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The road we all follow...metaphorically

The road we all follow…metaphorically

I love graveyards, especially older ones.

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On Sunday, when I was watching CBS Sunday Morning they had a segment on a women’s professional baseball league that existed in the 1940’s and early 50’s. It was am segment that had been on earlier in the TV season, and just like the first time, it reminded me of a woman a dated for a short time. I was living and working in Auburn at the time; long before I met Cindy. I was thirty-five and had been dating women in their late twenties or early thirties. Jane was 50. The TV segment reminded me of Jane because she had played either professional softball or baseball; I don’t remember which. Her age was right for playing on the Ft. Wayne Daisies team, which was a baseball team, during their last few seasons. But I don’t know for sure if that was who she played for.

When I met Jane she was divorced with two grown daughters. She told me she had divorced her husband, who owned a furniture store, because one day she went to see him at the store and found him, “screwing his secretary on a dining room table in the storeroom.” Those were her words, not mine.

Jane, at fifty, was in better shape physically than any of the younger women I had been dating. I think she could have stepped back on a ball diamond and picked up the game where she had left off.

Our relationship didn’t last more than a few months, but it was memorable. I have a few stories about Jane that I could tell, but I probably shouldn’t. I’m afraid the grandkids might some day decide to read some of my posts. Today I’m particularly remembering being caught in a rainstorm while in a boat on a lake. We got back to shore and warmed ourselves with a bottle of Jane’s homemade wine. My first sip made me wonder if it was wine or paint thinner. But it warmed, and the second sip went down easier, as did the third and fourth and so on. By the time we finished the bottle off we were perspiring.

Jane went on and started dating a man closer to her own age. I didn’t like him, but I wasn’t dating him. I eventually moved away, and even later, after Cindy and I were married, I heard that Jane had married that fellow. I also heard that he was physically and emotionally abusive and that Jane eventually divorced him. The last I heard of Jane, she was in a nursing home recovering from a stroke. The stroke removed all memories of dating, marrying, and divorcing the abusive cur. I was sorry to hear about the stroke, but was glad that the bad memories had been removed.

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