Capers With Carroll

Thirty-five years ago this afternoon, I waited across the street from the high school where Vicki was teaching. After school let out, I talked a custodian into opening her classroom so I could sneak a bouquet of yellow gladiolas onto her desk. (She went to school the next morning determined to not let the students know that anything special had transpired the previous evening. The gladiolas squashed any chance of that.) Then I went to an Italian restaurant in Monterey Park and had them put a long-stemmed rose in the walk-in refrigerator, with instructions for the waiter to bring it to the table.

After dinner, I knew a church that would be open but empty. We walked up the long aisle and knelt at the altar. We prayed together for a while, and then I surprised her. She knew I was going to ask her, but she didn’t expect me to ask her there. Later, outside, she wanted me to ask her again, because she hadn’t thought it would be appropriate for us to kiss at the altar. We took care of that.

Tonight we celebrated by going to a school board meeting. Vicki had a presentation to make. We sat in the second row, and I put my arm around her while we sat through a long list of other presentations. Then we came home, and once again I asked her to marry me. It’s our annual tradition, but every year she acts surprised. She thinks about it for a minute, and then agrees. After thirty-six repetitions, it’s still a nice tradition.