"Some Enchanted Evening" Submissions
Set 6

"Some Enchanted Evening" Home

We met at my mother's piano bench. How do you know it is true love at 10? I don't know, but it was. I think it was a true crush at that time. My mother had always taught piano lessons. There were kids ringing the doorbell between 3 and 6 p.m. everyday. I had noticed a handsome, bashful boy with wonderful blue eyes. I began to check my mom's appointment book and be sure I answered the door when David came for his piano lesson. Although we did not date until we were in high school, I had my eye on him for a long time. We enjoyed high school choirs and marching band too.

After we each graduated from Iowa State University in 1974, we were married and moved to Minneapolis where David pursued his MBA at the U of M and I began my teaching career. David & I will celebrate our 29th Anniversary June 1, 2003. We have two wonderful sons, we will all be "U of M" grads, we all play the piano for fun, and, my mother is still teaching piano lessons in Keokuk Iowa.

Teresa Mathews, Eden Prairie, MN

Back in 1978, I worked at a turkey processing plant after school. As I slaved at my job scrubbing greasy, ground turkey from a giant mixing bowl, I stopped for one brief moment of respite. Gazing across the room, there he stood, my heart's desire, tall, lean, easy on the eyes and perfect hair. Just what I had been waiting for lo, these many years, 21 to be exact. The man I had dreamt of, who would father my children and with whom I would spend the remainder of my life.

Casually, I asked a co-worker who the new guy was and she said he was going to start working with us. There is a God and he answers prayer!

One night, eleven months later we were in his car driving through a used farm machinery lot at Star Trek like, Mach 9 speed. As we drove through the blur of green and red, I asked the hansom man beside me why we were doing this he said, "Dad is looking for a used baler." At the rate of speed we were traveling it was difficult to see the difference between combines and balers. When we finally came to a screeching halt in the back row, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a ring and asked me to be his for eternity. Of course I said, "Yes" and 22 years later we are still happily married.

Keith & Sheila Ruka, Kerkhoven, MN

It was Saturday evening Labor day weekend. I'd just finished a summer long project and wanted to relax to some jazz at The Times Bar in Minneapolis. I sat down at the corner of the bar and ordered a beer and dinner. The music hadn't started yet when two women came in a sat at the bar not three feet form me.

The music started and so did one of the women's voices (Dominique) that nearly drowned out the music. They were discussing a blind date that one (Olga) had earlier in the day. This blind date was a total washout. She complained about how he was into his great hair, BMW car, his condo here and down south. I started to laugh when Dominique asked "What are you laughing at?" I said "Hey this guys sounds perfect: money, car, looks, what more could you ask for?" Olga couldn't believe I'd say something like that and that began our next two hour conversation.

We exchanged phone numbers and on December 6th I asked Olga to marry me, and we're getting married on June 21st.

Tom Moehn, Minneapolis, MN

This is how we arranged our own marriage!

First of all, let's get it straight. We never really met. We came to be, like a figure coming out of the mist, gradually taking on a recognizable form. We've known each other so long that it's impossible now to untangle the threads of our lives. And yet, from the time we met in kindergarten through the time we graduated from high school, we shared fewer words than I now share with my dog on any given day.

But we sure did notice each other. The high point of any school day was orchestra, which we always had together from 3rd grade on. And being the serious young musicians we were, and living only a block apart as we did, it only made sense to drive together to our many extra rehearsals and concerts. But we didn't talk to each other. It wasn't that we had nothing to say. More likely, we had too much.

We went our separate ways to college but came home the first Christmas to play in a local performance of The Messiah. I guess it took the perspective gained from lonely hours in the practice studio or at the typewriter (remember those), to give us the courage to appreciate each other. We took heroically long walks that Christmas, considering the cold and snow. And we finally talked, confirming in our own minds the intensity we had each suspected of the other. We confessed love, but mysteriously put that bright package back under the tree unopened and returned to our own separate worlds.

Several years later, I ran into a friend with whom Tom and I had gone to school. He said Tom was living in Germany, working as a musician in a (West) Berlin orchestra. I got the address and wrote tentatively, "Do you remember me? I just thought I'd say 'Hi.'"

Tom's orchestra was away on tour. How was I to know? After three agonizing weeks of telling myself that it didn't really matter, an equally brief but much more definite reply arrived at my door. "Yes!" He remembered me and he'd be in the states soon for Christmas. "Please, let's get together."

We hadn't seen each other in seven years. But when the door opened, we became human magnets, compelled together by a force beyond our ability to resist. It was as if the fates were causing us to form a vital connection before protocol had a chance to get in the way. We announced our engagement at the airport two weeks later, five minutes before Tom boarded to return to Berlin. Over the next few months, we courted on the phone and planned the wedding. You can imagine the phone bills.

