I celebrate my memories. So many of them.
In the l950s, many, many years ago, truly another lifetime, you didn't D-I-V-O-R-C-E. When you said those two words, "I do," that was it. Henceforth and forevermore.
And now here I was, Lottie Bee.
A young, disgraced, divorcee.
I had moved back home to Jackson and was trying to get over an unhappy marriage.
I was working at the admissions desk at University Hospital and almost every day I saw the dark-haired, dimple-cheeked Dr. Boggan who made afternoon rounds and was always so polite, so friendly. He wouldn't remember me, but I knew him from way back when I was a little girl.
Our families, the Brents and the Boggans lived on Eagle Avenue, almost right across the street from each other.
Now, all these years later, when I heard that the friendly, good-looking Dr. Boggan and his wife were getting a divorce—the thought ran through my head. He and I just might…
But if it hadn't been for one afternoon when he stopped by my desk and asked an eight-short-worded question, it would never have happened.
"When does your husband graduate from medical school?"
I caught my breath. "I-I'm divorced."
We stared long and hard at each other.
"Could I have your telephone number? Maybe we could go out to dinner."
My heart skipped a beat. Or two. Or three…
Glory be. I was going on a date. Not just, any date. But with the man of my dreams. Sometimes the heart knows what the heart wants.
That was it. From that moment on, every day with Willard Boggan was a gift.
In almost every picture taken of us he has his arms draped protectively across my shoulders—prepared to do battle with dragons as in the olden days, or thieves and malcontents in the here and now.
I closed my eyes and let the memories flow. The man was a throwback to another century. If the ground is wet, men spread their cloaks for females to step on. If he has no cloak, a golf sweater will do. A gentleman always walks on the outside so his lady will not be spattered by mud if a horse and carriage happen to pass by. If no carriages are on the road, then with the male on the outside, the lady is safe from a motorcycle straying off course, teen-agers doing wheelies, or any other bodily harm.
Love was a way of life with Willard. When he practiced medicine, he was a healer in the truest sense of the word. Most of the time he was on call, 24 hours a day. Whenever anybody talked to him he listened, really listened. He knew how to bring hope when it was at all possible, solace when it was needed. He took loving care of his patients, as he did his family and his wife for almost 60 years.
His commitment to helping other people made me a better person (some of the time). He had a heart as big as the whole outdoors. He'd always been there for his patients, making house calls, returning all hours of the day or night to the hospital, or a phone glued to his ear, talking to ill or disturbed ones, or their family.
With him, thoughts of others always came first--until it came to playing a game—his family knew those rules full well. They had learned them the hard way.
Guerrilla warfare.
This gentle man became another person. He would shamelessly beat little children at hopscotch, ping pong, tossing horseshoes, or any game. Then, no holds barred, he was first.
He was in-it-to-win-it.
He and I would play tennis against each other. I would try to reach high lobbying tennis balls and return the hard slams he sent, not toward the court lines, but to me, his rival's body.
Then one day, bim, bam, and not, 'Thank you ma'am.' His hard, fast, forehand shot smashed my face.
"That hurt," I called out. Mouth dry, hands shaking, I laid my racquet down, beckoned my opponent forward and met him at the net.
"I'll always play tennis with you. But I'll never stand across the net from you. Ever again."
A sad smile deepened his dimples.
And I didn't.
But what a gentle, thoughtful man he was in so many ways. He served me coffee in bed, brought me the paper. He took out the garbage, would warm my car up and pull it around front for me. When we skied, Willard put my ski boots on my feet in the morning, unsnapped and pulled them off in the afternoon. He set out all my pills, arranged them in the order in which I needed to take them. If I had a hard time sleeping, he rubbed my back. Never a day passed that he didn't tell me he loved me. (And, to say the least, I'm not always very loveable).
He'd always be there at Lemuria for my book signings—my knight, not in shining armor, but my husband, proudly wearing his Navy dress whites.
Valentine's is the day of love. Of giving and receiving. Scotch Irish, husband Willard wasn't big on bought gifts. He just didn't think much about them, one way or the other. But the day of love, now that was always a little different for him.
On most Valentine's Days I received a box of chocolates (my husband loved candy). Along the way were a few albatrosses I didn't want, but there was always a card, with hard-to-read, handwritten, heartfelt messages, one of which read, "I cannot put into words the way I feel about you, but I will try. My greatest desire is to make you happy. Many years ago on Windermere Terrace I prayed every night that God would give you to me.
He answered my prayers.
Willard."
God called him home on the day of love.
My forever,
Valentine.
