I met her in the street with a broom in her hand. It was the day after one of those frigid Boston snowstorms. I had gone out with shovel and sand, when suddenly the sun shined brightly at the sight of two young women hopelessly trying to free their car with brooms.
She jumped and clapped with delight as my apartment mate and I eased their car from its icy trap. We served them coffee. The only two cups with handles we offered to our lovely guests. Conversation was short and to the point. Everyone was single and searching.
Crying on the telephone, a victim of bait and switch at the hands of an unscrupulous salesman, she asked me to rescue her from endless payments. We drove to the sales office only to find the contract grace period was over. Failure!
She sniffled as we drove back on Route 128. Mulling in my mind the best approach to placate a young woman in tears, I suddenly pulled over at the exit to Route 16, and asked for her hand in marriage. This should do it! Sniffles turned to tears. Good thing I held off until after exams! Inexperienced in the interpretation of female innuendos, I asked her once again amid the turbulence of rushing traffic.
Five months after that enchanting snowfall, Toni Jo and I married. The officiating judge showed up drunk.
That was 41 short years ago.
Victor Friedmann
