|And each of them has/had a name. Please don't test me . . .|
My first date with my Husby-to-be was memorable.
On so many levels.
You can read about it here.
Go ahead . . . you won't miss anything . . .
Our second date was even more memorable.
But for more exciting reasons.
It was the occasion of our first kiss.
Let me see if I can describe it . . .
The sun has set.
Darkness drifts slowly over the prairie.
A large, quiet feed lot.
Young bulls in the background, munching on grains.
The smell of fresh manure wafts on the cool, autumn breeze.
A young man and woman snared in the light of the mercury-vapor lamp.
Their eyes lock.
They move closer . . .
You get the picture.
Okay, maybe not to the normal person.
Fortunately for me, Husby-to-be was as un-normal as his wife-to-be.
A perfect match.
But the date was only beginning.
After our kiss, we returned to my parent’s home.
And that’s when I received my second surprise of the evening.
When we stepped into the vestibule (ooh! I like that word), Husby-to-be pulled a little package out of his pocket.
“Here,” he said, smiling. “I brought you something.”
Have I mentioned that I love surprises?
Well, I do.
Moving on . . .
I quickly opened the little bag and tipped out two little fuzzy men.
With magnets on the back.
“Thank you!” I said. Then I gave him a kiss.
It seemed like an appropriate response.
And I’d just discovered he was a great kisser.
Ahem . . .
And so began a tradition that lasted for years.
And covered a large part of our fridge.
Until a bottle of home-made root beer sprayed all over them.
Then they were relegated to a shadow box.
I love traditions.
Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .