How Pat Married Me

After returning from a four-month trip around Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize, I moved into the Market Street house with Mary, Steve, Pat, and Sierra. I claimed the attic as my bedroom – mattress, milk crate nightstand, bedside lamp – and slowly weaned myself of the habit of living out of my backpack. Descending the attic stairs, I would walk into Sierra’s bedroom and then next door to Pat’s room. We spent many nights together, learning to trust each other, sharing her simple twin-bed mattress, no bed frame or box springs, so thin it could be rolled up.

Doing yardwork at Market Street house. Hand-colored photograph by Jim Becker.

That summer, I found a part-time job and tended the household garden in my free afternoons. Pat was swamped with three classes, including Human Anatomy. Schoolwork was always stressful for her, and by August she was exhausted. As I got ready to hitchhike to Parkersburg, West Virginia, for my sister’s wedding, I came up with an idea to take two-and-a-half-year-old Sierra with me. Pat needed a break, I told myself, and it would be an adventure for Sierra and me. Pat and I both considered hitchhiking a legit mode of travel, and she agreed to the plan.

It proved to be well-intentioned but poorly conceived. Sierra took it all in stride, cheerful and curious as ever – his only memory of the trip being the endless row of highway mileposts every tenth-mile – but the hitching went slow. I hadn’t considered that people might wonder if this was a parental child abduction and be unwilling to take us across state lines. We caught a bus the last fifty miles to Parkersburg and, later, another one home.

During the 1980-81 school year, Pat and I were both full-time students. Pat was working on a Bachelor’s degree in Dance Education while raising her son. I was finishing up a Bachelor’s in General Studies while performing with the new wave art band Pink Gravy. After Pat found out I’d registered for a Modern Dance class to fulfill my P.E. requirement, she also signed up for the class so we could share the experience, but I joked she took the class to keep an eye on me. (The makeup of the class was 30 females to 3 males.) I also had a work-study job at Jim’s Bookstore, a cozy used book shop on South Dubuque Street. We could barely catch our breaths, but we figured out how to step off our respective merry-go-rounds to spend time together.

That spring, I asked my parents to bankroll my trip to Europe as a graduation gift. (Having paid for my college education without their help, I thought this was a reasonable request.) Knowing how important wandering and experiencing the world was to me, Pat didn’t object to my plans. But I was fairly certain I knew one question going through her mind: “When’s this guy gonna settle down and get serious with life, with us?”

My parents’ gift bought me a round-trip ticket from New York City to Brussels. Wanting to give me a headstart on the trip, Pat drove me as far as their home in Parkersburg. Pat and my dad didn’t get along. Typical of men of his generation, he was put off by her in-your-face feminism and her “sin” of being a single mother. And Pat had no interest in muting her personality or opinions to accommodate the patriarchy. At one point during that visit, my dad took me aside, hoping to scuttle our relationship – “Son, this woman won’t make you happy” – a comment that only made me more firm in my feelings for her.

Once I landed in Brussels and began hitching toward Paris, I became focused on trying to think in French (or later, Italian), deciding what I was doing that day, where I would sleep that night, where I would go tomorrow. I was living in the moment and staying open to chance, but my thoughts would intermittently return to Pat. Here’s the opening stanza of a poem I wrote to Pat a month into my travels (and yes, I did invert the time difference):

This evening, I walk out along a cornice piece of the coast

and watch the sun’s daily fade.

To the west, a glittering trail of jewels laid across the blue sea

lead me to you, restless sleeper.

Although this sun had not yet touched you

I feel you stirring, turning over in search of another hour or two of rest.

Let my thoughts be arms to hold you,

a harbor from the dark storms of your mind.

That summer, I stayed in touch via letters every two or three weeks – a long-distance collect phone call would’ve been unimaginably extravagant – and was able to cobble together enough of an itinerary so she could send me letters c/o American Express offices in Rome and London.