Tom came back to the States in July and we married in August. A week later, I left career, friends and family to accompany him back to Berlin, where we lived for the next ten years and had three beautiful children. Our shared experience, both positive and not, of living abroad during those exciting years (1984-1994) has brought a richness and depth to our marriage which helps offset the quiet. We still don't talk much.

Sandra Turner, New Hope, MN

I met Joe on a difficult day - the day I had to discuss with my veterinarian the possibility of at-home euthanasia for my old cocker spaniel, Riley. Though it wasn't needed immediately, I knew it might one day be necessary, and I wanted to be ready.

The dreaded discussion went surprisingly well, but when we got home I fell apart. While Riley voraciously ate then peacefully slept, I sat on the floor and cried. It was pathetic, I was pathetic, and I knew I needed to get out of the house. I chose, of all things, a poetry reading. Usually I avoid them because the poems are half-baked, if that, but at noon on a Friday in Fargo in April, the choices are few.

This particular reading looked different. It was crowded, with only a few places left to sit — a short row of chairs directly in front of the poet, or an empty chair at a back table where a fat, depressed-but-kind-looking man slouched over a glass of milk. A black stocking cap pulled low on his head made him look as if he'd just come off a bad morning of fishing. I named him Chuck. That's where I'll sit, I decided. That's the place for a forlorn writer all broken up over her elderly dog. But first, coffee.

I stood in a long line waiting, looking out the window, watching the poet chain-smoke in the parking lot, wondering if his flushed face indicated high blood pressure. When my turn finally came, I stepped up to the counter, ordered, paid, proceeded to the empty chair across from Chuck, but to my surprise only a jacket was there. He's getting something to eat, I figured. He'll be back.

Drinking my coffee, looking for Chuck in the food line, I heard a friendly, masculine voice behind me. "Hi," he said. A tall bar of Irish Spring carrying a sandwich moved toward the jacket. He sat down, introduced himself, asked questions, listened. I tried to talk, but was distracted by his boyish face with the dark beard, his lively French Roast eyes, his steady hands holding the chicken-on-whole-wheat sandwich and my pressing, unspoken questions. Where was Chuck, who was supposed to be sitting across from me, and who was this engaging stranger named Joe whose good looks alone would have caused me to bypass his table on even my best days? Even odder, I learned Joe, too, was a writer, and he, too, wrote short stories, including a prize-winner in a local contest. And he recognized Scrabble as more than snack food. Our discussion continued long after the poetry reading ended.

Almost a year has passed since we met, and the discussions still haven't stopped. Every now and then we wonder out loud how all of this transpired and whatever happened to the fat, depressed man whom I saw once and Joe didn't see at all. We have no answers. And Riley? He still takes good naps, eats well and enjoys himself. We all three do.

Barbara Beckman, Moorhead, MN

As with much of life it was an unusual cascade of events which led to Barbara and I meeting. What was not unusual is the fact that we met at a bar. It was 12 1/2 years ago. I had some friends in for dinner and they told they had stopped at this out of the way bar and described this new fangled technology called Karaoke. I had never heard of this.

Intrigued, I went the next evening to see for myself. This was not a bar that I habituated. While sitting at the bar I noticed a group of people at a table, one of whom was my dentist. Another, a lovely young woman who appeared to be unaccompanied was with them. An opportunity arose when I could speak to my dentist and he advised, yes, the young woman was single and that her name was Barbara. It turns out that she was at the bar to see a friend of hers who was managing the business about a job and had stayed to visit with other friends. Under ordinary circumstances, neither Barbara nor I would have been in this establishment at this time. I asked Barbara if she would care to dance. We visited off an on through the evening and at the end of the evening I asked if I might call her some time. She allowed as she was in the [phone]book. As you can see I had not overwhelmed her. Well to make the rest of the story short we dated off and on for a few months with our relationship gradually growing. Come August 4th we will celebrate twelve wonderful years of wedded bliss.

Frank McLean, Pequot Lakes, MN

My first job out of college was located near Prairie City, Iowa, population 800. There were literally four eligible bachelors under the age of 50 in the area, one of which happened to quickly catch my eye.

Our first date was attending a hockey game in Des Moines (with al three of the other young bachelors). That night was strange enough — both a) watching hockey in Iowa and b) being seated between all the eligible men in town — but it went well and my date and I arranged to go out again the following week.

He arrived to pick me up and I invited him inside while I donned coat and mittens. As I turned toward him to announce I was ready to leave, he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. We were face to face, and I anticipated a compliment or even a quick kiss.

