My grandpa swears it happened the instant he spotted Jan on campus in her pink sweater and black skirt. Always a sucker for a classy dresser, that Jack. On one of their first dates, he took her dancing at Balboa Pavilion. In my imagination, the scene has the sepia tones of a World War II film.
Jack in his snappy sport coat and wingtips, endearing her with his unbridled laugh and calling her “Jannie Mae” though he hardly knows her well enough for a pet name.
Her flashing eyes match the near-black of her hair in the ballroom glow. She’s demure. He orders a drink and forgets about it when the band strikes the first few notes of a favorite tune. He jumps from his chair and lets out one of the loud guffaws that charges from deep in his chest when he’s truly pleased.
The bandleader has read Jack’s mind and he has no choice but to dance, though he’s not much for the contagious twirling of the era. He holds her close in a shuffle, only occasionally coinciding with the beat of the music. No matter. She’s distracted by his warm breath on her ear as he sings along. She blushes to match the sweater she wore the day he fell in love.
I wasn’t there. But I don’t have any trouble imagining my grandparents as young lovebirds. They've been like that my entire life. How do you stay so in love for 60 years? If Jack and Jan sold the answer, I’d be the heir to a tremendous fortune.
And I’d give it all away just to know their secret.
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