She was in her early twenties when she went for the job interview at the radio station that summer morning.
The man who was supposed to interview her was out sick, so the manager of the station, who was nearly 50 years old, handled the process. As he looked over her rather short resume — only a stint at another radio station and an adjunct teaching job — she looked at him rather bemused. The chair in which he sat was obviously geared for a much larger man, and the station manager, small of frame, appeared to be swallowed up by the vastness of the leather swivel.
He didn’t hire her that day. She wasn’t “right” for the position advertised, but he was nevertheless impressed by the young woman with the small build and big ideas. In the days that followed, he knew she somehow belonged there, so he created a job, managed to get a small salary approved by management, and made an offer. She was somewhat annoyed by the pitiful amount of money — after all, she was still paying off her master’s degree — but there was something about the man with the deep voice, the sense of humor, and the smiling face, so she agreed.
During the year she was there, her duties and responsibilities increased, and when the station manager went on vacation, she was in charge not just of the station itself, but of the other three which comprised a statewide group. Still, she longed for more money for her time and talent, and this station could not deliver, so she left to work at a local advertising agency for twice the salary. Increasingly however, she found herself calling her old friend, the station manager, for advice, but really because she missed the deep voice, the sense of humor, and the smiling face. He was missing her as well, and after a series of lunches, they decided that somehow they could do it better. He had a solid broadcast background and was well-known in the community. She was not well-known, but had talent. Between the two of them they could write, voice, and produce radio and television commercials and design media campaigns better than most. So after a few more lunches, both quit their jobs and opened their own ad agency. Within a short time they had convinced a number of small businesses to come aboard. As they grew and their work garnered respect, bigger clients knocked at their door.
There was another change as well. The deep admiration that had grown into a deeper friendship was now growing into something more. He, however, was concerned about the big separation in age, though they loved the same things: the Great American Songbook and big bands, taking long rides to nowhere, theater, clinking glasses while gazing at the ocean, and each other. Their love grew because their friendship and respect for each other had come first and was the very foundation of that love.
It took seven-and-a-half years until they married because he had to be “sure.” But when they did, he was ... and they both still are.
A fairy tale? A perfect love story? Ain’t no such thing. Fairy tales are things of princesses and castles, and that’s why they appeal to little ones. And love stories — real love stories — are never perfect. There’s a damn good reason that priests, ministers, rabbis, or justices of the peace talk about “for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health,” because real love stories have them all ... and more. Unlike that silly movie of the 1970s, loves does and should mean having to say you’re sorry, when necessary.
It’s been 48 years since that girl in her twenties and almost 50-year-old station manager met in that tiny office with the chair that nearly swallowed him up. They’ve laughed and enjoyed the “better” and argued and cried through the “worse.” At times they were “richer,” and there were horrible times when they were “poorer.” “Sickness” reared its ugly head from time to time, but luckily “health” endured ... and so did they. Now the difference in their ages doesn’t matter at all because when they look at each other over a glass of wine while gazing at the ocean, they know the best thing that ever happened to each of them was each other.
Happy Birthday, Dave!
Rona Mann has been a freelance writer for The Sun for 18 years, including her “In Their Shoes” features. She can be reached at six07co@att.net or 401-539-7762.
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