Instead I heard, "Hang on, you've got something on your face" and my date proceeded to lick his thumb and rub a small part of my cheek. He rubbed hard for a second or two before noticing the "something" was a mole I've had since birth.

He very genuinely stated that he didn't want me to be embarrassed from something he could have prevented, which in an odd way won my heart. That evening at dinner with friends (a spaghetti bistro, ironically) I ate with confidence, knowing I'd likely be the only one leaving without sauce on my face.

By the way, my date passed my "clean ears and fingernails" test that night with flying colors, and we've been inseparable ever since.

Shelly Buitenwerf, Bemidji, MN

And I said I would never marry a farmer!

My sister and I had taken our nieces and nephews (10 of them in all) for a camping trip. We came upon a delightful little historic farm right in the middle of the state park. It was a summer day, midweek, so we had the place all to ourselves. We had a great time with the costumed interpreters and after our tour, we met the new manager that had just moved there from Alabama. I remember how I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen (truly tall, dark and handsome). My sister (the social butterfly) chatted away with him, but I shyly stayed back with the kids.

Fast forward to a cold February day when I was reading the local paper, in it was an ad for a summer job at that very historic site. I thought it was meant to be (the job that is) so I applied, interviewed, and got a job at the site. I spent my summer living in the 1890's and quietly wondering about the very serious (but oh so handsome) manager busy with paperwork in his office.

And wonder is about all I did. He wasn't my type, too handsome and a "city boy". Though in my mid-30's I still considered myself a "geeky red-headed farm girl from South Dakota". I decided we had nothing in common.

Fast forward again to October, my summer job was over and I was back to teaching. That handsome manager called me one day to ask if I wanted to go for a bike ride. I said yes. And that was the start of a wonderful courtship.

I knew I never wanted to marry a farmer (I had had enough of farm life) but I guess I never considered a "historic farmer". This wonderful man, born and raised in the city, had a passion for rural life. He could break a team of oxen and build a log cabin. He could flail wheat and press apple cider. He won this farm girl's heart and soul.

Three years after our very first meeting, he took me down to the Mississippi River. He set afloat two roses for our past and handed me one rose for our future. He told me how one summer day, he had prayed for true love and he looked out his office window to see this red-headed woman with a bunch of kids walk into his historic site. At that point, placed his grandmother's ring on my finger and we danced by that big ol' river while an autumn rain fell.

Mary L. Schmidt, Chester, IA

These internet dates were not working out that well.

In order to get the date in the first place, I found myself trying to conform to what I thought the mysterious person on the other end of the web wanted. So when we did meet, I wasn't myself, I was a composite of the impressions haphazardly created in emails on instant messages. I felt that different people viewed me in entirely different ways, even though there was only one "me."

So I thought I would just start over. I created a new profile on line, "The Real Me Sez". The name came from my intention to say whatever I really thought without regard to what other people thought about it. As if to add emphasis to my intention, I put a picture of my bare butt for a photo.

It was only about a day later when I received a message from a stranger: "Nice Profile," she said. Her online moniker included 5 digits which I assumed were her ZIP code, and to my surprise it was just a few miles away. I indicated no location on my profile, so it was stunning to find my first reply so close.

We talked, me staying true to my self, and she was tremendously witty and in sync with my thoughts. We agreed to meet at a park in her hometown. She got lost on the way there, and I had to guide her in via cell phone. When she finally arrived, she was every bit as pretty, witty and charming as her online conversation indicated. We were dressed nearly matching in jeans and leather. After a picnic and conversation and just a little intimacy, she returned to work, as did I.

Within an hour, we were both trying to call each other at work, seeing if the other was busy that night. She came over to my house, announcing herself with our now traditional greeting, "nice profile."

So its been nearly two years now, and I am still saying what the real me would say, she still liking it or at least putting up with it. I just wanted to let her know that I love her so very much, because I can be me so easily with her.

Tim Copeland, St. Paul, MN

I had gone through a bad divorce in 1998, and vowed that never again would I put myself in a situation with a man serious enough to lead to marriage. I usually had about 2 to 3 men I was seeing at one time. About a year later I was working at this wonderful little bistro and had a friend named Neil who kept telling me about this friend I just had to meet. He and I both procrastinated calling one another, but Neil was very persistent. After a week of Neil pestering, "the friend" called me, and in the beginning what I thought was going to be a basic boring conversation, ended up being a 5 hour phone call that 8 months later ended in a wonderful marriage on our back deck of a home we built together.

We still live there with 2 beautiful daughters, a dog and a mortgage payment! I love him more now than I did that day on that 5 hour phone call.

Jennifer Galindo, Pueblo West, CO

"Some Enchanted Evening" Home

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