When does "Once Upon A Time" begin?

June 2nd, 2007.

It is going on 11 years now.

This coming June, 11 years will have passed when, in the town I still consider to be my home, Houghton Lake, MI, a wedding took place. It was a wedding that, in my mind, I had been planning for 30 years. A wedding that should have taken place in 1977, but for a variety of reasons, did not. It was the wedding that begins with “Once upon a time” and now, ten years along on Marital Road, is in the midst of the “They lived happily ever after.” portion of the story.

I love stories that begin “once upon a time”. They are the stories that make you smile. They are the stories that touch your heart. They are the stories you remember, that you pass on, that you wish would happen to you.

But, just when does once upon a time begin?

Does it begin the first time you see the girl of 12 who will become the woman who will later become your wife?

Does it begin a year later when you see that same girl walking the halls of the junior high school in Houghton Lake, Michigan that you both attend?

Or does it begin with a gentle nudge and push by a young woman in a high school French class two years later?

My first recollection of Barb takes place the summer before she began junior high school. I was going to be in 8th grade. An Upper Classman…WHOOO HOOOOO!!!

As was normal for summer, I was out riding my bike; one of those souped-up tricked out bikes with the banana seat, sissy bar with high rise handlebars. For the record, it did not have streamers on the handlebars nor cards in the spokes. It looked like it should have been a Harley. In my mind, it was. When I first spotted Barb, she was in the front yard of the motel her parents had just bought on M-55. Why she caught my eye, why I felt the need to stop, I can never explain. I just had to. So I did. Wanting to make an impression, I decided that the best thing to do would be to perform my patented slide to a stop which would cause dirt and grass and stones to go spraying everywhere. It looked cool. At least in my head it did. Apparently, it didn’t look so cool to Barb, because she appeared wholly unimpressed. And she let me know in that scoff that only a pre-teen girl can scoff. I made a comment. She told me to leave. “Why should I?” I asked. She said she was going to go get her dad, I told her to “go ahead, see if I care!” She went to get her dad. Suddenly I cared and did the smart thing and pedaled away as fast as I could.

Not a good first impression.

The next “Once Upon A Time Moment” meeting came when school resumed that fall. I was in eighth grade. Barb was one of the new kids, a lowly 7th grader. But, not so lowly that I didn’t note her presence in the single hallway between classes. And I noticed her a lot. She had her own circle of friends; she won a Junior High dance contest with my best friend as her dance partner; she hung around with a young kid named Ed. I’ll admit to being a bit envious. But Barb and I seemed too different at the time. She was studious and serious and focused on school. I was the obnoxious, loudmouthed class clown who proudly wore his 1970s era fashion victim status with pride. So, I kept my distance knowing that the dark-haired beauty and I would never mesh. Possibly the only conversation I had with Barb was after she wobbled and hobbled her way through school with her leg in a cast after breaking it while skiing. At last, something in common. A year before, I had zagged when I should have zigged while skiing at Bear Mountain and wound up on crutches with a knee injury that would later be responsible for my honorable discharge from the Navy 18 and a half years earlier than I had intended. I asked if she was all right, and how it felt. She said the hardest part was getting used to walking on the crutches. Otherwise, she was fine. The school year ended. I moved over to the high school while Barb finished junior high.

Tenth grade now. French class, first period after lunch. Sitting beside me to my right and one back is Barb. She’s a freshman. The magic fairy dust has now been sprinkled and I’m truly interested in Barb as a person. Why? Who can explain? Sometimes the most important things are the most difficult things to talk about because words diminish the emotion behind them. And that’s what happened here. That unknown, ineffable feeling that something wonderful was happening and it was overwhelming.

