On the night he proposed, DH sent me on the road.
His phone message lured me out of the radio station and to the freeway: meet me at the Chevron station — corner of Bingle and Old Hempstead Highway — six p.m. tonight.
Thus began a scavenger hunt across northwest Houston. Thirty years ago today and one week after a no‐ring ocean cruise.
Empty, except for a dozen red roses piled atop the hood. A card lay nearby with a single question, plus directions to a nearby movie theater.
“When Harry Met Sally.”
Perfect for us, both as a couple and individuals.
In a parallel universe, I’m Sally Albright. As finicky as she about meals, clothes, and sometimes, conversation, too. What’s wrong with demanding your kale warmed, with two tablespoons of organic EVOO on the side?
I’m eager to re‐enact the Katz’s Deli scene. Meg Ryan overlooked vital details, ones only I can move and moan.
DH channels Harry Burns to near‐perfection. He approaches every situation with an engineer’s logic. Fortunately, he’s never suffered the movie’s perennial question: can friends enjoy lasting fringe benefits?
DH remains world‐class at Pictionary, screaming out his equivalent of “Baby Fish Mouth!” at every opportunity.
Mexican food. He knows me, and my order, well: Christmas enchiladas but only two, please, and lukewarm charro beans in a separate dish.
A second card followed. With a question.
Then we drove to his home and, in the backyard, DH popped out a third card. Yes, a question.
I aced the engagement exam and DH put a ring on it.
(Could you ace this quiz?)
Three months later, we married.
Our fast altar moves followed a wild, five year, friendship/courtship. We had no idea that, all along, we were channeling our inner Harry and Sally.
Now, here we are, three decades and three photographs later:
The only pose we planned was the first one, our formal engagement picture.
The middle black‐and‐white pose followed a need for promotional photos for our business, Media Consultants.
How could we resist a third pose for this post? But hey, it required no road trip.
Only a swing into our den, the one (un‐ironed) white bed sheet we own, and a willing photographer, my good writing friend, Danielle Metcalf‐Chenail.
Now, we’re off to celebrate. No roses, wine, or cards needed this trip.