A Real Love Story by Randy Overbeck

I’d like to share a real love story.

Not a fairy tale love story because “happily ever after” is little more than a smoky illusion. But a real love story.

It all started with a bet.

I’d seen Cathy several times before. I’d even said a casual “Hi” a few times. She was a pretty girl, sparkling green eyes, short brown hair, a slightly larger nose and warm smile. Oh, and not a bad figure, too. Most of the times when I caught sight of her, she had paint on her hands and sometimes in her hair.

Only sixteen at the time, I went to St. Xavier High School, an all guys school. I was in a play. Well, okay, I was only one of the multitude in the chorus but I was in the play. Cathy attended a girls high school across town but came to participate in the play. (It was a good way to meet guys.) In fact, she was the art director for the play and created the sets for the musical we were doing called Take Me Along.

Now to the bet. I got my nerve to approach her on dress rehearsal night while she was busy painting the final flat, a red dragon for the bar scene in the musical. I said, “I don’t think you’re going to have that ready for opening night.” (I know, great pick up line.)

She flashed that beautiful smile at me and asked, with a twinkle in those green eyes—at least I think it was a twinkle. She also had paint on her face. “What do you want to bet?”

“A coke.” I was a real big spender.

“Done.” She reached out her hand splattered with red and I shook.

Returning two hours later, I found her standing next to the finished flat, hands and face now clean. I bought her the Coke and we found a quiet place to talk. Oh, and we had our first kiss that evening in the bleachers. We still celebrate it as our first date. April 26.

But you see, I wasn’t that easy to catch. Back then, I considered myself somewhat of a ladies man. What did I know. I once invited three different girls to the same dance, one of them Cathy. (By the way, that didn’t go very well.) Other girls I knew and dated were prettier or had bigger hair or were more seductive, but Cathy had something special. When we were together and she gave me that incredible smile, my heart melted.

By the end of our junior year, we found each other and “went steady” from then on.  In fact, we dated for five years, through the end of high school and through three years of college—which is all it took me because I wanted to get married.

We tied the knot in 1972.

And that was only the beginning. Our love produced three beautiful, talented, loving children, a girl and two boys. Each new arrival stretched the bounds of the love story and only made it richer.

But it certainly wasn’t happily ever after. Our love story had to survive some very lean years. For more than a decade, we were a one salary family and a teacher’s salary at that.

“No dear, we have to wait till Friday to go the grocery. I’ll get paid then.”

“Sorry, son, we can’t afford to buy the Nintendo.”

Even broke, we managed to smile and laugh through most of it.

Our love story endured moves to six different towns, all for my work. Thank you, Cathy. Together, we built four new houses—you know, the experience they say makes or breaks a marriage. We survived and even prospered.

Fast forward Fifty years.

Perhaps, best of all, our story breathed love into our three grown children, one now the Aquatic Director for the largest YMCA in the country, another a senior computer engineer for Apple and the third, the Creative Director for CNN International and most important, each with their own love story. And all three are remarkable partners and parents. Then, the piece de resistance of our epic amore, seven incredible grandchildren, who only continue to expand our love story even further.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had easy times and not-so-easy times. We suffered through hard patches and had soft landings. Certainly not a bed of roses, although maybe that applies as roses come with plenty of thorns. A few years back, I thought I was going to lose Cathy when she contracted a strange infection, candida albicans, which claims 45% of its victims. She has recovered well but talk about obtaining clarity on what’s important.

Like I said, definitely not happily ever after.

The remarkable nature and longevity of our real love story hit me a few years ago. As it happened, we were touring Hawaii in February and were having a celebratory dinner on Valentine’s Day at this beautiful restaurant on the beach. For the occasion, the maître de was visiting tables and offering a rose to each of the ladies. He stopped, wished us Happy Valentine’s Day and asked how many we had celebrated together. Cathy and I glanced at each other, calculating, and after a beat, both announced this was the 50th Valentines Day we had shared. We hadn’t realized it until that moment.

To our surprise, the gentleman straightened up and announced to the entire dining crowd we were celebrating our 50th Valentine’s Day! Patrons around the room rose and gave us a standing ovation. We were a bit embarrassed, but secretly loved it. Throughout our meal, several woman came by to say congrats and handed Cathy their rose. She left with a bouquet.

Perhaps not happily ever after, but definitely happy.

Like I said, a real love story.

Hope this Valentine’s Day found you adding to your real love story.

