How I Met Your Mother
A letter to my daughters, Madeline and Nancy, on Valentine’s Day
Dear Madeline and Nancy,
You have heard versions your entire life, but now, let me make it official.
I will always remember the night of April 2, 1994. Boat House Row #2. Philadelphia. A beautiful evening.
Life Before Your Mother (The Condensed Version)
It was the night I walked out of a desert. The night that ended my night. The night that redirected my days. The night I met Mary Jane Murphy.
Earlier, before her name, I was feeling sorry for myself. My moods shifted between morose, melancholy, and macabre. Pick any “m.” I was supposed to see a woman. You know. It’s a tale “as old as mud.”
Grief can nourish only for so long. Such grief I believed romantic, a knight rescuing the princess, but I decided once and for all, once again, to forget the pain of the past.
Could life be refreshed? Restarted? Rebooted?
I called my buddy Alec who was writing. We were always writing. Writing is often a hamster wheel; so much energy and no distance.
Writing intensified the self-pity, writing like a dark path into the inner world rather than a staircase to the heavens.
The advice of my great friend Dan rang in my ear. His advice rang with the warmth of truth. He had called and told me, to get off my ass and go find a babe.
I had just moved into my flat in Elkins Park, PA, just north of Philly, grown a beard, and was halfway through grad school.
At times, after a swim or a walk, I was feeling good. The beard gave a shot of confidence and attractiveness. I had dated a couple of girls, both young, both briefly, and both not exciting to be around.
The advice of your Mom-Mom also rang in my head. She told me to attend a Professional Business Singles dance on Boathouse Row in Philadelphia. Since it was an organization that my mum had been active in, I did not jump at the suggestion.
I had once worked for the guy who ran PBS —Ralph Israel, collecting tickets and money from the “Singles” before they entered. I even dated two girls from that activity — making them laugh.
My mum said women there would “flock” to me. Like a french fry left on the Ocean City boardwalk for the gulls?
I even hung around parties my mum would throw and chat with the ladies. Fitzgerald was dash right about cocktail tables. A solitary man can hang out all night at a cocktail table and not look awkward. But the women, all the age of your grandmother, then, or older, would talk to me, and I would make jokes, and they would tell my mum, “I was the most interesting man at the party.”
Sure the crowd was older. They would not like Pearl Jam or REM, but I had outgrown being a ‘“boy.” Could I learn to tolerate Lawrence Welk? Perhaps not. Perry Como and Frank Sinatra, of course. Hell, I had my own place. I had two paths opening up for me: teaching and writing.
Taking a Chance
I called Alec. I recall twisting of the arms and protestations of “please” repeated ad nauseam. I promised a fine feast of mature and attractive women. We arrived shortly after nine o’clock. We paid ten dollars.
I felt totally confident: the tiger stalking his prey, a wolf in the hen house. (Can you think of any other toxic male cliches?) I was in a super mood. Hell, I’m doing something about this loneliness! Even if I meet no one at this dance, at least I’m with my friend, making an effort to ease my loneliness.
We got lost along Kelly Drive. We were too busy singing Blondie’s ‘’Heart of Glass.” My mood dropped, however, as we walked inside Boathouse #2.
The crowd was — sparse. Far too geriatric. Alec nursed his beer, but I kept the light nearbeer (lager) coming. Back then, where were the dank IPAs?
We wandered to the deck, overlooking the river and the Art Museum. A slight breeze. Could the breeze sweep me away into the night?
What a waste! Why did I bring Alec here? Could I at least drink ten dollar’s worth of crappy beer? Sudden mood changes were common then, like Florida rainstorms.
The room, however, was filling. Some lasses seemed within my age range. I was twenty-four. I never dated anyone long enough or available enough for me ever to dare use the word “girlfriend.”
Was I there to find the love of my life?
When I First Saw Your Mother
She was talking to an “Ed.” Ed? Isn’t that Erectile Dysfunction? Was Ed the “opposition?” There is no ED in Walter! Unless used a verb: I got so Waltered last night! Sexual jealousy runs deep All men — opposition. Was Alec the opposition, too?
I recall noticing your mother’s soft and long mane of hair. I did not know it was red until much later. It was dark in the room. Was this a scene straight out of West Side Story? At a dance? Or “Strangers in the Night” from Sinatra?
She smiled. I mirrored her smile. “The best-looking woman in the joint is over there, talking to someone.” I pointed her out.
Until I summoned the courage, she was not aware of Walter — only old men with such a name.