Even as my wad of $20 traveler’s checks was dwindling and my trip was winding down, I was still ambivalent about going home. This letter to Pat from Edinburgh, over three months into my trip (September 10) expresses those conflicted emotions:

mulling over thoughts of extending my stay here. Liz leaves tomorrow on a trip with her mother, and i have a thought to hitchhike up into the Northern Highlands and come back in a week to stay with her a few more days, then head to London to fly, but this drags the flight back to late September. argh! now’s the time for you to give me advice, but i think i know what it would be, and i feel it too. these back-and-forth tuggings – stay a little longer – no, go now – stay – fly – stay – get away. if only the weather would turn foul. i can’t tell you any more than this now, but i’ll send a postcard if some plan solidifies. meanwhile … ah, shit, i want to feel your love. i sense you could use some support, some cheering. school is beginning – how does it go? i’m afraid i still haven’t figured it out, Pat. how do i feel? – that another week here would be good – that i miss you but can wait that one week – but how do you feel? – are your needs urgent? – you’ve waited so long. see, i still think in dualities – you and me – not us. not yet. perhaps i shouldn’t worry about it too much, but am i blowing it? i think i test your love enough as it is. i don’t want to hurt you. so make this a message of love. for you. for Sierra. end on a positive note out of all the confusion … more and more love, a grand hug for Sierra, everything for you. /d

Two weeks later, still in Edinburgh, I sent another letter. Sierra’s portion of the letter starts with these two pages:

In the section addressed to Pat, I wrote:

well, Pat, i’ve just returned from a couple days biking south of Edinburgh with friend Liz. it’s been a good time here. good to be with a female friend. but now London (mañana) and catch a stand-by zoom over the ocean. soon to hear from you again. then see you. some of me would like to snap us back together like that, but the other (the traveler, eh?) can’t ignore the connections to be made along the way to you. i think you sense that i love you. i hope you do. wish i could hear from you right now. well, wish i could be holding you and kissing you. but i’m not, so i’ll go until i’m there. go and go. this good going. next time we’ll go together, somehow, our love could propel us. /d

I landed at JFK, spent a day with my uncle Dick at his Manhattan apartment a block west of Central Park, then quickly hitched across the country, stopping in Parkersburg long enough to thank my parents for the plane ticket. But I was dreaming of Pat, of her long lingering hugs. I couldn’t wait to see how much Sierra had grown over those four months. What new things would he be able to do and say at the age of three and a half?

On a sunny weekday afternoon in late September, I walked up the back alley to the house on Market Street and, unannounced, came in the backdoor, dropped my backpack in the kitchen, and greeted Steve, the only person there. It felt good to be home, and it did feel like home, a place where I belonged, where my heart belonged. An hour later, Pat walked in, with Sierra in tow. As much as I’d anticipated the joy of our reunion, she still floored me with the intensity of her feelings. Pat never had much of a filter – when she was pissed, boy, you knew it, but when she was elated and you were the object of that emotion, it was scary in a different way. My usual reaction was “Am I worthy of what she’s offering me?”

I moved back into my attic bedroom, the autumn nights perfect for attic sleeping, but I spent most of them with Pat. We cuddled, nestling as close as we could, relearning the geography of our bodies. She was dancing a lot and in great shape. We took our time. I’d rub her neck and shoulders as we lay side by side, slowly unraveling the stories of my travels.

Only Pat had the patience to listen to these stories. With others, I struggled, incapable of doing justice to my experiences in the brevity required by requests to “tell me all about your trip.” I had no photographs, no souvenirs scooped up along the way, just a journal of memories. Only with Pat could I fully explain the joy of sleeping under a tree of ripe apricots behind a vacant house on the Côte d’Azur. Or camping on the floor of a crash haus in West Berlin. The thrill of driving Sergio’s Fiat through Rome’s capricious traffic, past its grand piazzas and monuments. The wonder of standing before Michelangelo’s stunning David in Florence or Vermeer’s subtly gorgeous Milkmaid in Amsterdam. The pleasure of hiking through the Vosges Mountains with my friends Jim and Nancy. The delight of waking to fresh snow in August after camping in a pasture in the Austrian Alps. Only with Pat could these experiences come to life.

Meanwhile, I was looking for a job, trusting that my ability to land some entry-level position had improved by the Bachelor’s degree on my résumé. The U.S. was in the middle of its worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, unemployment was hovering around 10 percent, but I was in luck. My friend Allan Kornblum was looking for a full-time employee to help with his small business. He and his wife Cinda owned and operated Toothpaste Press, a small literary press and fine print shop. During my work-study days, I’d been employed by his friends Jim Mulac at Jim’s Bookstore and Morty Sklar at The Spirit That Moves Us Press. They must’ve provided good references because when Allan reached out to me, he offered me a job on the spot, which I accepted on the spot.

