This story is true to the best of my ability to remember it.  It’s possible that some of the memories have been contaminated or that my role in them has been exaggerated, but any of these types of artifacts are purely unintentional.   Unfortunately, some of the names are gone from me forever, so if I leave one out, it’s either out of respect or simply because I can’t remember anymore.

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Many moons ago my older sister handed me a note written on plain white paper that had been folded several times into a nondescript rectangle.  In fact, on initial inspection the only even slightly remarkable outward aspect of this note was evidence that this paper had apparently been in my sister’s possession for a while since it suffered from visible wear and tear including stains to indicate that somewhere along the journey it had encountered a Diet Coke spill.   Unfolding it to expose the contents didn’t appreciably change my perceptions.  Internally, it was not particularly fancy other than the fact that the handwriting was quite pretty.  However, despite its inauspicious appearance, this simple sheet of folded paper ultimately changed my life profoundly.

This note had been delivered into my sister’s care by way of her younger sister-in-law who was very close friends with the author.   In fact, it was a combination of my sister and this sister-in-law who were to blame for the situation in the first place.  You see, my sister’s in-laws held a family camp-out every year at the beginning of summer.  I had been invited to attend several times previously by my sister, but had always refused until the year of her second or third invitation when I had nothing better to do (being between romantic interests at the time).  Feeling like I could use some time away from civilization to let loose and enjoy a little wild-man time, I agreed and made plans to pack up my guns and gear and follow her out to the remote wilderness campsite.   While I was packing my things, the author of the mysterious note had made arrangements to come along with her friend.  She too was not romantically committed at the time, and had decided to enjoy the wilderness and companionship that the camp-out made available.

The trip was mostly typical of such outings.  We hiked to several noteworthy sites, sat around the campfire, shot guns, and generally hung out for several days free from the strictures of society.  Over the course of the four day weekend, I ran around dressed like a nut-job in camouflage with a gun on my hip and a penchant for doing anything I felt like without regard to societal norms.  Were this the first time I had met myself, I would have probably shunned me as a crack-pot.  In spite of this, I did manage to meet the pretty young lady who would ultimately write that little note and learn that her name was Liz.  At one point when we were shooting, she and her friend wandered out of the brush and “happened” upon where a few other young men and I were shooting and asked to shoot the guns I had brought.  At another point, we had all gone into the very small town several miles away to visit a friend of the the host-family and she had commandeered the piano to share some of her amazing talent in that regard (in part to show off I was later told).  Other than that, however, contact between the two of us was generally limited.

At some point along the way Liz had found a tick in her hair and was brushing it out to make sure there weren’t any more hidden away up there.   Now, I have always had a thing for thick, shiny, beautiful hair, and she had all of the preceding traits in abundance.  The motion of her hair as she tossed it around to complete the job attracted my attention, and I found myself admiring her.  Once she had my attention, it didn’t take much contemplation to discover a broad range of other highly attractive features, and before I knew it, she looked up and caught me gazing at her.  Were this the end of the encounter, it wouldn’t necessarily have been particularly significant.  However, Liz wasn’t the only one who noticed my focus…  My sister took note.

At the end of the weekend, I returned to my regular routine of school, work, eat, sleep, repeat…  I had been in an out of several relationships recently, all of which had ended badly, and I was in no hurry to engage myself in another.  I was content at that point to focus on finishing my degree and moving on with life.  In fact, recent experience had been bad enough that I had sworn off of dating until after graduation (over two years distant).  My intentions, however, had no significance to my sister.  Every time I saw her, she would harass me about calling Liz.

Now, if you know much about my sister, you know that she is persistent.  Actually, unrelenting would probably be a better word.  For five months she didn’t give up.  Either she was completely oblivious to the hints I was dropping, or she didn’t care what I did or didn’t want to do.  At first I would simply say I was too busy.  Then I mostly quit coming to my parents’ house and holed up in my apartment.  However, she saw through my excuses.  That, coupled with the fact I had moved out of the apartment to escape a bad situation, overturned all my plans.  She began making holes in my schedule for me.  Ultimately, the best I could do was to claim I didn’t have her number.  While she was determined, stubbornness is a family trait that the two of us share in abundance.  Every step forward she made resulted in a step in retreat on my part.  I wasn’t going to be pushed into this.

