Her Side of the Ring

I thought she would have proposed last week. Her family threw a seventy-fifth birthday party for her uncle. Over hundred in attendance. Everyone was there, including my parents.

Loriann excels at working the crowd, not afraid of being the center of attention. I was positive she would propose on the lawn in front of the tent-covered dance floor as darkness rose. After I said yes, we would be welcomed with clap-like-you-mean-it applause and dance to a slow country twang under the twinkling lights strewn on the metal rafters.

At least that’s how I thought it would happen.

Her side: I know Katie thought I would do it last week. The whole situation too clichéd, flavorless. I need a more elaborate, original proposal. The hardest person for me to please is me, obvious with the four scrapped proposal scenarios saved as “Operation White Feather” on my laptop.

I look at the calendar and wonder when she will do it. We have three weekends straight of parties and events, any of which Loriann could ask me to be her wife.

She knows that while I want it to be a surprise, I do not want a complete surprise. We designed my engagement ring together two months ago. Her engineering mind and my nods created a masterpiece that made the traditionalist jeweler soften.

“And now to create yours.” He gave Loriann a blank she of paper for the first sketch.

She didn’t want a ring yet.

“You know I prefer my simple diamond studs over lots of bling anywhere on my body,” she told me signing the receipt for the asymmetrical ring.

“I definitely want a wedding band though. A beveled titanium one with our wedding date on the inside and a discreet emerald set in the front,” she continued, her pouty lips protruding slightly as she kissed my cheek.

Her side: Even if I had wanted my own engagement ring, I could not have worn it at work. The setting could get lodged in a crevasse on one of the machines I maintain. I will wear a wedding band. Why take a chance of ripping off a finger when the person, and not the ring, is what I really want.

We are both romantics at heart, but in different ways. I am the rom-com lover who dislikes watching the end of any relationship.

I believe somewhere in Loriann’s ancestry she is related to both Mark Twain and Jane Austin. She is a literary romantic who craves both simple love and complicated relationships.

This evening we are celebrating our fourth annual trip to the Gabel’s fall farm festival. The trip when we indulge in the homemade fall treats, bring home a bushel of apples, and shoot the first of our three Christmas card photos. One of us in the fall, one of Rocky, our black lab, and one of the three of us.

“Kate, let’s go before the line for the grilled porch chops gets too long. Can’t miss my spiced apples on top.”

Her side: She has no idea how many trips I have made to Gabel’s over the last two months to plan tonight. Had to promise Mr. Gabel Sr. himself we would mention his farm in the engagement announcement. And then the family meeting. Coordinating twenty-two entrances after Kate finds the ring. I wrote a script to cover the synchronous movements. I am beginning to think that theatrical directing and project management have a lot in common.

Loriann loves her food. An epicure who allows me in the kitchen during meal prep only for conversation. She plans her work schedule weeks in advance to have the time to create French dishes and elaborate desserts with ingredients I cannot pronounce.

Her side: I do want the pork chops, but after the she says yes. Her family is too anxious. I am too anxious. Biggest day of my life.  I cannot enjoy the secret family recipe Gabel pork chops covered in stress.

We park in the hay lot because even the illegal parking spots on the paved pad are taken. Loriann runs ahead to secure our food and attraction tickets. I love seeing her maneuver a crowd. Her mind anticipating the moves of the people in front of her.

I wait at the entrance and watch kids running around, hands full of sticky treats and mini pumpkins carried by the stems. I see my someone who looks like my cousin head into the arts and crafts building. Don’t remember her saying she would be here tonight.

Her side: Crap! I see Kate’s cousin Sam fly past me heading towards the handmades. I hope Kate does not see her. I know Kate suspects nothing tonight. She would not have worn her riding boots if she did.

Loriann motions for me to head in her direction.

The farm has few blacktop lined paths so I wore my riding boots to walk through the slop and dust on the farm. It is a given we will walk to an obscure part of the farm. Loriann could be a location scout for a production company. Each year, she finds a stunning backdrop for our Christmas card even if we have to straddle manure to capture it.

“Ready to watch the pumpkin catapult?” she asks me kissing my hand. “It’s new this year.”

Her side: By the length of the line for the catapults, I think the Gabel’s should give me a kickback for creating their new featured activity. Or at least give us our fall gourds for free.

