet becomes lost in the ambiguity and questions whether endless love has any meaning at all beyond literary expression. His multifaceted quest begins, ends and begins again, consuming his youth and his most vulnerable feelings.

The poet is joined in his literary quest by his trusted mentor, muse and alter ego, Don Quijóte de La Mancha, the character created by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra in the seventeenth century.¹ Quijóte is the legendary knight-errant whose madness set the bar for accepting all sorts of mythical challenges, not unlike the poet’s mission to discover and experience true and enduring love. The relationship between the two originates when the poet is in high school. Unlike more contemporary heroes of the 1960s, Quijóte is supremely versed in the art of chivalry and expertly skilled in resolving adversities and enigmas of every type. Having been prominently installed in the lore of knight-errantry for his insight, empathy and benevolence, the fame of the ancient knight was earned in relentless pursuit of well-intentioned deeds, though many were complicated by various forms of sorcery, illusion and other types of enchantment. Given the poet’s admiration for the gallantry, optimism and resolve of the ancient knight, he was easily convinced there was much to learn from Quijóte’s distinctive guidance, as well as his mystifying madness. Thus, began the association of the poet and his mentor, the famous knight, who refers to the poet throughout Part I of this anthology as his apprentice.

The poet’s collegiate years are significantly influenced by the ancient knight, who is intrigued with the liberalism of the late 1960s and the search for his own youth, of which the knight has no present recollection. In this tangled setting, the knight sets out to guide the poet through his struggles with menacing windmills and romantic misadventures, most of which are of the poet’s own making. As their conversations unfold, the poet looks to the knight for optimism, resilience and civility as he stumbles through a perplexing maze of ill-fated affairs. As the poet ultimately matures, he is blessed with more than his share of the knight’s distinctive qualities. Regrettably, he is also cursed with more than his share of idealism. Even so, Quijóte seems to the poet an appropriate mentor for every vexing challenge that crosses his path. Although Quijóte claims no particular expertise on the subject of endless love, the ancient knight is, nonetheless, quick to advise, extrapolating his sage guidance from his imagined love and commitment to the peerless Dulcenea del Toboso, Quijóte’s chivalric conception of the perfect woman.²

Quijóte’s famed creator, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, had been on a seventeenth century quest of his own to reconcile and balance the complementary and often contradictory notions of realism and idealism. Applying the teachings of Cervantes to matters of the heart, the poet supposes that reconciling an ideal romance within the limitations of reality is a far more achievable task than resolving how these paradoxical concepts might be so finely balanced as to achieve idyllic love. Reconciliation, as the poet conceives it, requires only the art of rationalization; a clever, yet rudimentary skill that demands little precision or persuasion. Distinguishing and balancing reality with idealism, on the other hand, requires the application of math and metaphysics far beyond the poet’s competence. Needless to say, his poetry is influenced more by rationalization than by symmetry.

The poet struggles mightily with these oblique measures and limits throughout his quest for endless love. Ultimately, he chooses to focus on the human values that seem most advantageous in both realms. Quijóte’s allegiance to the code of chivalry is a guiding-light for the poet in times of doubt and anguish. Over the years, the ancient knight serves as an astute alter ego, role model, advisor and benevolent critic for the poet whenever his youth and inexperience lead him into misadventure. Through Quijóte’s enduring optimism and advice, the poet ultimately finds purpose and enlightenment in his quest for endless love, if not all the logic or fairness he expected.

For those romantic souls who still believe in endless love, this literary journey will harmonize many of the contradictions that lie in wait for unwary lovers as their ideal romance collides with reality. When is love simply too good to be true? Is the convergence of real and ideal love necessarily paradoxical? At what point should lovers renounce an ideal romance for the more achievable values that strengthen the fabric and integrity of their relationship? The issues and anxieties of true love are, in a word, endless.

This anthology reminds us there is much to learn about love besides winning, and there are many truths about endless love lost that are best learned at the knee of the ancient knight.

FOR

LMC

With cherished memories of the storied romance we shared in our youth—

First Impressions

To your stunning smile and sunset eyes,

So-like the star-bright summer skies;

You are my dream and its reprise.

Dearest Linda:

This collection of first impressions and forced refrains are, with my apologies, the best I can do with verse and prose to capture the splendor of your smile, the wit and whimsy of your charm and the artful seduction of your first kiss. Though each account may not be as precise as you may recall it, the liberties I indulge are not without defense. The imperfect stroke of my pen is, after all, guided by an enduring optimism that our storied romance will not end as long as there is ink in my pen to sustain it.