Until that “hello,” I continued sucking up beer, talking to Alec, commenting on the music, discussing topics we should not bring up — the joys of listening to Joy Division — the dilemma between the Modernist and the Post-Modernist Movement in Literature — and the wonders of flagellation.
In fact, Alec pondered using the line, ‘’Do you think I am evil?”
I said, “Alec, just say, ‘Hello, my name is Alec.’”
“No, no, too easy,” he said. “Not dramatic enough!”
When Mary Jane was alone, I quickly moved without thinking — channeling what I learned from The Tao: walk without walking; think without thinking.
If I pondered too long like Hamlet, debilitated by Thought, I would have remained speculating about pick-up lines.
I recall her black stockings and her black and gray pleated skirt. On the opposite extreme, I was dressed in hiking boots and jeans and a plaid, flannel shirt. Was I better costumed for a Nirvana concert than a business singles dance of professionals?
Excuse the sexism, but her shape looked very very very good. Smoking, even, to pardon the crude parlance of the day.
Love, if Yeats is to be believed, does come first through the eyes. What if her personality matched her beauty? What if her brains matched her warmth? What if her warmth matched her morals? What if her morals matched the depth of soul?
I rather speed-walked over. Noticed her name tag. In red.
Mary Jane! Mary Jane! Mary Jane!
The name danced — leaping off my lips. Mary Jane! An old name, Irish perhaps, no, no, very Irish. Remember the Mary Jane in Joyce’s “The Dead.” The one who played the piano at the party.
The First Dance
She was startled I knew her name. She forgot she wore a name tag. I wanted to say, “A woman like you, who seems to contain two women, needs two first names!’’
What did she do — an essential question in America, right? She was a dietitian at Temple Hospital. This, of course, leap-frogged into a debate about health care and socialized medicine. She knew more, but could I admit she won the debate?
I was impressed! A woman with an opinion! We argued for ten minutes. Then I commented, “What about those Phils?”
She laughed. Wasn’t health care reform and Hilary Clinton on the Do Not Talk About List?
Her smile was now different. I remember her smile the most from that night. Her smile kept me smiling. Would she like to dance? She nodded. Said sure! Sure — really? Are you really sure? I’m a nutcase.
We slow danced two songs. As you can guess, I did most of the talking. I kept a good and respectable distance. I wanted to see her face, her smile. I needed eye contact. It was not until later that I brought her close.
The music picked up. Alec came over. The three of us started fast dancing. Alec and I started talking. Was Alec killing my game? After all, I dragged him out here with me! I wanted to keep Mary Jane in the conversation. Alec’s funny and wild “stream-of-conscious,” Robin Williams-like comments can Tilt-a-Whirl the most intellectually and socially aware people! One of the fastest wits in the East.
Was I getting weird signals from your mother? Like she wanted to escape? Like she was wondering, Do these guys want to be left alone?
After three songs, she excused herself, saying she had to see if her friend Catherine was still there. (Yeah, right, babe!)
Alec and I drifted to the outer wall. “If she comes back,” he said, “she’s yours.’’ I kept an eye on her. I was hooked. I did not look at another woman with eyes of love or passion. Or any other night after that.
She danced with one guy. I hated him! His name was Joseph. Where’s your technicolor dreamcoat, man? I watched them. She was not enjoying the dance. My trained eye saw he was “rubbing junk” against her too closely.
That’s not like a gentleman.
Should I rescue her from this “cad?” Was your mother one who needed rescuing? Or were my days as a ‘white knight’ finally, and gratefully, finis.
I kept myself hidden. Would I want her to think so nut job was stalking her? I found my beer. More liquid courage. Your mother was talking to Catherine? Where was E.D.? She headed to the WC.
The Last Dance of The Night
I positioned myself, knowing, after the loo, she would have to cross my path. She came out. Would she like to dance again?
She agreed. Really? Did she agree?
This should come as no surprise, girls, but I definitely talked too much about myself. I confessed that to Alec. Did I apologize to her? Was this a crime against the conventions of conversation?
I blabbed about my writing, my readings, my travels in Europe and America. My family. The usual Bowne Bravado. She seemed entertained. I made jokes. She laughed. I claimed to have visited every state in the Union, and many European Capitals and Art Museums of the World.
“Have you ever been to Michigan?”
I thought. “No.”
“North Dakota?”
I thought again. “No. Not yet.”
Did she name all the states I never visited? Montana. Alaska. Hawaii. That number went down to at least 42.
The second dance lasted the entire evening. We were the last on the floor. So consumed in conversation I lost awareness of time.
