What’s on my mind? The time before the time I met Himself, my beloved husband of the past decade. I was previously married to writer Lorne Parton, my husband of 20 years. You’ll doubt this story - but it’s true.
I was born Easter Monday, April 22, 1946. My early life was much like many other people’s. I grew up, married, had children, divorced, and got a job.
In September, 1973, good jobs were scarce for a woman with neither a college degree nor training in any field. Having wormed my way into freelance writing, I wanted to work for a major newspaper in Vancouver, Canada.
The managing editor disagreed, saying he wouldn’t hire me because “You should stay home with your children!” Whereupon, as the mature adult I was, I fell to my knees sobbing.
The editor, a crusty guy with a heart soft as a feather, probably couldn’t stand to hear my wailing, and so reversed himself with a grumpy: “Oh, all right!”
Still on my knees and crying even louder (this time, with relief), I crawled to the side of his desk and began kissing his hand. Seriously, I did.
Extracting his fingers in horror, he summoned another editor to drag me from his office and give me a desk and my first assignment - a story I wrote with such incompetence, bewilderment, and a complete lack of interest that I was soon self-assigned.
Extracting his fingers in horror, he summoned another editor to drag me from his office and give me a desk and my first assignment - a story I wrote with such incompetence, bewilderment, and a complete lack of interest that I was soon self-assigned.
It was then I noticed columnist Lorne Parton - the lone ranger of the newsroom whose modus operandi was to walk its perimeter for an hour or so, striking up conversations with reporters who were trying to work.
Lorne would then return to his desk, bang-bang-banging out his column before leaving by 2 o’clock. Having observed his behavior over several months, I didn’t much like this man.
One day, I accidentally bumped into Lorne, who said he was going through a divorce. I said I was, too. Obvious that I was many years his junior, Lorne asked when I was born. An idle question. A question with no agenda. And so I told him, as I’ve told you: Easter Monday, April 22, 1946.
Lorne stared at me in disbelief. And then pulled out his wallet.
Easter Monday, 1946, brought snow to New Westminster, the small British Columbia town where Lorne lived as a boy. On that day, trilliums bloomed in the snow - an unusual sight, to be sure. Lorne marked the date - APRIL 22, 1946 - by placing stones to form each letter and number around the flowers.
And then the 15-year-old Lorne took a photo of the flowers and the date embedded in the snow. Never quite knowing why, he later tucked the photo into his wallet. When the wallet wore out, he bought a new one, transferring the photo to it. By the time we bumped into one another, he’d been carrying that photo in his wallet for 27 years.
We were married two years later. Lorne died of a brain aneurysm in 1996.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
