Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

March 17, 2007

Fuddy-Duddy Lover

By Ron Gold

            People who never knew my husband called him a “fuddy-duddy”.  Yes, he was a banker; a forms-oriented bean counter in charge of issuing credit, approving loans and mortgages – a creative force in developing our community.

            Charles was an Ivy League business school graduate, a tall man with a fine mind who wore well-pressed dark suits, starched white shirts, conservative ties, rimless glasses and a gap-tooth smile.  He wrote in black ink with a fine-point fountain pen.

            Charles was my husband, friend and lover – a kind man with a sweet, plentiful spirit; the most romantic man God ever created.

            Charles and I loved each other.  We also loved music and dancing, the kind where you held each other in your arms, closed your eyes and gracefully glided to the beat of listenable music. 

            In addition to loving our music, we actually believed the popular song lyrics of the thirties and forties.  While we treasured a Jerome Kern melody or a George Gershwin tune, we were more interested in what their lyricists, Oscar Hammerstein and Ira Gershwin, had to say.

As Charles said so often, “the melodies are beautiful but their words are more important.  Words tell stories, evoke emotions and turn popular music into classic thought.”

            Charles and I were regulars at Pietro’s, a roadhouse about a fifteen-minute drive from our home.  Every Saturday night we would dine on steak and salad and dance through the wee hours, listening to the touring big bands: Benny Goodman, Harry James, Les Brown and both Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey.  And my big, handsome fuddy-duddy banker and I would actually smooch unashamedly on the dance floor!

Dancing at Pietro’s was our weekly ritual except for the last months of my pregnancy and Charles’ brief wartime service.

Whenever Charles was stationed nearby and had a weekend pass, we’d spend that Saturday night dining, dancing and dreaming of our return to peace and normalcy.  Charles had to withdraw savings to buy our steaks.  “It’s worth it,” he said, “just to hold you and croon those magical words in your ear. Let’s do this for the rest of our lives. We deserve it.”

            We did, but the rest of our lives lasted only three lonely, anxious and dreadful years.  Charles was killed when a Nazi plane strafed his rifle company in Italy.

            I was presented with a gold star flag recognizing and honoring his heroic death—and a presentation American Flag when he was later buried in Arlington National Cemetery.  A trumpeter, not Harry James or Bunny Berrigan, played taps, not “Stardust”.

Following the burial, Charles’ spirit came back to bless-not haunt-me.

            One evening, when our daughter Cindy, was preparing dinner, she exclaimed, “Mom, look what I found in your recipe book!”

            It was a note, “You are the angel glow that lights a star.  The dearest things I know are what you are.”  It was written in black ink in Charles’ unmistakable handwriting.

            One day, while rearranging my linen closet, I found, “In this world where many, many play at love, but hardly ever stay in love, I’m glad there is you.”

            A month or two later, while searching the garage for terracotta flowerpots, I found this mud-stained, black ink message:  “I see your face in every flower, your eyes in skies above.  It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love.”

            Life goes on.  Wars end but, unfortunately, begin again. Pietro’s closed. The big bands became too expensive to go on the road.  Our favorite bandleaders are now playing for Charles in Heaven.

Times change.  New bands feature electrified guitar leads, not saxophones or trumpets.  Music and lyrics have given way to noise and vulgarities.  Will true peace ever make a comeback?

I’m alone now, but certainly not lonely.  I’m blessed with two lovely grandchildren and I still find an occasional new brief, warm love note from my beloved fuddy-duddy lover.  It makes life more exciting and livable .

            The songs may be ended but their memories linger on.

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com