Happy Birthday, Rick!

It's hard to believe.  Sixty-two.  I've known this man much longer than I knew my own father. 

We met during our first year of university.  I was sixteen years old, hanging out by my locker in the tunnels at Memorial University, MUN for short in those days.  This blond boy was in my friend's English class and recognizing her, stopped to talk to our group of girls, friends who attended high school together.

I was always partial to blonds.  He was my height, wore glasses, and seemed kind of shy, not someone who enjoyed partying and a large social group.  

I'll never forget the time we went to a concert at the Arts and Culture Center in St. John's.  We weren't dating very long at that time.  As we came down the huge staircase to leave, a young woman ahead of us fainted and sank to the steps.  The crowd around her parted and we, who were higher up the stairs, could see her crumpled on the stairs ahead of us, alone.  No one made any effort to help her.  Rick did.  He rushed ahead and bent to see if she was alright.  Finally her friends came forward as well.  After a few minutes she awoke, disoriented but fine.  I never forgot that incident because it told me a lot about this young man next to me.

We dated for five years before we got married;  another four before we had Claire.  Now, going on

forty-five years later, age has taken its toll.  The bones creak, hair changed in several ways, lines appeared, backs ache, waistlines expanded, and blood pressure went up.

However I love and appreciate him more each year.   And, looking around at our life together, though it started out in a tunnel, it brought lots of sunshine to me.  

Happy birthday, Rick.  Love, Marie.