I had somehow managed to hijack the beginning of French Class each day. Our teacher, Mrs. Wenig, would normally arrive about five minutes after class was scheduled to begin. So, to alleviate boredom, I decided that it would be a good idea for me to go to the front of the class and do comedy routines. Most of my material came from the various George Carlin routines I had memorized, or the previous night’s Johnny Carson monologue, or whatever comedian I had seen on the Mike Douglas or Merv Griffin shows. It was my version of Tom Sawyer trying to impress Becky Thatcher by walking atop the white picket fence in front of Becky’s house or George Bailey throwing pebbles at Mary Hatch’s window in the film “It’s a Wonderful Life.” This was my way of getting Barb’s attention. Why I didn’t just go up and say, “Hi,” and see how that worked, I’ll never know. It just wasn’t my style. Barb would laugh as I recited George Carlins HAIR poem for the umpteenth time, or when I would do my Heartbeat sound. She’d also cringe when I’d put my fingers on the chalkboard. The anticipation of THAT SOUND had an amazing effect on the class. We’d talk in the halls, or nod and smile pleasantly, but nothing serious at this point. I still thought we had too many differences in our personality to overcome. I listened to The Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper and Led Zeppelin. She preferred more acoustic-flavored music like Harry Chapin, John Denver and Bread. She was studious and well liked by the teachers. I wasn’t. I had “habits” she didn’t partake in. That’s a lot to overcome at any age. Then, one day, an angel appeared and helped us along by giving me a gentle nudge. Her name was Colleen VanSickle. She was also a freshman and sat directly in front of Barb in that French class. One morning, Colleen stopped me in the halls and we had a conversation that changed lives. I don’t think I had really spoken with Colleen outside of French class before, but this was the most important conversation we ever had.

“Do you know Barb Hendershott?” she asked.

I, of course, answered that I did.

“Well,” she asked in that great sing-song voice that high school girls speak in, “do you like her?”

Not knowing where this was headed, I waited a moment before answering this question. Finally, I said, “Yes. And I don’t know why.” And I didn’t. I couldn’t figure out the attraction I had for her. There was just some connection between us that wouldn’t, and hasn’t, gone away. “Oh, okay,” was her reply. “I knew she liked you, but I wasn’t sure if you like her or not.” With that Colleen left and disappeared into the throng of kids trying to get from one class to the next. Thanks to Colleen, the door had opened. And this truly is the moment when the story moment “Once Upon A Time...” really begins.

Next day in French class was different. I couldn’t keep from looking over at Barb as she worked on whatever translation Mrs. Wenig had us working on. Like an owl, my head kept turning so I could take a peek at her. In the best nervous high school boy fashion, whenever she looked up, my head would snap back to the work I was ignoring on the desk in front of me. When the end of class bell rang, I lingered, pretending to sort my papers until I could walk out beside Barb. It was just a happy accidental coincidence of course. Once in the hall, instead of turning left to go to Mr. Welte’s English Class, I turned right at the same time with Barb and struck up our first real conversation. The next day I did the same thing. Turned right, walked Barb to her next class while we chatted about things in general. It was, to quote the movie, the start of something big.

Our first real date was a trip to the Meredith Drive-In. STOP THINKING THAT WAY!

My best friend in high school was named Kevin Randall. As mutual lovers of Hammer Horror films and horror/creepy films in general, he and I would often go to the drive-in to watch the cheeseball movies that could only be found at a drive-in theatre. He’d drive, I’d pay for the gas. Once when he called and asked if I wanted to Meredith, I asked if it would be okay if I invited Barb along with us. Since the three of us were among the same circle of friends, there was no problem. Kevin drove, Barb sat in the middle. I was dumbfounded. This treasure had said yes. I wasn’t sure if she really understood the question. That I was the one asking her out. Not asking her out with Kevin.

Our first date together as a couple where I drove was to see a movie in Roscommon, Michigan. It was a Tuesday evening and I had finally gotten a car to go along with my driver’s license. It was a Royal Blue 1964 Ford Galaxie 400. I had jimmied it up with the best make-shift 8-track player I could find. Now I could listen to Tommy and Dark Side of the Moon and Masters of Reality as loud as I wanted without the maternal roar of TURN THAT NOISE DOWN!!! When I asked my mom if I could drive Barb to a movie that night. Her response was, “It’s a school night. Her mother won’t let her go.” I called and asked Barb, and to my surprise, Barb’s mother said she could go. (Did she know who I was) So, on a school night, we drove to Roscommon and watched the film Brother Sun, Sister Moon at the Strand Theatre. I even had money for popcorn and something to drink. We saw a lot of movies over the years. Some at the Pines Theatre, some in Roscommon, and one or two in West Branch, which is where we saw the film Jesus Christ Superstar. We’d go to the Methodist Youth Fellowship retreats and gatherings together. Some night our “dates” consisted of my coming over to her house and hanging out. Her parents were tolerant of my presence and never displayed any concern or feelings that perhaps I shouldn’t be hanging around with their daughter. For Christmas of her sophomore year, I gave her a pearl ring to wear. We had indeed become “a couple.” When you saw one, you saw the other.