So, there you have it. These verses shall, for a lifetime, remind you that once we shared the rarest moments of our youth.

—April 29, 1968

Undaunted Recollection

I

The splendor of your stunning smile

Beset my modest dreams;

A masterwork of genius

On a canvas of extremes.

II

That I should challenge fate

And join your lips to mine

Was the folly of an errant knight

Whose madness crossed the line.

III

That I won your love by sorcery

Does not deride my quest;

For to fight your flight of fancy

Was well beyond my best.

IV

And if I shall survive for long

Your ecstasy and despair,

I shall recount, between events,

A tale of love unfair.

V

Our romance was contumacious,

Oft’-times awkward; yet divine.

Still, the paradox resolved

With your promise to be mine.

XI

And when I stop to reminisce

Why love bewitched me so,

I recall I held it in my hands

And it never let me go.

VII

You are the rarest orchid

I have ‘ere conceived.

To suppose that I might win your heart,

I was guileless to believe.

VIII

Yet, persistence is a virtue

Quijóte taught me well;

For the unrelenting knight

Never feared the sorcerer’s spell.

IX

Thus, undaunted I aspired

To make our dream come true.

I all but half succeeded

When I fell in love with you.

X

That the legend ends in anguish

Does not negate the dream;

For love lies in the journey,

Like water in a stream.

XI

And until the oceans turn to sand

And hope into despair,

I shall not cede to destiny

The end of our affair.

—April 29, 1968

A Few Thoughts about Trust and Acceptance

I

You whispered once after a long, lavish kiss that trust lies not where it is easily seen or heard, but in the heart, where it can be neither refuted nor denied. Tell me, dear Linda, how would I know what lies in your heart? If I must trust your sweet kiss, I shall be too easily fooled; for say whatever you wish and I shall believe. If, on the other hand, I should conclude that trust lies in your inconstant words and whimsical moods, then I can only fear the worst.

II

That I trust you with my heart means everything to you. If I question your expectations, even slightly, I incur your wrath. Yet, if I surrender, what would be left of my heart should this wondrous affair of ours crumble in your gentle hands? I am not so bold to protest your demands, nor confident enough that I would yield my love beyond redemption. So, at least for now, I shall say whatever you wish and believe it to be true.

III

It is not deceit to tell you what I believe. An idea is neither true nor false, it is an impression, a perspective. Of greater consequence to us is whether our love is genuine. If the love we profess is sincere and enduring, then trust is inherently part of our commitment. So, you see, our quarrel is not about trust; it is about acceptance.

IV

To swear love is endless in the sway of a seductive kiss is always compelling, for what fool would question any promise made by your elegant lips? Still, your passion does not ease my fear that our love is not always what it seems. I struggle with the subtle shift of your eyes and the anxious posture you assume when I gently press you about tomorrow. What is it about commitment that is so challenging for you?

V

Tell me why the future seems so unclear, Linda, and you shall have my trust; for without faith in you, I have no hope of resolving your fears.

—May 6, 1968

A Missive from Linda—

The Shadow of Your Fears

I

Someday, Arthur, you’ll let me stray into the shadow of your fears where your love for me is less convincing. Maybe, then, I can breathe again; unafraid that our relationship is so fragile that the truth will end our dreams.

II

Someday, I’ll persuade you that our love need not be flawless nor unbending to be true and that tomorrow will dawn even if our love is not ideal.

III

Someday, you’ll understand that I will love you always, though my love for you is not as you would shape it. Love is not so impressable that only you may direct its expression.

IV

I sense your anguish and despair and need desperately to explain my love for you. I pray, someday, you will listen to me.

—July 29, 1968

Freshman

The fall of 1967 was about freedom, the opportunity to set my own course and explore the infinite possibilities that lay before me. Conservative by nature and seldom included among the best and brightest, nevertheless, by eighteen I had exceeded most expectations and was justly regarded for my civility and resolve. Though I was an impressible lad who learned how to dream without limiting my reach to a comprehensible grasp, I was reasonably prepared for the journey and, all things considered, worthy of the challenge.

This is not to say I was without frailty or discontent, for I had suffered my share of defeat and disappointment. If there was a fault that concerned me most, it was my vulnerability to sunset-smiles and moon-lit eyes. If only I had restrained the lethal impatience that so rashly beset my unpracticed heart, an unyielding flaw that at first glance would surrender my love, I would not have tread so brashly through the adventures that followed. But, when destiny called, I was predictably imprudent, for passion and not reason ruled my stars.