Dr. Overbeck’s bestselling trilogy, the Haunted Shores Mysteries, have gained recognition and earned national awards—nine thus far—as convincing paranormal mysteries. But beneath the mysteries and the who-hoo lie a compelling love story. The lovers meet in Blood on the Chesapeake, their love blossoms in Crimson at Cape May and they honeymoon together in Scarlet at Crystal River, all the while unraveling mysteries and hunting bad guys. Perhaps, not your usual love story as it is entwined with murders and ghosts, but one readers will enjoy, especially during this month of romance. Details on his books can be found on his website, http://www.authorrandyoverbeck.com

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Follow Your Man by Helen C. Johannes

1947 Germany…

WWII has been over for nearly two years, but the Occupation is ongoing. Americans hold Bavaria and the small city southwest of Munich where my mother lives. She’s 26, still living with her parents. She’s lost a brother in the submarine corps. Her sister’s husband was shot down on the Russian front, but he somehow made it home. Rationing and curfews are the stuff of their daily life. She works the late shift as a nurse’s aide. She and her coworkers must be escorted home by the US Military Police.

Drafted at his high school graduation on VE day, my father is barely 20, one of the lucky ones posted to Occupation Europe. It’s cold, damp, and the rations are nothing to write home about, but he grew up in the Northwoods without indoor plumbing or electricity, and he worked his way through high school milking cows. Life in the Army is pretty good for a smart kid who doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s already a sergeant in the MPs. 

One night he and his partner escort local nurses’ aides home after curfew. They pick them up in their jeep and drive the women home through darkened cobblestone streets. One of the women, a pretty brunette with long, wavy hair smiles at him. He remembers that smile. She only speaks German, but he can fix that. The army offers courses in German. Soon, he’s teaching her English with comic books while he practices his German.

By 1948 he and his buddies all have German girlfriends, and some couples want to marry. Regulations say anyone who marries a foreign national must return stateside with the spouse within a month of the wedding. Decision time. Will my mother leave everyone she loves, the city she grew up in, her entire culture to follow this American soldier to a country that defeated hers? Will she step into the unknown with only the man she loves to keep her company? Will the new world be better than the current one?

It’s a life-changing choice, but she makes it. In a whirlwind they have three weddings over two weekends: one to satisfy the German government, one to satisfy the American government, and one to satisfy the church. Then they’re on a train to Bremerhaven for her first ocean crossing. As she stands on deck, she says goodbye to her homeland, her continent, wondering if she’ll ever return, if she’ll ever see her family again.

She’s followed her man to New Jersey, then to his home in the Northwoods while he serves in Korea, then to Illinois when he returns. On to Ft. Lewis, Washington, traveling across this vast nation by car in 1956, then back six months later all the way to the port of NYC for a much-desired return tour of duty in Germany for three years to spend reconnecting with family. Then to West Texas for three years, then back to Illinois, then on to the Northwoods when he retires. Now she has a new role, wife of a teacher. Later, when he retires from that, she’s the wife of an alderman.

Seventy-two years she’s followed her man, become a citizen, adapted to a new culture, worked and played and made friends, raised a family. Together, she and my father have created a legacy of love, hard work, and adventure for those of us that follow. When love calls, they’ve shown us, take a chance.

After growing up following these parents around this country and Europe, I couldn’t help but take their example to heart. I’ve followed my man in government service from Montana to the Midwest, and we’ve traveled together to three continents and dozens of countries. Everywhere I’ve lived or visited has informed my writing, and the love I’ve seen and shared inspires my work. My author tagline is “Hearts in Search of Home” because I’ve learned that home is wherever those you love choose to make it: https://helencjohannes.blogspot.com/

In celebration of the Month of Love, I’ve put my first book on sale on Amazon Kindle for 99 cents. An enemies-to-lovers fantasy romance, THE PRINCE OF VAL-FEYRIDGE, Crown of Tolem Series #1, is loosely inspired by that sense of adventure and willingness to take a chance my parents imparted to me.

She’s all wrong for Prince Arn, this lowborn healer who keeps meddling in his march to conquer her homeland. If only she hadn’t helped him, and he hadn’t kissed her, he could stop looking for her everywhere, hoping to find her…again.

