The Best Story I Have

My dear wife has told me that my blogs are too negative in my discussions which touch on her. I personally think that my blogs are honest, but not intended to be negative in any way. Any negative thoughts I have about my wife tend to remain stitched on the hippocampus of my cerebrum.

Nevertheless, I thought I might say a few words about the spousal unit, if only to provide myself a defense if she complains about my blogs in the future. It is so rare when I have something close at hand which I can use in my defense. It would be nice somehow to keep this close to my vest, so that it can be pulled out when needed.

Anyway, I first met Cindy when we were in World History class at Dunwoody High School. She sat in front of me in class. I will admit that she turned around to speak to me and , thusly, ignited the fire. We spoke only briefly, but obviously long enough.

Cindy was rather exotic when compared to my family. She had dark hair and dark eyes and hailed from Louisiana. This contrasted quite starkly to the usual fair blondes with light eyes you find in my family.

When I was in seventh grade, I read T. Harry Williams' biography of Huey Long. From that point forward, I was entranced with everything having to do with Louisiana. I even made the statement, on several occasions in seventh grade, that I would like to be the Governor of Louisiana. This got me little other than being voted Most Ambitious in the Seventh Grade Superlatives.

So the field was ripe for a sweet young Louisiana beauty to turn to me in World History and sweep me off my feet, so to speak.

The next most important moment between the two of us involved a morning in eleventh grade, when I ran into her in the main hallway at Dunwoody with Sue Mitchell and Ronnie Brown. I remember something about a light blue sweater dress outfit she was wearing and how it contrasted with her dark hair and eyes. I really think this was the moment when I really fell for her.

I know there was a dance when we were seniors at which we hung around each other throughout the dance. Cindy remembers a time at church when she asked me to sit with her family, but I don't remember that.

I do remember when her family moved to California in the Winter of our Senior year. And I remember walking down Nelson Street in my sophomore year at W&L and seeing that camel coat in the window, which opened the floodgates of all of those memories and caused me to write the poem which I submitted to The Arial for publication. After publication, I got Cindy's address from Sue Mitchell and mailed a copy of the magazine to her.

That, of course, opened a line of communication which lasted all the way from Sophomore year at W&L through graduation and matriculation at Georgia Law School and on to that evening in October when she called me from California and I could hear her voice again and combine my memory with the sound over the telephone.

Later that year, I was at home trying to get tickets to the Sugar Bowl game between Georgia and Penn State, when she called me and suggested I get a ticket for her. That request turned out to be easier than I thought, thanks to Mrs. Couch, and cousin Ed and I drove my Chevy Monza to New Orleans and a whole entry hall full of Sicards saying my name.

What a test of my mettle and what a precurser to later Sicard gatherings in New Orleans and other sites in and around Southeast Louisiana.

But the next few days seemed to confirm the connection we had, despite the distance and the years. We completed each others' sentences. We thought the same thoughts. We enjoyed the French Quarter despite the rain and the cold. I distinctly remember sitting at a small table in the bar at the Hotel Ponchatrain, ignoring the ticking off of the hours to the New Year. I remember sitting next to each other on the couch at Cindy's friends house. I remember walking through the Quarter after Penn State beat Georgia and listening to a young man who said he was embarrassed to be from Climax, Georgia, but wasn't embarrassed to be a Georgia Bulldog. While Cousin Ed put out firecrackers thrown at his feet.

I remember walking around Downtown Atlanta with Cindy and Ed and trying to get change for the Marta train and Cindy suddenly finding she had the twenty cents we needed for the tickets in her Bass Weejuns.

And I remember listening to a band at the Moonshadow Saloon, with Cindy tucked under my arm, and reaching down to kiss her on the top of her head. As she felt the kiss, she turned her face to me and we kissed, for real, for the first time. The rest of the night is a blur.

Eight months later we were married. That is still the best story I've got.