I see pumpkins airborne and wonder what the owner was thinking when he came up with this idea. I hope they are keeping the landing field clear of wandering tykes.

Loriann hands the attendant our tickets who explains the rules. Pick a pumpkin and launch it on one of the three catapults. After the pumpkin lands, go out and examine the pumpkin’s guts to see if we won a prize.

“I heard one of the prizes is five gallons of apple cider,” Loriann whispers in my ear, tickling my chin.

Her side: I knew Katie would be skeptical of anything new that involved mechanics or the possibility of someone getting hurt. The potential reward for the effort had to be enticing or she would have told me to do it on my own and she’d take my picture. Last year, Gabel’s sold out of their apple cider – Katie’s favorite – and I bought eight, yes eight, replacement brands that failed Katie’s taste tests and were distributed to neighbors who did not mind the non-Gabel cider.

“I bought us the prime pumpkin ticket,” Loriann said grabbing a nearly perfectly round pumpkin. “Chance at a bigger prize.”

This woman knows me well. Even if it costs me fifty bucks, I have to win the stuffed bear at the county fair.

Catapult station two sits at the back end of a large field surrounded by a semi-circle of corn stalks. Distance markers shaped like pumpkins tempt the participants by offering free activities for hitting the signs. 

The catapult looks complicated with four levers and a pumpkin-leveling bar. Loriann operates the machine with ease. If I had to operate the flipper, I would have to yell “four” to everyone standing in front and in back of me. No telling which direction my pumpkin would fly.

“Kate, help me adjust the pumpkin’s angle.” I appreciate how meticulous she is about precision. With the catapult and with our lives. She calculates risk without having all the information and includes my opinion before a final decision is made. God, I love this woman. I wish she would go ahead and ask me to marry her.

Her side: I know Kate is concerned about the safety of the contraptions. Her concern about others amazes me. I guess that’s why she has the patience to teach kindergarteners and volunteer at church. If she knew I designed the catapults, she would have less of a concern touching it. Maybe on our second launch?

I maneuver a gauge so the pumpkin will launch at a thirty-five-degree angle. We start the countdown to launch. Seeing the excitement in Loriann’s eyes pushes me to yell the numbers louder as if my voice will propel the pumpkin further.

The pumpkin soars and slaps near the “Aim Here” jack-o-lantern. I have to admit I did feel my adrenaline surge when I pressed the release mechanism on the catapult. And hearing the hollow smush sound when it hits the ground feels wrong and wonderful in the same second.

I can tell by the look on Loriann’s face she enjoys it too.

Her side: The pumpkin landed almost on target. And even with the splat, the ring vessel could not be seen, still hidden under the crown of the pumpkin. Securing the pumpkin so the ring did pop out when it hit the ground took several trials before I determined the proportion of bottom weight to the rest of the pumpkin. I can tell Kate liked the launch. Waiting to see what we won, she looks like a kid at the starting line of an Easter egg hunt.

Loriann and I run as if we are working through a mine field trying to avoid the smashed pumpkin remains. I get to our pumpkin first. I yank up the top to find a tennis ball that looks like it has been sliced in two and taped back together.

“Go ahead open it, Katie.”

Removing the tape proves to be more challenging because slimy strings of the pumpkin are tangled in the tennis ball’s fur. Slowly I unravel the tape and crack open the tennis ball.

Inside is a ring. My ring. The one Loriann and I designed only with a larger, more brilliant diamond. Loriann drops to one knee and gazes into my eyes.

“Katie, I have wanted to ask you a question for a very long time.” She pauses and grabs my hands.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes! Oh, my God yes!”

I wrap my pumpkin-flesh covered hands around her neck and press my lips hard to hers.

Clapping and cheering begin all around the semi-circle of corn. I see my mom appear from the corn stalks. And then my cousin – it was her earlier. And then Loriann’s parents. One-by-one family and friends who have supported us without question step from what I thought was only a corn maze.

I stare lovingly at Loriann in disbelief. Engaged over deconstructed pepos.

Her side: Finally engaged to the woman I love. I can’t wait to show her the design plans for the catapult.



Loriann flings wet pumpkin remains at me and smiles. She knows I refuse to lose at snowball fights. I am hoping my aim is as accurate with a pile of slippery pumpkin seeds