A Wink and a Smile

I always sit or stand in the back. From this position I have a bird’s eye view, a vantage point to scope out all of the people who have gathered. Olga, on the other hand, moves directly to the front, close to the action, to whatever the affair entails.

Olga occupied the first table at the front of our second year Political Theory class at King’s College in the fall of 1980, although I did not know her name in the beginning. All I can recall was a beautiful woman who attended dutifully each week, snappily dressed, with long blond hair past her shoulders. Seated in the last row, I remember my head turning quickly when she strode past the lectern one morning with it dramatically clipped. I was entranced.

I still did not know Olga’s name until she approached me one day, several weeks into the term, asking for my notes from last week’s Stratification course on the main campus. Would I mind? I had not realized we were in that class together, both of us lost in the 150 seat auditorium. Apparently I was the only other student from King’s enrolled and she needed to catch up on a missed lecture. Olga had noticed me; I began looking for her.

Follow You, Follow Me. There she was in the cafeteria where I preferred completing my school work. On occasion I caught a glimpse of this Pretty Woman sauntering across the campus, laughing with others. Every Tuesday we would be queuing at the bus stop, waiting to board the shuttle. The bus was crowded on a particularly busy day, so I stood near the rear doors. Olga sat several seats ahead with numerous people in between when our eyes met. Olga gave me A Wink and a Smile. I was hooked.

We began meeting over coffee between classes, comparing ideas, sharing thoughts. In good weather, we strolled back to King’s College exchanging observations about the lecture, talking about the material. I kept looking for opportunities to further our conversations in order to spend more time together. I was enchanted.

I finished the Stratification exam early, last one of the fall semester, and decided to hang outside the main entrance, hoping for one more encounter before the Christmas break when Olga would head back to Toronto. I waited, and waited, watching whenever the door opened, heart sinking when it was not her. Olga did not emerge. She must have left through a different exit.  Suddenly January never felt so distant, So Far Away.

At Christmas I received an unexpected gift from Ron: a pair of tickets to accompany him on a double date to the preview of  The Browning at London’s Grand Theatre. The note in the card had the usual season’s greetings, ending with “and you need to bring a girl”. I knew who to ask.

For the next month my mind was pre-occupied imagining the scenario in which I would approach Olga for that first date, planning for the most opportune time, rehearsing my words. In the cafeteria after class, over coffee? Two weeks before? One week? Would she Take a Chance on Me? What do I say if she says no?  The moment arrived as we were traversing between buildings in early February, on an unseasonably warm morning. Olga said yes. Thank you.   

The details of the evening remain a little foggy. I cannot recall the manner in which every one arrived, the story line of the play, the conversation afterwards at Sorrenti’s restaurant across the street. I do remember Olga was fashionably dressed in a classy outfit. By the time the four of us departed in my muscle car (1975 Duster with a 318 engine, four barrel carburetor, medium rise manifold, rear air shocks, dual thrush mufflers) a small winter storm had dumped a foot of snow making the roads difficult to navigate. The vehicle plowed into the snowbank in the driveway of the Huron College residence, Ron and his date got out, but the wheels could only spin in place, not going anywhere in my attempt to leave. I had no other choice except to ask Olga to slide over behind the steering while while I tromped to the rear and pushed. Give ‘er some gas. Stop. Try again. The car finally broke free. Out of breath, sweating and disheveled, I climbed back into the driver’s seat, feet soaked, slush splattered all over my pant legs. The remainder of the ride was quiet. I was afraid my opportunity for a second date had just disappeared.

We did have another, and then another and then some more. Olga and I went to movies, dinner, bars, concerts, and beaches, the standard fair of young couples. We took turns making dinner every week prior to our evening classes; we stayed up very late writing a letter to the editor about standardized testing; we participated in a Marxist study group with fellow students and professors; we sang in the church choir every Saturday evening. And we talked.

We engaged in all manners of conversation every time we were together. I remember one long walk from London’s downtown core to Olga’s apartment, arm in arm, on a cold, magical, winter night In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. We shared our fears, our thoughts, our wants, our desires, our hopes, our dreams. Fully. Completely. I was in love. We were in love.

Four decades later, our fondest moments are those spent together, alone or with the kids, at home or travelling, on the couch or on the dock, in the theatre or on the dance floor, conversing about yesterday, today and tomorrow. We are still in love, ageless and ever Evergreen.

I cherish this day and every day because, Olga, you are The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me. You Are the Sunshine of My Life.

Happy 40th anniversary.

Love always,

I hope you don’t mind,
I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words,
How wonderful life is while your in the world

Your Song