Check it out here: https://www.amazon.com/Prince-Val-Feyridge-Helen-c-Johannes-ebook/dp/B003JH8CO2?ref_=ast_author_dp

Love at First Sight in JCPenney

I was the new hire at JCPenney, working in the fragrance department. I had just graduated from high school, and was ready to fulfill big dreams. Upon clocking in, going on break, and clocking out, I had to walk through the young men’s department; where he worked. Spiky black hair, deep brown eyes, an infectious laugh, garnished with a studded belt and a leather wrist strap. 

I don’t know if the traditional version of love at first sight exists, but I do know that I felt something when I locked eyes with him. (Uh, yeah, Chelsey, it’s called lust.) No, it wasn’t. The thoughts running through my mind were not, “Omg, he’s so hot!” There was a strong spiritual pull, and I had to get to know him.  

For the first several weeks all we exchanged was a smile and “Hi.” Then one day he stopped me. “How do you say your name?”

“Chelsey.” I looked down at his name tag: GERSON. I was screwed. My rudimentary high school Spanish had not prepared me to even begin to attempt a correct pronunciation. “How do you say your name?”

He smiled. A wicked glint in his eye. “Try.”

I stared at his name tag. “Gare-sun?”

He chuckled. “Close. It’s Grr-sun, rhymes with person.”

The correct pronunciation is actually hare-sone. When Gerson was in kindergarten, his teacher called him “grr-sun” and he stuck with it.  

The summer was almost over when Gerson overheard me talking to another coworker about college preparations. Gerson butted into the conversation in what I would later learn is his personal brand of teasing. “You’re going to BYU?” His tone came across as incredibly judgmental. (You see, in Utah, you either love BYU or hate BYU.)

I might have put my hand on my hips. “Yeah. Do you have a problem with that?”

Gerson laughed. “No. I go to BYU, too.”

Shortly after that, he learned I was 18, and I learned he was 24. We almost stopped pursuing one another, but we couldn’t stay away. Plus, in our shared religious culture, that kind of age difference isn’t a big deal. I technically asked him on our first date, but I brought my friend as a third wheel so it wasn’t a real date. I wanted him to ask me on our first real date; and he did, a couple days later. 

From that second date on, we ate lunch together on campus every day. We spent every free moment together. We fell in love fast and hard. Even then, I didn’t think we should get engaged for at least a year. I was barely 19, had big dreams for my ballroom dance career, and he was six years older than me. Gerson agreed because he didn’t want to push me and lose me, but he was ready to marry ASAP. 

Gerson went home to California for Christmas, and I was miserable. When couples spend time apart, one of two things happen: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” or “Out of sight, out of mind”. Luckily for us, the first one happened. When Gerson returned to Utah to celebrate New Year’s with me, I told him I had missed him so much that I didn’t want to wait a year to get engaged. I wanted to marry him as soon as he wanted. 

Telling my parents was really scary. I talked to my mom first. I started crying and asked her if she and my dad would support me if I married Gerson that year. She hugged me and said, “Of course!” She talked to my dad privately and he called Gerson and I into his office. (The fourth bedroom in our house, full of storage boxes and a card table with my dad’s desktop computer and my mom’s sewing machine.)

“Mom said you two want to get married.” His facial expression was neutral. 

My heart stopped. Gerson and I looked at each other, panic in our eyes. “Yes.”

My dad smiled. “It’s okay. We’ll support you.”

We did things a little backwards after that. We picked the date and booked the venue before he officially proposed, but the ring was on its way. We knew we were going to get married. 

Gerson had one more fun conversation to have with my dad: the traditional asking for permission. They were watching sports (probably Football considering it was February) and my dad was grading papers (he’s a high school math teacher). 

Gerson cleared his throat. “I don’t know if Debbie told you, but the ring arrived.”

My dad nodded. “Yeah, she told me.”

“And I know I’m supposed to ask you permission…”

My dad leaned back and chuckled. “I have always told Chelsey that I will never tell her who to marry, but I will tell her who to not marry. And I haven’t told her to not marry you.”

Gerson nodded. “Thanks.” And they went back to watching TV.  

He proposed on the banks of Utah Lake, where he had asked me to be his girlfriend five months prior. It was Superbowl Sunday, and I felt pretty special that he missed the beginning of the game to propose – though he would later admit it was because he didn’t care about the teams playing that year. Still, it was a great day, and February is a special month for us. 

I may have been young. We might have dated for too short a time in the eyes of many. But thirteen years later, I don’t regret it. We have a beautiful family. We support one another in our dreams and desires. And we love each other.

This post is the first of several other Real Life Romances to come during this month of love. New authors, new stories each post. Check back Friday February 3rd for the next installment.