Arriving to the farm, my eyes were drawn up to the roof of a shed, where a tall, tan, blonde, shirtless man was standing with hammer in hand. I took the job. Alvis and I hit it off. If you are thinking there was a head over heels quality to the companionship, there was not. It felt like convenience fused with inevitability as we drove, hiked and drank our summer away. There were disasters at the drive-in, epic tantrums in his parents’ house, pulling my car out of a muddy ditch with a tractor in the dark rain and the night we snuck into a quarry. That event was nothing short of miraculous as he gently held me under the surface of the water and I, staying perfectly still, watched the stars and kept breathing. I was under for a quarter hour, easy.
As soon as summer was over
Alvis headed back to University and I fell into a big, dark cavern. This despair drove me back to Philadelphia (the September snow and timber wolf visit helped) and just in time. With a cracking heart I was able to find comfort and guidance in my father’s arms. What a gift. He died within a year.
Alvis and I corresponded via letters and the occasional telephone call. I married, had children, and divorced. He was engaged, three times, to the obligatory Latvian women, but not once made it down the aisle. Decades later as we became willing to share sincere sensibilities about our lives and choices. I was able to make a tongue in cheek declaration that I was Latvian, but kept it from him because I wanted him to love me for who I was, not my Latvianism. Honesty wove a sweet love story. Turns out Alvis had a level of awe and respect for me. He enjoyed my humor and was fascinated with my idiosyncratic perceptions. We both acknowledged an affection and a bond that seemed to be rooted in another lifetime. Available to each other in ways that as teenagers we were incapable of, we established a curious comfort and an unexpected intimacy.
That sweet moment came to an unpleasant termination a few years back. Alvis called looking for some support regarding a family matter. My advice; “Lead with love’. It seemed harmless enough, but I found that counsel like that, directed to one under the influence of beer and fear, can create a shit ton of hostility. His angry tone and abusive remarks were not new to me, but my response was. The place that I would have accepted his behavior and ‘tried harder’ to work with him, no longer existed. Now I had boundaries that compelled me to say, “Call me back when you can apologize, not until then.”
As of today, radio silence. Forty-three years after I drove to that horse farm in Kettleby there is only my sweet recollections and a postcard made of birch bark Alvis sent me through the U.S. Mail for my fiftieth birthday. The back of the perfectly cut strip of bark has the words, “Love is the Virtue of Women. Happy Birthday!”, carved into it.
Actually, that is not all I have. I always, and I mean always, think of Alvis when the song “Joy”, by Harry Nilsson, rotates through my play list. The tune reminds me of Alvis, the bathtub and… well, it makes me smile and get all weird inside (inside joke). With absolute certainty I can tell you that Alvis thinks of me when he hears the song “Kiss and Say Goodbye” by the Manhattans. Not that it’s rotating through anyone’s play list, ever.
Life is funny.
You have opportunities.
You have lessons.
You take chances.
You grow, forgive, evolve or you don’t.
Life Goes On
Alvis, if you’re out there,
and I know you are,
I want you to turn on your radio and listen to my song.
Thanks for walking with me.
Amy
No longer on social media,
I sure would appreciate it if you
would be willing to share my blog.
Thanks!
Thanks for sharing. First love can be exciting and at time with sadness. But you never forget.