In spite of our differences, we were a good match. We brought ourselves openly to our burgeoning relationship. We respected the differences between us and never made rude comments about each other’s other friends. We were tolerant in the way only friends can be tolerant of friends. I smoked -- but never when she was around. I partied (some). I hung out in the back of the school at the smoking area with what could best be described as some of the “less desirable” elements in school. I had friends who were major party animals. Some who later developed problems as a result. But, because of my friendship with Barb, I remained grounded and didn’t take that fork in the road. While I may have stuck my toe in the water a bit, I never dove in over my head. The thought of disappointing her and losing her friendship was always at the forefront of my mind. We brought out our inner selves, the people who were there but needed a bit of coaxing to emerge. Some of my high school friends would ask why I hung out with Barb. “She’s so quiet and never says anything,” was a typical observation. They didn’t know Barb the way I did. They didn’t know or see her sense of humor when we were together. They didn’t know how well our hands fit together when we walked the halls. They didn’t know or understand the way I felt complete when I was with her. We supported each other’s dreams and ambitions. I was interested in broadcasting and music and being a dork. She was the studious one with an eye on a career in art. We are among the lucky. Because 30 years later, we’re still doing what we wanted to do when we were kids. She’s the artist. I’m the dork, er, still involved in broadcasting.

This is why January of 1977, our break up, was so difficult. Our relationship had survived separation when I moved to Indianapolis and went from there into the Navy. Yet in order to get to where we are today, it’s what had to happen. Looking back, we were no more ready to be married than we were to split the atom using cold fusion. She had her eyes set on art school and exploring new parts of the country. It took guts and courage to take that step. And she did it. I was able to get through school and begin my dream of working in television and radio. Even with a few compromises on the way to our dreams, we grew up and do what we wanted to do when we were “kids.” How lucky are we?

And now, we are among the lucky ones because our lives have come full circle.

In November of 2006, upon my return from Michigan where I celebrated my 50th birthday by riding one my bikes around the Houghton Lake, the place that means so much to me, I found an e-mail from Barb wishing me a happy birthday. She also wanted to know what it was like to be 50. We hadn’t exchanged e-mails since just before Houston, TX evacuated for Hurricane Rita. I wrote back and thanked her for the birthday wishes and gave her some of the highlights of my ride around the lake. That was the new beginning -- the second act of the story beginning, ”Once upon a time…” Surprisingly, we both found we still had that connection with each other. Many e-mails were written. Many phone calls dialed. Many conversations playing catch up. The question came around, “What would have happened if we had married all those years ago?” I have a dreadfully honest feeling that it would have been fine for a year or so until one morning I would have awakened with a blinding headache, only to discover an 8-inch spike had been driven through my skull. Just as a way to get my attention. It’s overly graphic and dramatic, true, but we, especially me, had much to learn before the partnership of marriage could be formed and I’m not sure I had the skills to cope with the responsibility at that time. Change that. I didn’t have the skills…

A trip was arranged to meet up for New Year’s weekend. Taking a leap of faith, Barb traveled to Dallas, TX where I was spending the holidays. At the airport, as I waited for her delayed flight to arrive, I kept asking myself, “What am I doing? What if she gets off the plane, takes one look at decides, Nah, I don’t think so? What if I thought the same thing?” That would make for one long weekend.

But that didn’t happen. Upon first laying eyes on each other, before the first hug, we knew this was going to be all right. That the time had come for us finish what we had started all those years before. Our hands still fit when we walked together. She still has a smile in her voice when she laughs. Our differences, which seemed so immense back in the day, were not so immense after all. Looking back, we had, and have, more things in common than we were aware of.

So the story that begins, “Once upon a time, in a small town in the northern Michigan woods, a young boy fell in love with a young girl who fell in love with a young boy,...” continues.

Eleven years after the I do’s were said during a small wedding ceremony in Houghton Lake this is what has happened.

We are together.

Still

We are in love.

Still.

We look forward to the continuation of our fairytale together.