Taking a chance and loving it

Once, I went to a zoo to see the penguins. But my favorite thing of all turned out to be the bats.

This is a love story. I've told parts of it before. But stories are like love itself: They change and grow and deepen with time.

When I met him, I liked the blue of his eyes and the starch in his buttoned-down collar. But that was about it. He'd just been hired as an editor — my editor — at the paper where I worked. I hoped he'd be a good one. I never dreamed he would one day be my husband.

In years to come, he often made my writing better. Good editors do that. They don't change a word of your copy, unless it's to make you look better, or protect you from getting sued or killed.

When we weren't on deadline, we'd talk about our kids. I was married with three. He was single with two. I'd watch his face as he described his boys' latest soccer match or stomach flu. You can see things in a face you can't hear in words. His face said clearly he loved being an editor, but what he loved most was being a father to his boys.

My husband was in the midst of a long and valiant battle with cancer. When the battle finally ended, a thousand mourners attended his memorial service in the gym where he'd coached basketball for 30 years. Among them, I saw later in the video, was my editor. Even then, I felt a comfort in his presence.

Two years later, that same editor called me to say he'd taken a job at a bigger paper.

"Wanna go to lunch before I leave?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, expecting to see the old newsroom crowd that often lunched together. I arrived late. The place was empty, but for him. And he was sweating.

"Where is everybody?"

"Just me today," he grinned.

We ordered jambalaya and started talking about our kids.

Finally, he took a breath and said, "I've been carrying a torch for you for a while, and I think you should give me a chance."

I thought he was joking. He wasn't. So I gave him a chance.

Things went slowly but surely from there. Neither of us was in a rush to remarry. But five years later we were married in his sister's back yard, surrounded by a beaming circle of family.

His boys liked me because I was easy to beat at cards. My kids liked him because he didn't try to be their dad. He was just easy to be around. They liked that a lot. Even after he moved their mother to Las Vegas.

When my daughter asked him to escort her down the aisle at her wedding, you'd have thought he'd won a Pulitzer.

But the biggest surprise — a bats-over-penguins unexpected gift — has been the kind of grandpa he's become.

"Hi, Nana," says 5-year-old Randy, when he calls. "Can I please talk to Papa Mark?"

They're all crazy about him. Randy. Henry. Charlotte. Wiley. Even 5-month-old Eleanor, who recently spent an evening nestled happily in his lap watching "Shaun the Sheep."

I wish you could've seen them.

I told you all of that to say this. After a lifetime in journalism, the editor is retiring. He will still correct me, of course, every chance he gets. But instead of slaving in a newsroom five days (and nights) a week, he will be home 24/7. With me.

G0D help us. As someone said, "We married for better or worse, but not for lunch." We welcome suggestions for making it work.

He won't be an editor any more, but he will always be Papa Mark. And he'll have lots more time to enjoy it. I know five little people who'll be thrilled about that. The newspaper's loss will be our family's gain.

The best gifts are often the least expected. You go to the zoo to see the penguins. But if you keep your eyes and mind and heart wide open, you might be blown away by the bats. It happens. You just have to give life — and love — a chance.

Sharon Randall
(TNS)

Comment by clicking here.

Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."