Something short and quick. No BTB or RCCA. No overt sex. Just a little tale about two people, in love, who figure out how to rekindle the passion and the heat. Even us old folks appreciate the little things.
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I'm a lover of all things from the 1960s. To me, it was one of the most pivotal ten years in the 20th Century. First off, I was born in 1953. I grew up in the 60s. Now, I know that many people consider the decade of the 60s to be one of the most turbulent times in history, but The later 60s, as I was getting older, I remember to be the best years of my life.
That's the reason I am now, in my 70s, driving around in a bright blue 1965 Pontiac GTO and listening to Bobby Goldsboro. I have to admit that the sound system in the GTO is not original. No one in 1965 could have imagined the Alpine Restyle i509 entertainment system. I had it custom installed in the GTO, mainly because there just isn't a decent AM radio station in my area. The eight-track was invented in 1964, but today, neither players nor tapes are available. I chuckled when I thought about that Alpine system. The electronics and the installation had cost more than that GTO cost new.
I was cruising down a back road with my window open, enjoying the throaty growl of the big 389 V8 engine. Taking my classic big block muscle car for an afternoon ride was one of my greatest pleasures. As I cruised down that small asphalt strip, I was listening to the words of Bobby Goldsboro's hit from 1965, "Little Things."
Little things that you do
Make me glad I'm in love with you
Little things that you say
Make me glad that I feel this way
The way you smile, the way you hold my hand
And when I'm down you always understand
(Bobby Goldsboro, 1965, Little Things.)
The song had me thinking about my wife of 47 years and our marriage. I was thinking back to the 1970s. For me, that was a decade of immense change and upheaval. Graduating from high school in 1972, I was set to leave the mid-sized city in West Texas where I grew up for New Orleans and Tulane University. I was no brilliant student, but I wasn't a slouch either. Nor was I what we now call a geek, despite not playing any kind of competitive sports.
Tulane was a possibility for me because I had qualified and been offered a full boat ride through college by the United States Air Force, in return for 6 years of my time after graduation. I thought it was a sweetheart deal. I would do four years of college in New Orleans at a great school with my best friend from high school as my roomy. Furthermore, I would get a very lucrative mechanical engineering degree, graduate, be commissioned a second lieutenant in the Air Force, and head out to flight training. I couldn't guarantee it, but I hoped to get a slot as a multi-engine pilot. My plan was to spend my 6-year commitment piloting large military cargo planes, then leave the Air Force to begin a career with one of the freight companies flying a fixed route.
Didn't happen. I don't know if it was karma, fate, or any of the dozen other enigmatic gods who tend to dabble in human affairs. The week before high school graduation, I got a nice letter from the Air Force to inform me that my scholarship had been withdrawn due to budget cuts in the Air Force. I spent the next month scrambling around making alternative arrangements. In the end, I was enrolled in the local university, remained living at home with my widowed brother, grandmother, and two younger siblings. My best friend went on to Tulane, got his degree in business, married a local girl whose family had old money, and went on to a successful career as an entrepreneur.
Me? I went into a funk. Staying out late and becoming a mainstay in the bar scene ensured that The third semester I was at university, the administration decided that I wasn't college material and decided that I would not be allowed to re-enroll the next semester. For some unknown reason, my mother decided that I should get a job and start pulling me weight.
The next year I managed to get back into university, but this time in the business department. I realized I was not engineer material. I had also not had a great experience in the job market, coming to understand that at 20 years old, with nothing but a high-school diploma, I was not in much demand and that the jobs I could get, didn't offer much of a career path. I applied myself and went to class. It's remarkable what those two changes made in my college career.
I managed to graduate with a decent GPA that landed my first real career oriented job. I had decided that a career in hospitality management was my ticket, so I got a job with a large, nationally known corporation that owned and managed restaurants and motels. At the time, the company was expanding rapidly, and I saw myself working my way up the ladder and eventually becoming the general manager of a Ramada Inn.
I did my time, starting out as the night auditor for the newest Ramada Inn built in our town. I did move up the ranks, eventually becoming night manager. All I can say about that is I got to be friends with the bar manager and learned a lot about the trades. You can interpret that as I spent plenty of evenings hanging out in the bar and meeting the local call girls that worked the area around the motel.
I met my current wife Glenna during this time. A group of mutual friends had set up a massive party night. The girlfriend of one of my friends talked me into a blind date. I agreed. It was a fin night. We all met at the bar in the motel where I was working and caravanned across town to the hottest disco in town.
Glenna was 3 years younger than I was, still in college, and, to be honest, a little naive. I was pleasantly surprised when I met her. She was not going to win any boob contests. I learned later that saying she had an A cup was being generous. However, she had a nice little ass and the short miniskirt she was wearing revealed a pair of gorgeous legs.
No need to go into details about the intervening 3 years except to say that after that night, we were exclusive, and we eventually got married in a big church wedding put on by her mother and her uncle. Like me, Glenna's dad had died when she was a young girl. We embarked on life with excitement and high expectations.
Two years later, reality again jumped up and bit me in the ass. I had left the hotel and restaurant business. The hours in the hotel business were crappy. I sought and got a job selling insurance, where I thought I could carve out a niche. Suffice it to say I am no salesman. I did ok, kept the rent paid and groceries on the table. The kick in the butt from karma came in the form of a slip of paper from the clinic at the university with the operative word pregnant.
I immediately began reconsidering my career choices. I saw an ad on a billboard that the local fire department was hiring. I did a little due diligence and found out that not only did it offer a decent salary, but there were also full benefits and, since the city had adopted civil service, a load of protections and job security. I applied, took the entrance exam, and two weeks later got a notice to go to a local clinic for a pre-employment physical. In August of that year, I found myself sitting in a class of 20 other recruits getting the usual indoctrination speech from the Chief of the Fire Department.
Sixteen weeks later, I stood while the training chief pinned on my budget, shook my hand, and had his picture taken with me. I have to admit, I was proud and excited. I had a career. There was room for promotion and almost unlimited potential. Of course, I had to spend a few years running into burning buildings and dealing with some less than agreeable situations, but I knew that when I signed on.
I enjoyed shift work and being at the fire station. Over the course of the next 35 years I did what was expected, trained, studied, took promotional exams and even went back to college. I progressed up the ranks until I became a district chief. I was able to complete an MBA, which gave me the skills to build several successful business ventures on my day off. There came a time when my business's actually paid me more salary than the fire department. But the fire department provided the perks and benefits.
We added two more kids to the family, bought and expanded a home in which to raise them. Glenna put her degree to work as a special ed teacher working with the families of infants with developmental delays. I often told her she had her dream job. She spent everyday going to families houses and sitting on the floor playing with babies. I know she did much more than that, but it was the part she liked most.
As I neared my 50th birthday, I realized I wasn't enjoying the excitement of being a firefighter as much as I did when I was younger. It was harder to get up at all hours of the night to respond to alarms. I wasn't actively fighting fire anymore, but I still had to do the physical qualifications required of all certified firefighters. I began to look at my options and discovered that shortly after my 50th birthday I would have the necessary years of experience to retire.
I took that option. Not having to go to the fire station every third day allowed me to devote more time to my other pursuits. The reward was that my businesses, which had been profitable, now began to really take off. Over the next 15 years, my businesses prospered. When I turned 65, I sold off my businesses, invested the proceeds, and embraced real retirement. The 65 GTO was one of the things I embraced. That brings me up to date.
Now, here I am tooling down the road in my beloved GTO, enjoying the late fall weather, and listening to great music. The problem is, I am not happy. Something is gnawing away at my comfort and I can't really put a finger on it. As Bobby Goldsboro crooned through my sound system, the words suddenly came into focus.
It was like a warning light flashed on the dashboard of the GTO. I took immediate notice and began to worry about this new thought. It became so pervasive in my mind that at the next opportunity to stop, I pulled into a convenience store, parked the GTO, and got out to take a leak and grab a soft drink. I needed to think without compromising my driving.
I sat in the GTO, sipping a cola and eating corn nuts. (Hey. What can I say? (Unless you have been there, you just don't understand.). I queued up Bobby Goldsboro again and this time, let the words of the song play.
Two lined in the song seemed to resonate in my brain. I listened to them over and over.
Little things that you do
Let me know that your love is true
The more I heard these lines and the variations on them, the more troubled I became. 47 years is a long time to be married. However, the recollection of those early years are still vivid and clear in my mind. I had always appreciated the way Glenna expressed her love. The little things. The casual touch on an arm or cheek when we were doing the most mundane things. The way she looked at me when I was holding one of the kids. The flirty look in her eye when we were in our bedroom. The comments she would throw out at unexpected times about how proud she was of me or her thanks for something that I did that, I thought, was unremarkable.
As I listened to that song, I thought about those little things and realized the lack of them. At some point that couldn't pinpoint, most of them had gone away. She no longer touched me other than to give me a quick hug or a short kiss on the cheek. The affectionate words were no longer uttered. At 67, she was still a beautiful and desirable female form, but she no longer took the time to do those little extra things that she knew I liked. The little things were no longer part of our days.
I cranked the GTO and smiled as I saw looks from others at the gas pumps as I backed out of the parking place and turned onto the highway headed home. It was not the relaxing and enjoyable drive I had anticipated when I started. As I pulled into the driveway and entered the garage, I had a brief moment of panic as I tried to decide how to approach this. I decided, much like I had handled many such situations, that a direct approach might be the best.
I have to admit that I probably could have chosen my words better at that point. As I entered the house through the garage door, Glenna was in her sewing room, working on a quilt. I stopped at the entrance until she was finished with what she was doing. She looked up at me with a smile. I'm sure the look on my face was not what she expected. Neither were the words that I spoke.
"Glenna, we need to talk."
You and I both know that those five words can strike fear and terror into the hearts of any married person when spoken by their partner. I saw Glenna's face freeze as her eyes registered the emotion that overwhelmed her.
"Oh, God. What's wrong, Patrick?"
"Let's go to the den where we can sit down comfortably."
I turned and headed to the den. I knew she was following along, but I didn't turn to look. As I sank into my large recliner, she sat in her armchair on my left and looked at me. It was a hollow look. I took a deep breath and began to explain the things I had been thinking about as I drove that morning. Just as I expected, she listened without interrupting. As I neared the end, I saw tears in her eyes. She curled her legs underneath her and leaned toward me.