During the last dance, I brought her close to me. After the song, I kissed her. She was startled! I didn’t think. I just did it. Seized the moment. Was she giving me kissy looks? Later, she claimed she was not.
The kiss was very short, eyes open, lips closed. Just who was this “untutor’d youth?”
Was I wrong? Were my actions, daughters, ungentlemanly? Was it just a spontaneous moment of inhibition? Was I lucky she didn’t crack me in the head?
Would she like to go out sometime. She said “yes.’’ She looked through her small bag for her business card. It read “Nutrition Health Associates.” She was starting her own consulting business on health and nutrition. Wow! That sounded like something I needed since I existed on cans of corned beef hash and ketchup.
I told her I would call and set something up for the following weekend. What’s a better word for excited? We seemed to fit together. “Like puzzle pieces’’ she was to say later, when she could no longer resist loving me, wanting me forever — against reason and logic. Perhaps.
Such a sharp thrill was new for me: this absorption with another person. Lost the awareness of the room, of my friend, of my own self. I was never at a loss for what to say next.
Being with your mom was easy as breathing. My own mom told me later that she never saw me “so high” as when she saw me the next day. I had to tell her all about the woman I danced with the entire night.
We parted from the floor. Where was Alec? Alec danced one dance with a woman but that was all. I completely forgot about him. But I thank God for him. I don’t know if I would’ve gone if he didn’t go.
Your mother said later that I must be a good guy if I had such a good friend who would wait that long for his friend. So many intangibles that may have kept us both away from that dance. Was it a chance meeting? Or was it, dare I say it, daughters, fated?
I walked away holding the card firmly in my hand in my pocket. I told Alec how wonderful she was, saying how easy it was to talk to her, how wonderful it was just to look at her, to hold her, to be with her.
Anxiety
I then saw her leave with her friend ED. I went to the loo, joined Alec, then I saw your mother’s butt in that skirt — right in front of me! Why was she leaving with another guy? Should I say something? Say goodnight?
Your mother opened the door for her friend. Your mother was driving. I knew, deep down, that they were friends. This friend, Ed, eventually said the blessing at our wedding fourteen months later.
Yes, it was a quick courtship. But now, it’s twenty-eight years later. Sometimes you just know.
I was worried when I got home that holding your mother’s business card, making sure I didn’t lose it, hoping the sweat from my palm didn’t blur two of the numbers. Was I still able to call?
The day after, I paced back and forth. Or the day after that. Wondering about the call. Did I blow it with that impromptu kiss?
It was the day before Easter. 1994. I walked up the stairs in your grandmother’s house. Sat on my mom’s bedroom floor. Picked up the phone. Placed down the phone. Walked to the bathroom. Walked downstairs again. Paced around the house. Then I went back to the bedroom. And, breathing hard, punched in the number. Panic!
Those Early Dates
The conversation was as easy as on the dance floor. But no Hilary-Health care debate. My car had no heat, a Civic Hatchback with a finicky clutch, and I brought a blanket. It was cold in early April.
I took her to Schindler’s List, and I had to scrape ice from the inside of the car. Ice chips fell into her lap.
Was she cold? She nodded. I turned around and gave her the blanket. Why would your mother want to date a poor poet still in grad school who was a waiter? Was it love? Was she taking a huge risk? Was it my laugh? Was it the way I made her feel good about herself?
I don’t know.
Because the movie was so long, and our emotions so drained, the ice cream was delayed. She would take a “rain check.”
Do you mean, a second date? What?
And yes, a second date. A Phillies game where I consumed healthy snacks to the old Veterans Stadium in the 700 Section, close to the clouds. I was in heaven, after all.
We feasted on graham crackers and bananas. I made her laugh by eating the stringing things off the banana. She saw through my plot. She was a dietitian at Temple, and I wanted to “impress her.”
Did it work? Yes, the laughs worked.
Of course, that was just the beginning. I recall parking far from the stadium to save on parking, and reaching back to grab your mother’s hand, and seeing her smile. And I knew. Just knew.
She had other dates. Her friends at the hospital asked about the dates. They said the one to the Phillies game seemed like the best one. She agreed.
The Proposal
A few months later, on September 2nd, 1994, she agreed to marry me on a rock in Ridley Creek. We had a picnic there after a conflict about boundaries.
You know all about this rock. Madeline, there are pictures of you there.
It was the foundation to our family. And the families that will come later, if you so desire.
And that was how I met your mother.
The Bowne Family