I started the job the following Monday, driving out to Allan and Cinda’s home in West Branch, where the press was located. My hourly wage was modest, the only employee benefit was the hot lunch Allan made every day for me and Al Buck, his other employee, but the work was fascinating and pleasantly varied. I was reading manuscripts we received over the transom, packaging up book orders to be shipped, mastering the cranky old guillotine paper cutter with its 48-inch blade, learning the type drawer layout as I sorted used type. One of my first tasks was to fold the printed sheets for Echoes, a chapbook of poems by Robert Creeley,[1] and then sew the collated sheets into Fabriano Ingres wrappers. Soon I was hand-setting type and eventually learning to run the Chandler and Price platen press.

Bolstered by my full-time employment, by the potential of permanence it implied, and by this novel feeling, this desire to settle down, I was ready to take the next step. It was an early morning a month after my return. Sierra was not yet stirring, precious moments for young parents. I rolled over in bed, nudged Pat to make sure she was awake, and whispered, “Whaddya think about us getting married?” I felt sure about us, but perhaps not about myself. This had to be one of the most tentative marriage proposals of all time. My nervousness surprised me – I was holding my breath as I waited for her response. She looked me in the eyes and turned me down.

I was speechless for a moment, but once I’d recovered, I asked if she could tell me why not. “I’m not saying never, David. But I need to know you really want this, that you’re ready for all we’ll ask of you.” Although I had hoped my proposal would please her, I could understand where she was coming from. I needed to prove that she could count on me, that I wouldn’t be wanting to wander in another year. She was speaking for herself, but I knew she was also thinking about Sierra.

I began thinking hard about Pat and me. I was coming to realize that, as Toni Morrison’s Paul D would say about Sethe,[2] I wanted to put my story next to hers. Each day, I asked myself, “Am I ready? Am I ready to commit to our shared future? Am I ready for the work of building a relationship?” And each day, I wondered, “Now?” And then, “I’ll ask her now.” My patience lasted two weeks. When I proposed again, I tried to do so with all the sincerity, assurance, and urgency I felt inside. Pat said yes.

We wasted no time setting a date for our wedding: December 6. We invited two dozen of our closest friends to join us at our house that Sunday morning for a simple ceremony and breakfast. We informed my family but didn’t invite them – it would’ve been short notice, and we had no desire to spoil our happiness with the presence of my father’s disapproval. We got our blood tested at Mercy Hospital and applied for a marriage license at the Johnson County clerk’s office. We asked Don Rinner, a local goldsmith, to make our wedding rings, simple silver bands, and we bought a toy ring for Sierra. We wrote our wedding vows. I bought a brown tweed sport coat at the Salvation Army store. Pat sewed her wedding outfit – a heather gray skirt and jacket.

Despite its DIY minimalism, I loved our wedding. We didn’t know each other’s vows ahead of time. Pat’s cut to the heart of the matter. Mine were flowery and gushy, causing Pat to roll her eyes and blush at the same time. Sierra somehow grasped the joy and solemnity of the moment, and was delighted that he got a ring as well. “Green is my favorite color!” he exclaimed as I put it on his finger. Steve and Mary cooked up a delicious breakfast afterward, and we sat around eating pancakes and enjoying each other’s company.

Our “wedding reception” that evening was held at the Cantebury Inn in Coralville, which offered half-price discounts on Sunday nights for students. We invited our friends to swim in the hotel pool and join us afterward in the honeymoon suite for potluck hors d’oeuvres. The next morning, we got up early. Pat dropped off Sierra at the Montessori School before going to her classes, and I drove to work in West Branch. The honeymoon was over, and our new life as a family had begun. I had replaced my wanderlust with “a search for something true.”[3]

Footnotes

[1] Creeley, often associated with the Black Mountain poets, was a well-known American poet then at the height of his career. His collection For Love: Poems 1950-1960 is one of my favorite poetry books.

[2] In her exceptional 1987 novel Beloved.

[3] A line from Valerie June’s song “Within You.”

Days of Wonder and Delight

Pat + Sierra + David