Fifty-Six Years To The Day

Fifty-six years ago today, on a balmy Wednesday afternoon, October 13, in the Student Lounge of Houston Hall at the University of Pennsylvania, I met up with a lovely woman who had been three years ahead of me at the all-girls prep school we had attended.

At school I had only known her as a cheerful and beautiful member of the grade three years ahead of me. And she apparently knew me because I tended to win academic prizes each year. The pressure at home was largely responsible for how hard I worked, coupled with not having much freedom, being over-protected by my parents from possible romantic opportunities.

A few days before, Ginny had seen me on campus, said hello, and breezily suggested we get together at the International Coffee Hour in Houston Hall, Wednesday at 4.

And she added that she wanted to introduce me to another student. She said he was smart, handsome and shy, and she thought we should meet.

I had three reasons to be there. Of course I wanted to oblige one of the first people I recognized on the college campus.

Second, after spending the last 12 years at an all-girls school 4 miles from home in the Philadelphia suburbs, I wanted to be around men and get to know them. Penn’s campus at the time was 5:1 men to women.

Meanwhile, the International Coffee Hour was appealing because I had traveled in 27 countries on six continents over the past nine summers. I was eager to converse with international students.

Third, I hadn’t yet connected with as many male students as I had expected to after more than 6 weeks in college. Nor female students for that matter.

I remember one encounter when I went to coffee with a guy after our English Lit class, and he actually asked me this:

“Why did you come to college? Did you come to find a husband?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. It was 1965 after all! Had he grown up in a cave? I had never even thought of not going to college. In the privileged environment in which I was raised, education was at least as important for women as for men.

Maybe in fact, he came to college to find a wife. But I didn’t stay to find out. I finished my coffee fast, and I didn’t even drink coffee yet in those days.

So here I was at the International Coffee Hour. I served myself a cup, started talking to some Pakistani students standing around the cookies, and scanned the room for Ginny.

Ginny didn’t come until twenty minutes later. And then she quickly led me to the other side of the room where she introduced me to Jay, who was sitting on the couch. He stood up and flashed a broad, friendly smile.

She said, “I thought you two would enjoy meeting each other,” and then she promptly left, saying she needed to meet someone. It was awkward to say the least.

We sat down on the couch, and asked each other where we lived, what schools we had been to, and how we knew Ginny. Now what?

We moved on to classes we were taking, and it turned out he was already a senior, having transferred from another university in engineering to attend the Wharton School at Penn.

He looked sharp, sophisticated, and seemed to be a comfortable conversationalist.

Here I was a college freshman who still looked and dressed like a high-schooler. And I hardly considered myself good at small talk.

Not a chance of anything happening here. He’s just being polite, I thought.

But then it came to me, “What the heck?” I might as well let it all hang out.

So I let it be known that I was a pacifist, had spent the previous summer attending some 31 parties as a Philadelphia Debutante and then going with my family on a cruise to Australia, and was a Democrat.

I figured that would finish me off. But he seemed intrigued instead of politely taking his leave. I was amazed.

He told me some of his stories, about how he had spent the summer hanging out with a group of friends who sounded really cool, how he spent some time at his parents’ place at the Jersey shore, and how he had dedicated time and money to tend his beloved red Porsche 1956 Speedster, which he had just sold because the expenses were too much and he was working his way through college.

Then we talked about Senator Barry Goldwater, the Kennedy assassination, the Rolling Stones (finally at least one thing in common), and parties, from debutante parties with engraved invitations, champagne and live dance bands until 3 am in the morning (mine), to impromptu parties with friends, guitars, record-players and borrowed booze (his).

And then, we went on to what we wanted to do after college, for him probably law school, for me international diplomacy.

After a while, we looked up and the room was empty. The Houston Hall kitchen staff were cleaning up the room.

We had talked for almost three hours. It was downright embarrassing for a first meeting, I thought. I was sure there was no likelihood of a future.

Fifty-six years later to the day, we are still talking, still sometimes three hours at a time!

Married 52 years now, grandparents, with decades of adventures behind us and more adventures to come, at times I wander, If I hadn’t decided to just be myself in that moment, would he have called me a few days later for a date?