Unbeknownst to me, this same pressure campaign had been playing out at my sister’s in-laws’ house.  Liz spent a fair amount of time there with her friend, and every time the two were coincident there my sister would harass Liz about calling me.  Liz wasn’t as stubborn as me, and at some point became fed-up enough with the pressure that she took out a sheet of basic printer paper and wrote a short note on it for Morgan to deliver to me.  This note irrevocably changed the course of my life with a simple message along the lines of “I’m available Thursday, Friday, and Saturday after six, call before I’m booked,” along with her work and home phone numbers.

Had I been sane and rational, I would have called both of those numbers immediately, and continued calling them until I had arranged a night out.  However, my stubbornness got the better of me.  I sat on the note for a few days, then eventually called her house… she wasn’t there.  I called her work… same story.  And with that, I had done what I needed to do to appease my aggressive sister and considered the matter closed.

However, word got back to Liz that I had called, and shortly thereafter she called me.  Not only did she call me back, but she saved me the difficulty of asking her out on the first date by inviting me to come to a haunted house that weekend on a double date with her friend.  Not being completely stupid and stubborn, I agreed.    Liz and her friend made arrangements to “borrow” a neighbors house and cooked dinner for the four of us, including a fine dinner of shepherd’s pie with “dirt and worms” for dessert before we headed out for the haunted house.

For the record, I have never been a fan of haunted houses.  I’m not the kind of person who is particularly jumpy (in fact, Liz and the kids have never had much success startling me), and I don’t find the stupid costumes either scary or entertaining.  However, Liz is somewhat jumpy, and there were several places along the path where she startled enough to get over shyness and grab hold of me.  How much of that was just her naturally jumpy nature, and how much was an excuse to make physical contact I don’t know, but either way, the results were quite pleasant.

We ended the night driving back to the other side of town in my car where I discovered a previously unidentified advantage of stick-shifts.  So long as I was in third or fifth gear, my hand on the shifter would lightly touch her hand while she messed with the channels on the radio.  Oddly enough, she couldn’t seem to find a radio station that she found satisfying, and I almost never needed fourth gear.  Looking back, it was stupid, and I should have just held her hand, but the timid flirtation was quite fun and still makes me chuckle to think about it.

That first date was enough to overcome the inertia I had built up in my intention to remain single until after graduation.  Before the night was over, I was contemplating options for a non-traditional second date.  The idea of spending an evening in a dark theater where I couldn’t enjoy talking with and looking at her just didn’t sit well.  I don’t remember what possessed me, or when I asked, but I invited her over to my parent’s house to bake bread and hang out the next weekend.  This was a radical departure from the norm, and contained a significant amount of risk since my family can be a little overwhelming at times for the uninitiated.   However, my fears were unfounded.

I had been making bread since I was about ten or so, and it didn’t occur to me that it was all that unusual a thing for a twenty year old guy to do.   Besides, the process takes up to three hours, with plenty of time waiting for it to rise and to cook in which to talk, play games, or just spend time together.  She came over and we dove right into the dough, so to speak, ultimately enjoying a slice or two of fresh hot bread and butter before the night was over.  However, when it came time for her to go home, she left without taking her loaf with her.  Clever ploy…

Now, there were a few foundational truths at my house.  One of which was that fresh bread won’t last if left unguarded.  Before I had a chance to protect it, her loaf had been carved up and devoured by the random horde of people who generally hung out at my parent’s.   Feeling bad about this unfortunate accident, I decided the only thing to do was to bake a fresh batch and deliver it in person while it was still warm.   Sunday afternoon (I believe… it could have been Saturday though…) I mixed up a fresh batch, pulled it out of the oven, and drove directly to her house hoping to find her there.

After I pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door, her mother answered.  I hadn’t met Liz’s mom at this point, and wondered what could possibly be going through her mind as she opened the door to a strange young man with two loaves of bread under his arm and an awkward smile on his face.  At the time, about the only thing I found more intimidating than the beautiful Liz was the prospect of getting off on the wrong foot with her parents.  I couldn’t make heads or tails of what kind of impression this encounter would make.  However, if she was concerned, she kept it to herself, and after accepting my cargo she told me Liz had gone for a walk around the block with her kid sister.  She also suggested that I might run into her if I went that direction.  I did, but to no avail.  I returned home without the pleasure of seeing Liz that day.

In the end, though, we reconnected, and managed to do so every weekend for several months.  The weekend dates expanded into the week to cover basically every day for a few more months until we were ultimately married.  While all this happened many years ago, I still get caught admiring her when she doesn’t think anyone is watching, and we still make delicious bread together.