First

I had known him two months.

A lifetime in single-adulthood.

We had hung around in the same group—going to movies. Dances. Parties. Performing in skits.

Attending church services.

Even singing in the same choir.

We had enjoyed lots of visiting and laughter.

He seemed to like me and I definitely liked him.

The time had come. “Soooo…what are you doing Friday night?”

And just FYI, this was me asking…

“Nothing. Oh, wait, I’m driving the volleyball team to their game.”

“Can I come along?”

And, just like that, we had a date. Okay a ‘date’, but that’s almost as good.

Things went well. He drove. I sat on the first bench behind and watched him.

So far so good.

We chatted while the team played. Cheered together when they won.

Herded everyone back on the bus.

And he drove home.

I know this is sounding boring, but when you mix in anticipation.

And hormones.

Even boring can be exciting.

By the time he had returned the bus and the team and hangers-on had disbursed, there was still much of the evening to go.

The possibilities for a young couple on the cusp of a new relationship were endless.

In a small Alberta town that rolled up its sidewalks at 6:00 pm.

In an era before the internet, cable TV or entertainment had been invented.

So…Not.

“How about we go to my parents and see what’s on TV?”

I nodded. Happily. You have to know I was still in the grip of anticipation, etc. (See above.)

Now this young man was the middle child of six, but the front room and accompanying TV were deserted and unclaimed.

Wow. Serendipity.

Grabbing some snacks, we settled in to watch the only movie playing on the only channel our world offered. A movie, I might add that we had both seen.

And neither liked.

This date just kept getting better and better.

Fifteen minutes in, he fell asleep.

I ate the popcorn and other assorted munchies. Then finally awakened him as the credits were rolling.

More than ready to go home.

He sleepily complied. We actually had a nice talk during the ten-minute drive to my parent’s place. (As ranching folk, we measure the distances between places in minutes and/or hours.) And all-too-soon, the lights of his car were illuminating the front of my home.

The walk to the door culminated in a sweet, warm hug, neatly eliminating that ages-old question ‘kiss or no kiss on the first date?’

And I turned to open the door.

Now you have to know in my ‘miles-from-everywhere’ ranch life, that never—ever—had my parents locked the front door.

My family had left and gone on weeks-long holidays without even considering it.

But on this night?

The door was firmly and unapologetically locked.

Bolted. Secured. Attached. Anchored. Moored. Fastened.

Yep. Locked.

This date has somehow jiffy-stepped into the Twilight Zone.

Hmmm. My mind was working frantically. “Maybe the other door is open.”

The door we never used. The grand double door that was for guests only.

I probably don’t have to tell you that this second door was just as fastened and immovable as its counterpart.

Sigh.

I went around to my parents’ bedroom window and tapped on the glass. “Daddy? Mom?”

No answer.

And stygian darkness.

I just threw that in because it sounded, you know, mysterious.

Visions of having to spend the night in the barn were now becoming very real.

I walked back to the door where my date was patiently waiting.

“Maybe if we try to open the window,” I said, uncertainly.

Obligingly, my date grabbed a nearby snow shovel (it IS Alberta) and wedged the blade under the edge of the window nearest the door. My father’s office.

Eureka! The window lifted half an inch.

Encouraged, we pushed the shovel a little further and pushed again.

The shovel snapped.

I am not making this up.

Snapped.

I guess hardy shovels aren’t needed for the hundred feet of snow we get each winter.

That’s sarcasm.

My date very carefully put the shovel back where we had found it, both of us praying that its blade-less-ness would go unnoticed, at least for the next decade or so.

It had done its work, though. I could now get my fingers under the edge of the window. I pushed up and, to my joy (and surprise), the window moved, allowing just enough room for me to squeeze my svelte twenty-year-old body through.

Good thing this happened then. If it happened now, I would have needed a lot more room than that afforded by a small window . . .

You know what? Never mind.

I waved to my date and we—finally—parted company.

Does the story end there?

It does not.

The next day was Sunday and, as church-attending people, we did what we had always done—attended church.

I got there first and took a seat in the chapel.

Soon, my date appeared, rather red-faced and sat beside me.

I smiled at him and he returned it, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than I thought was warranted. I knew something was up. “What’s up?” I asked. (See?)

“I just met your dad in the foyer.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He was talking to the Bishop.”

“Uh-huh. With you so far.”

“When I stopped to shake hands and say, ‘Good morning’, he grabbed my hand and held on.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Then he pulled me over and, turning to the Bishop, said, ‘Bishop do you know what this young man did last night?’ Of course I stared at him like the proverbial deer in the headlights.”

“O-kay. Then what did he say?”

“‘Bishop, this young man broke into my house!’ Then he leaned over and whispered into my ear, ‘Didn’t you figure it out? I didn’t want her back!’”

Now this young man and I have been married forty-five years, produced six children who have then gone on to produce 17 grandchildren, proving that he sticks to things and doesn’t scare easily.

And I’m grateful. It’s been a wonderful life.

But, to this day, I still wonder if Daddy really meant it.