This is the greatest love story I know.
Harry was a student at VPI back before it was Virginia Tech and co-ed. One Thanksgiving, he and his roommate decided to have a contest. Each cadet would stand on one side of the road and hold out his thumb. Whoever got the ride first would be the winner, and the other guy had to go home with him for the holiday. For whatever reason- perhaps the Right Driver decided to err on the side of caution and stop early for gas, or the sun was in the eyes of the motorists passing Harry's way, or perhaps Harry's mustache wasn't quite as neatly combed as his opponent- for whatever reason, Harry lost.
The other guy-whose name is lost to us- lived in Harrisonburg, VA. Harry climbed in the car, resigned to his fate. However, he was a plucky guy- the son of the owner of a general store in Bagby, VA and an entrepenuer at heart. He would later own his own Exxon service station at a time when service was not just a throwaway word, but meant that the owner of said station would, if a regular got himself into a bind, drive to the airport to jimmy a lock and fetch keys out of the ignition of a car left running whose owner was winging his way to a salesman's convention. But I digress. Plucky Harry, upon his arrival in Harrisonburg, availed himself of a James Madison University student directory and, scrolling through the names, found that of Marjorie May Pitts, field hockey star and all-around glamour girl. He called her. They met. They fell in love.
After their engagement, Harry went to war. Four and a half years in the jungles of New Guinea. Marjorie waited. She sent photos of herself posed in a "bathing costume" atop a tree trunk. The inscription read, "My man- you gotta come home!" It was touch and go. Harry was shot, he contracted jungle rot in his right foot, he spent evenings lying in the tall grass listening to Japanese soliders with a slight grasp of English whispering, "Hey, give up. Give up." But Harry did come home, and he and Marjorie were married.
They had three daughters who each had two children, the oldest of whom is me.
My grandparents have been married for sixty one years. The Biscuit is their first great-grandchild.
Mr. Frick and I have our 5-year anniversary today. Our beginnings weren't as perilous as those of my Pop and Granny, but they were pretty chancy. I'll save that story for another time- this post is already longer than usual. I say this is the greatest love story I know, but Mr. Frick? There's so much more to be written of ours.
* For those of you impatient with all this personal stuff, fear not! Coming soon to Fricknits: Mile High Knitting! O's that have been F'ed! Tiny socks! Stay tuned...