Inherent in my impulsive approach to love and romance was the inability to deal effectively with transition. I simply could not move on without obsessively weighing the implications of the preceding sentence. I often theorized this manic behavior resulted from the fear that I might not otherwise rectify that precise moment in time. To offset this transcendental fault, I set out to master the art of prevarication, for vacillation seemed a more defensible strategy than indecision. And so it was in the fall of 1967; as hard as I tried to let go of the past, it was so incredibly hard to turn the page.

The semester began in disharmony as I bid my first true love good-bye. I met Rebecca in high school. She was a tall, slender beauty with long ebony hair and the most enchanting smile I had ever encountered. I was stunned by her dark, sparkling eyes and easily captivated by the warmth and innocence of her first gentle kiss. Rebecca was two years younger and as pure as the first flower of spring. What we knew, collectively, about love could be printed on the back of a match cover. Nevertheless, she believed in me and asked only that I safeguard her heart.

We shared the rarest moments of joy and despair, enduring all of love’s formative lessons as if we had been the first to blaze those glorious trails. Though she often tested my self-restraint, I never betrayed her trust, at least, not until the end. What seemed so special about our youthful romance was the illusion that it was meant to be. We were always together, hand-in-hand, through elation and disappointment. We shared an uncommon confidence about our dreams, as if it were entirely within our hands to make them all come true. What comfort, I thought, to have found my destiny in but a single try.

As high-school graduation descended on me like a blessing and a scourge, our relationship became increasingly threatened and complex. A persistent apprehension that time and distance would alter our perfect design became a self-fulfilling prophesy, a setback for which we could divine neither remission nor resolve. It was not as if I had a choice about tomorrow. I had to move on. If Rebecca thought our devotion insufficiently sound to withstand the challenge of my freshman year, there was painfully little I could say to reassure her. The answers she sought required commitment in the face of an unknowable future. I tried to comfort her as the summer faded, but the quandary continued.

At a tender age when I knew neither patience nor middle ground, the conflict escalated to the point where it simply overwhelmed me. When Rebecca refused to let our love run its fated course, and I declined to respond yet again to her chimerical apprehensions, one late summer’s eve I gathered the courage to tell her it was best that I make my way alone. If our love is true, I proclaimed with the subtlety of an axe, it surely will endure. I don’t know what sort of reaction I expected from my shallow speech. Perhaps she considered my solution a convenient way out, and maybe it was. In any case, her resulting silence was deafening, but the message was clear and concise. Without reservation or reproach to ease the terror of the moment, my first true love, as quickly as night-to-day, was dispatched on its way.

Of this fateful transition I will remember always a stoic young woman with tears of betrayal in her eyes, who walked away without a word about the disappointment that filled her heart. I learned, instantly, the value of compassion and empathy and how difficult it can be to retract an insensitive lapse of civility.

In the weeks that followed my enrollment at the university I often found myself adrift and disheartened without Rebecca’s reassuring smile to begin and end the day. For want of a small measure of empathy I let the only meaningful relationship I ever had slip away. I called Rebecca a time or two thereafter, thinking I could make amends with an earnest expression of regret. While she was cordial and listened politely, it was painfully clear our love had drawn its last breath. I never got over Rebecca’s gentle kiss or the consummate despair of true love lost, sensations I would come to know repeatedly for many different reasons.

Wiser and more compassionate for my failing grade in sensitivity, I cast my fate upon the stars and set off to find my dreams. Blessed with limited responsibilities and more time than I could justifiably commit to my studies, I had little reason to press my ingenuity or address much beyond the events of the day. To my credit, I was mindful that true love had been easier lost than won and I resolved not to repeat the failures of the past. And so, for better or worse, I veered directly into harm’s way and when passion summoned, I eagerly answered the call.

As was my tendency in these intemperate times, improvidence was my undoing. Everything about the late 1960s was too casual and reactive. A passing glance across a crowded classroom and the next thing I knew I was embroiled in a flaming romance. And why not? Adventure and intrigue were widely in vogue and I was most receptive to the tenor of the times. While I imagined myself tuned-in to the vagaries of free love and other contemporary contradictions, I wasn’t nearly prepared for Hattie Thornburg’s thesis on love, impetuosity and the search for random expectations.

A friend of a friend introduced us at a party that had run its immoderate course of libations and deafening music. In the late-night sway of the moment I sensed a delightful vulnerability in her fetching eyes and seemingly shy disposition. Unbeknownst’ to me, however, I was the easy mark for this astute charmer. When a half-sentence of my opening line turned miraculously into a delicate embrace, and then an impassioned kiss, I was swept away like yesterday’s sunset. As best I can recall, love was never in any of Quijóte’s adventures this easily claimed. So, by the code of knight errantry, I proclaimed myself enchanted and made the most of our amazing encounter.

