In Pursuit of Peggy

By Peggy Maher-Daniels

Peggy is overwhelmed by her first love and within six months of meeting and dating Craig, her military father receives a transfer to the United States and her idyllic life of living in Germany for six years comes to closure. They meet again in 1978, but then they don't talk or find each other again for 43 years. She never forgot him, nor did he her. Peggy finds precious pictures and memorabilia of them together decades later, but it takes a year for her to work up the nerve to contact him. When she does find him, she realizes the man who made such an impact on her young life surprises her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350928068

Book preview

Prologue

To My First Love,

I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope, and every dream that I’ve ever had, but I didn’t realize it. I did not know at sixteen that your first love is the one that sticks with you, because he is the only person who will ever receive all of you. It wasn’t until I heard that familiar, strong, and upbeat voice that I realized I was in the dark. Until I noticed those sunny colors of yours, I didn’t realize mine had faded, and, most importantly, until I realized my life with you, I didn’t understand I was barely breathing. Even though it was I who interrupted the early chapters of our love story, all I ask is that you allow me the opportunity to finish the book of us. To you, to me, to us, our love will be forever.

1

Innocence

Thursday, April 15, 1976: It is late afternoon, and a light spring wind is hitting my face and blowing my long, dark hair into my eyes. My father is yelling at me, Peggy, you must keep your eye on the ball! You must stay focused.

I’m not happy. I don’t want to play softball, and I didn’t want to sign up for a team, but my neighborhood fellow army brat giddy girlfriends on the Pastorius military base in Nuremberg, Germany, coaxed me into it. I have the athletic ability of a brick, and I’m always the last person chosen to be on any team in gym class. As my father throws the balls, neither my bat nor my right hand seems to be coordinated with any of my father’s pitches. The thought of having to wear a white-and-orange-striped uniform, with the matching orange wool hair ribbons that my mother bought me to be fashionable with my ponytail, is causing anxiety. I’m discovering that being sixteen is not easy. Bending to peer pressure, keeping my complexion clear with tubs of Noxzema, and arguing with my mother about the correct length of a miniskirt are all part of my daily experiences and interactions. Many of my girlfriends have entered the phase of being boy crazy. I’m just not there yet. Having just turned sixteen, I’m having enough trouble managing my own emotions from day-to-day. It’s not that I am not attracted to boys, I just think they are way too much trouble. I see too many of my girlfriends crying their eyes out from being jilted, and they become so emotional. If I must hear one more time, I’m going to kill myself because he broke up with me, I think I’m going to puke.

All I care about is making enough babysitting money to buy all the Jackson Five and Elton John albums, along with the coolest eye shadow and lip gloss that I can find at the base PX (Post Exchange). I have fallen in love, though, with the world of fashion. My mother has become quite an accomplished seamstress with her new Singer sewing machine and the Spiegel patterns that she buys and practices with. Even though my five-foot-four, ninety-five-pound frame is not going to be recognized by any famous fashion photographer at Vogue Magazine, I know that I can do the catwalk in our Pastorius Strasse apartment, A-2. My one fashion challenge is platform high-heeled shoes. I’m constantly being advised by every adult woman I see that I am going to fall and kill myself and/or that I will have problems walking when I turn thirty. Thirty? I’m trying to figure out how to make it to seventeen.

I hear my father yelling at me, and I can see the intensity of the dissatisfaction on his face. That’s it, girly girl, you’re done! That coach is gonna cut you from the team because you ain’t even trying. I’m too busy staring at the giant clouds above my head and thinking about what stylish outfit I want to wear to school tomorrow.

Wednesday, April 30, 1976: On our first day of practice, the girls and I are hanging out near the dugout, patiently waiting for everyone to arrive for our first practice session with our coach. I’m still not jumping for joy at being on a softball team, but I’m thinking my dad is correct: I’ll get cut soon. I see a male figure approaching the field, and he’s wearing those cool, dark sunglasses that you can see your reflection in. As he gets closer, I’m shocked. He’s young, and he has gorgeous, sunlit auburn hair.

Then, he opens his mouth to introduce himself, I’m Craig, and I’m your softball coach, ladies.

His voice is so strong and mature. His physique is perfect, too, vaguely reminding me of Barbie’s boyfriend, a Ken doll. The tight muscles are evident on his shoulders, arms, stomach, and legs. Just about every part of him looks incredible from my point of view. Is there a mistake? All the other coaches are my dad’s age with slightly pouched bellies. He’s talking, but I’m not hearing anything he’s saying. Nothing is computing between my ears. He tells us about himself. He is a young soldier who played baseball in high school and wants to volunteer with our league while stationed at Merrell Barracks in Nuremberg for the American Youth Association (the on-base kids’ hangout for army brats). I’m feeling anxious now, because I know whatever chance I had at attempting to be halfway coordinated is going straight to hell. He is taking the time to chat with each of us individually, and as he approaches me, I become quite apprehensive. I can’t look him in the eyes because I’m afraid I won’t be able to form a sentence if he asks me a question. He has a penetrating stare like he’s looking right through me, and there’s something about the way he moves his lips. God, please make this be over