Sailing Away

She was 27.  I was 23.

We weren't supposed to meet, but we did.

I lived in Michigan.  That is where I grew up, and if I ever wanted to move, I only wanted to move farther north.  It did not snow enough in the Thumb of Michigan to suit me.

My best friend, Evans Bentley, went to Emory Theological School near Atlanta.  He had a long time girlfriend, whom he had met at Michigan State University, that had recently dumped him.  I felt bad for him.  My own life was in kind of an upheaval...I had taught one year of high school, and I was not going to be invited back for a second year.  I had no girlfriend, and not much of anything else.  I was not sure where to go or what to do next.

I decided that summer of '78 to go visit him at Emory and console him.  I would then go on to Florida to see a girl who had moved down there, and I thought might have an interest in me.

By the time I got to Emory, he had already found another girlfriend, and needed no consoling whatsoever. They arranged for me to have a blind date with a friend of his new girlfriend, but she wouldn't be there for a day or two.  Meanwhile, this girl, Betsy South, was being visited by a different friend of hers, whose name I first thought was Loretta, but gradually figured out was Retta.

We all decided to do a few things together.  Why not?  The girl they really wanted me to meet would not be there for awhile.  I thought Retta asked me if I liked to go "selling"  which I thought was a kind of different question to ask someone, until I finally realized from Evans, that she was asking if I liked "sailing".  It would take a little time before I got used to the accents down here.

We did sail, across Lake Lanier.  We camped out.  We climbed Stone Mountain.  We ate at nice Southern restaurants.  And we talked.  And talked.  And her accent no longer became an issue.

I finally met the girl I was supposed to meet.  She was a rather large framed girl, who mostly bragged about how she had gone to a fancy Atlanta restaurant on top of a skyscraper, and had spent tons of money on a huge meal.  Somehow, there was no attraction there.  Besides, I had found another.

A few days later, I returned to Michigan (without having gone to Florida). She visited over Labor Day Weekend, having come up with Evans and Betsy.  She returned, but I could not stop thinking about her.  By mid-October, we were engaged.  On October 31st, Halloween. I moved to Georgia, where I still am to this day.  By the end of December, we were married.

We had two fine boys, Gregory Rountree and Douglas Redwine.  We did everything we could to make a life together, and there was love.

But not everything always works out.  I have no interest in a Baptist style testimonial, with one side confessing, or even worse, blaming the other.  We made it work for quite awhile, because we both cared for each other and our children, but it did end.  At least in being married and sharing a home.

Although not close afterwards, we were never hateful or angry with each other.  Not every action we took was perfect.  Mistakes were made.  But we did do the most important thing right.  We raised both our boys to be outstanding young men.  Since she had primary custody, this was almost entirely related to her and her strength and love.

I remarried.  So did she.  Both of our second marriages were better for us, finding people that suited our basic nature.

Four years ago, Retta was diagnosed with Stage Four cancer.  She battled it valiantly, having more good days than bad.  On Sunday, November 22nd, she lost that battle, my boy Doug at her side.

The funeral Tuesday demonstrated how well loved she was in the small community she had moved to with her husband.  Everyone was impressed with Greg and Doug, what fine gentleman they were, and how much they loved their mother.

You can love someone without being able to live with them.  I loved you and I still love you, Retta.  We may not have been the match we dreamed of being to each other, and  found our own paths to happiness, but we raised two extraordinary boys.

And that's something to be proud of.