Older by a few years and palpably experienced, every passion-filled moment with Hattie evolved into a fascinating affair I could neither fathom nor flee. Critical decisions during this intrigue were driven by an unbridled fear that unless I commit, true love would pass me by. In this unsteady state the most precious of words rolled far too easily off my lips. As sincere and convincing as it all seemed, the affection we so earnestly professed was more an intimate reaction than a rational and mutual exchange. But, at least for the moment, and from time to time thereafter, I never doubted this was the right thing to do. If a lack of empathy and compassion were flaws in the past, they would not be again!

If the compressed feeling in my heart was not true love, I did not care to learn what else it might be, for the intimacy was glorious and the illusion far superior to any of my dreams. If I was deceived about the fundamentals of love, then it was mutual duplicity. If I was enchanted, then the sorcerer’s spell was grandeur like I had never experienced or expected. And, if this splendid romance was the mendacity of a piqued rogue bent upon blessing and then breaking my heart, then have at it, I proclaimed in a fit of unwise passion, for if this love be folly, then let me bask in the warmth of deceit for two lifetimes. Ah, fair youth, if it is true that I am in love, then I am no judge of wit or reason.

Even in my youth I understood the correlation between familiarity and contempt, but I considered the premise too broad to pose an immediate threat to this romance. As it turned out, however, Hattie and I soon discovered that neither intimacy nor enchantment could long sustain the fantasy. We lived in two different worlds. A part-time student, Hattie worked day jobs to pay her way through school. Late nights, after classes, were reserved for me. Our discussions were limited and inconvenient. As I think back on this uncommon journey, I doubt Hattie ever understood who I was. There were those incredible moments—over-filled with passion and promises—but, forever was a fleeting dream without substance or a clear path. When we discovered our love had been fashioned from passing impressions and chimerical pledges, our relationship began to fray at the edges, and then unravel. Commitment was hard to come by at eighteen, particularly in the fog of the love generation. The boundaries of reality were painful lessons for each of us to learn. An enduring pride sparkled in Hattie’s eyes as our lips joined one last time. No regrets, we pledged, as we gently kissed each other good-bye. Few of life’s resolutions were ever thereafter as amiable, or regrettable. Sadly, our paths never again crossed.

For weeks thereafter I stewed in desolation over another failed romance. In desperate need of compassion to soothe my wounded affections, I occasionally took in the off-beat gatherings in Turner’s room at the end of the hall. Conspicuously out of place with this always raucous, semi-conscious crowd, one lost weekend I happened across an extraordinary young woman standing alone in the hallway. Fascinated by her sleek blond hair and intrepid disposition, Gail Asher barged her way into my heart when I was most susceptible to her witty, undaunted style.

Asking me what a misplaced soul from the last century was doing at one of Turner’s parties, I shed my tie and earned favorable review by describing myself as one of Turner’s eclectic friends, a fact that Turner himself affirmed as he unexpectedly stepped into the hallway for a smoke. Disoriented by her aggressive demeanor and suggestive gaze, when I hesitated to accede to her playful banter, my prevarication drew a sharp rebuke. Always quick-witted, I attributed my distraction to her elegant smile, explaining it was difficult for me to speak and stare at the same time. The most glorious smile rose between her blushing cheeks. Her response was the sweetest kiss, laced with intimacies far beyond any of my limited experiences. Gail was overwhelming and I promptly surrendered. I don’t remember much about the rest of that evening until just moments before dawn as Gail, in full glory, counted the stars from the window in my room, anxious to tell me the history of the universe.

Our relationship blossomed slowly, competing against the many social and political causes to which Gail was steadfastly committed in addition to her scientific studies. While Gail’s uncommon affection for me seemed honest and heartfelt, the sensations were not entirely shared, at least, not at first. All the same, out of a sense of common courtesy and a misguided urge to reciprocate, I suggested that they were. You must understand, the circumstances were most compelling. Who was I, after all, to doubt the wisdom of fate’s design? Could destiny be so frivolous as to grant me such a provocative opportunity if I was meant to simply pass it by? Having become adept at answering rhetorical questions of this sort, warranted or not, I led with my best line and learned to say all the right words at every promising opportunity.

