Fuzzy, Warm Love

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 . . . we'll wait . . .

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 . . .

Chore time. 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-vapour lamp.
Hey, this is ranching country, what did you expect? The light of the moon?! 

Their eyes lock. They move closer . . .

You get the picture.

Romantic?

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. Pom-pom people. With magnets on the back.

Ooooh! Cute!

“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.

Sigh.

Then they were relegated to a shadow box.

For safety.

And posterity.

I love traditions.

Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .