The only way I can find missing “stuff” that Ken hides is to concentrate on one room at a time. I don’t just search, I clean and sort as I go. Beginning in one corner, I cover every square inch; moving nicknack’s, dusting books, thumbing the pages in search of hidden mail or other pieces of flat stash he might have tucked away. In our bedroom I always begin in one corner, which seems to be a key area for him to put things in a “safe” place. Because it is his favorite hiding spot, it is also the cleanest corner in the house. When I find the thing for which I am searching I usually stop looking — and cleaning. Presently, I have a long list of missing items, so I will probably cover the entire room including the closet and all of the drawers, and then move on to another room. Armed with vacuum, old towels, Simple Green, a trash can and a box for donations I begin the task. Flipping on the TV for company I turn to PBS and find they are doing a funding drive (aren’t they always). The program is music from the 50s. Good, I thought, that’s our kind of music.
As the old familiar tunes played and the cleaning began, I found myself drifting back to happier times, remembering when people actually went on dates. Ken was so courteous, never taking it for granted that I would reserve the weekend for him. Never waiting until the last minute, he would call mid week to secure an evening. Of course, we went to movies, enjoying a snack at a local drive-in afterward, but the popular date was going somewhere to dance. Dancing under the stars at Larkspur, an open air pavilion in Marin County, was always special. It could be a little cool, but we were warmed by the romance of it all, or if I felt a chill, he would offer his sports coat; which I accepted. Scattered lights twinkled among the surrounding trees and if the fog stayed away, the moon shined through, adding it’s own charm. There was also The Edgewater, a new dance hall near Playland at San Francisco’s ocean beach just below the Cliff House, but because it was new it was super crowded, so we avoided that one in spite of missing the band that might be playing.
A really big date was being invited to go dinner dancing at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, which we did on occasion. We danced, ordered dinner, then danced between courses. The food wasn’t wonderful, but that was all right; music, dancing and a romantric evening out were what was important. It was all part of what we called courting. All of the hotels engaged the various Big Bands, but as their popularity began to fade, along with ballroom dancing, the hotels maintained an “in house” band. Russ Morgan was the Claremont’s choice for many years, so Ken and I danced mostly to his music and hummed his theme song, “So Tired,” which became “our song.” It was at the Claremont that I first asked myself, “Am I falling in love with this guy?” I suppose I was, and did.
I had hardly moved on to the next section of the bedroom when Ken found me. “What are you doing?” he asked. I’m never sure who he is or what he might say. Would he be threatened to find me in “his” room and ask me to leave — to stop touching his stuff?” I held my breath trying to read his mood. Accepting my answer as reasonable, he continued. “Would it be all right if I stayed in here with you,” he asked. “Of course,” I reassured him. Looking around for a place to sit, he eyed the bed. “Is it okay if I sit on the bed?” My husband was mellow and non-aggressive so I invited him to just make himself comfortable. Propping up his pillow he settled in. PBS stopped the program for their long pledge “commercial,” before returning to our music of yesteryear, and I continued cleaning. “Nice music,” he commented. “Do you remember the songs,” I asked. “A little,” his answer being more question than fact. I began to reminisce about our past, cleaning and talking longer than I had intended, being grateful for this time we were spending together — being almost normal. Ken listened, adding nothing as he lay there enjoying the moments. I wondered if somewhere in his troubled, clouded mind the sounds from long ago might help him find some peace, at least for a little while. Wasn’t it Milton who said, “Music hath charms to sooth the savage beast?” Perhaps he was right.
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