Love, Again (eBook)

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We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

--Emily Dickinson

Sam and Me

Pursuit

How do old people meet new loves? Here's how it happened for me: I schemed.

I never was any good at love, or maybe I was just bad at finding the right man. In 2004, at the age of 67, I broke off the most recent 'this isn't working' relationship. I'd had two husbands and a few not-husbands along the way and was once again single.

I had delightful children, grandchildren, and friends, fulfilling work as a writer, and a sort of second career as a nationally ranked senior runner. I lived in a sweet if somewhat run-down little cottage in Mill Valley, north of San Francisco. Over the years I had learned--or had been forced to learn--how to live on my own. But though I knew how to manage as a single woman (keep in touch with your friends and family, exercise regularly, work in your garden, see a therapist when your need for support is more than friends should be subjected to), I liked life better when I was part of a couple.

So, once I was over the breakup, I was on the hunt. I looked around for boyfriend candidates. I thought of two possibilities. One was a charming younger man I'd met while hiking in the Sierras. We had gone out a few times, and I liked him. But on the most recent date, he'd let me know that he was involved in a long-term relationship with a woman who lived in New York and that, though the relationship was problematic (hence, I suppose, his interest in me), he was not going to leave it. Even I knew that was a nonstarter.

I had met the other one through running, but our acquaintance was minimal. I knew that Sam Hirabayashi was a widower, ten years older than I, and most likely single.

He was strikingly handsome, with a sweet smile, and very easy to talk to. He'd become something of an icon in the running community because, seemingly impervious to age, he routinely bested far younger competitors in races--and also because of his extraordinarily good nature. Even if he'd had one training run in the morning, followed by breakfast with his teammates, he would cheerfully do track workouts the same evening with other runners and go out to dinner afterward.

I wanted to get to know him better. But how? He was older and probably quite proper--not the kind of guy I could imagine going up to and saying, 'You're cute. I like you. Let's go out sometime.'

I devised a plan. Janet, a friend we had in common, had a small movie theater in her house, she often invited me to parties. I called her. 'This is very seventh grade,' I began. 'But I'd like you to invite Sam to one of your screenings. I'll come to any movie he's coming to.' She laughed and agreed.

Soon after, she called. 'He's coming on Thursday.'

'I'll be there,' I said.

There were eight or ten of us that evening. After the movie, as we were all standing around and chatting, someone mentioned The Motorcycle Diaries, a new film about Che Guevara. 'I'd like to see that,' I said.

'I would too,' said Sam. There was a short pause, and I held my breath. He looked at me. 'Would you like to go?'

Suppressing the urge to high-five Janet, I said yes. We set a date for the following week, he'd meet me at the theater. It was December 10--an anniversary he would always remember. I saw him there as I drove up, waiting for me, standing in front of the theater. But our movie was sold out.

What to do? We looked at what else was playing (thank goodness for multiplexes) and chose Sideways. I have a vague memory of something about men and wine but a sharp memory of sitting next to Sam. And when Sideways was over, we decided...