The first few months of the spring semester flew by. The more we shared about our diverse dreams and passions, the more perplexed I became about this uncommon relationship. In addition to her natural beauty, I discovered that Gail was an exceedingly bright and charming woman, gloriously passionate and outspoken about everything. As our focus shifted from romance to enlightenment, I also learned how differently we perceived the world around us. Often immersed in anti-war demonstrations and overly protective of her wide diversity of friends, our relationship was occasionally strained and never entirely comfortable. When we were not arguing about current affairs and found time to be alone, we shared the most touching moments of my youth. Gail was as loving in my embrace as she was committed to her activism. Even so, we seldom agreed about anything of consequence, nor did we share even one common dream.

As much as I learned about love and the planets from this extraordinary young woman, the less I really understood. Was love this wonderful passion I felt in my heart when we embraced? Or, was love cleverly disguised in the restraint I exercised as I acceded to her choice of friends, movies and most everything else? I never really found out. What I did learn is that a kiss is an imperfect medium for suppressing the truth. As hard as I tried to persuade Gail that her heart and not her politics was what mattered to me, my kiss became less and less convincing. Eventually, when there remained little doubt that our relationship had but one anchor, affection faded into indifference and infatuation into discontent. How fortunate, I thought, that in the end hearts this young and resilient would so easily mend. Foresight was never thereafter my strong suit.

Three days after Gail walked into the history books, you inadvertently dialed my telephone number. A fortuitous mistake, and by destiny’s singular decree I happened to be at the other end of the call. Whether by fate or some other heavenly design, as I lifted the receiver to find a curious and persistent silence, I witlessly promised to lay a thousand kisses upon your body in a clever effort to discover who you were. Coupling a cynical expression of disbelief with the unsociable comment that I should live so long, the course of my destiny was altered and my life would never again be the same. Not by the rarest stroke of good fortune would you and I have met under any other circumstance, for what fool would promise a storeroom of kisses and emerge with the brightest of heaven’s stars? That our divergent paths should cross was plainly meant to be, and in the end, this most improbable encounter became my heart’s war and peace!

We spoke in full disguise for twelve enchanting nights, neither knowing whom the other might actually be. Surreptitiously we shaded the stories of our lives, fearing that the intrigue might become tiresome if the truth were to influence the initial version of the script. In this unique way, with our true identities concealed and off limits by agreement, for hours at a time we discussed in unimaginable detail our grandest dreams, the Vietnam war, medieval knight-errantry, the truths and fallacies of sorority life and our diverse perspectives on love and romance. Night after night, often into the early morning hours we shared our dreams and deepest secrets. Most of what we discussed would never have been shared at all had our relationship been burdened with the usual face-to-face formalities. What better circumstance could we possibly have fashioned to explore the intricacies of love and commitment than an honest exchange of ideas in the dark? How odd, we thought, that a flowering romance could flourish by chance and error alone. Despite my penchant for chronic misadventure, I supposed that, perhaps, love was not as challenging or complex as it seemed.

As our nightly dialogue continued, I began to sense from your carefully phrased questions an increasing curiosity about whom I might really be and a developing confidence that the truth might not end our adventure. When curiosity got the better of us, we resolved, after some debate, that we should meet. While we would never concede such vulnerability in the face of so many uncertainties, we nonetheless expected that a dream of some consequence was about to unfold. Still, in the event our expectations should in some inscrutable way fall short of the mark, it was expressly agreed that only the two of us would witness this momentous occasion. We swore an oath of eternal secrecy in the event our encounter should prove disastrous. I was overwhelmed at the prospect that my greatest romantic adventure was at hand. I never slept the night before we met, wallowing in anticipation of your thrilling embrace. It would be the best or worst day of my life.

We met at Roma park on Saturday night, March 16, 1968. You were Linda Madison Clark, as I had learned in our last telephone conversation. As for the rest of you, the first thought that entered my mind as my eyes fell upon your scintillating smile was how short of the mark I had imagined your beauty to be. Oh, I admit I indulged in fanciful speculation; but you were radiant and I was immediately taken. As I stumbled nervously toward you with champaign and red roses nearly in hand, the compassionate expression from your exquisite blue eyes reassured me this encounter would be like greeting an old friend after a prolonged absence.

Beautiful beyond any measure and exceedingly intimidating, you sat poised on the white concrete bench like a Victorian portrait awaiting adulation. I don’t recall my first words upon greeting you, but they must have been gibberish, for I had never seen in one young woman everything I could possibly desire. Though you spoke nary a word as I approached, you rose unexpectedly from your seat and kissed me softly, then extravagantly!

That incredible moment will forever be etched across my heart as the single greatest moment of my life. A young man’s fancy could not have been swept away with any greater torrent or tenderness. You were, beyond imagination, a dream-come-true. The rest of that enchanted evening was nothing short of an opulent dream. Don’t wake me,