1 DO not have to teil my universally well-educated readers that there are two kinds of love. The Sacred and the Profane. And I begin with a confession: my love for Dottie Jo is definitely of the Profane type. Furthermore, nuthlessly expos- ing the truth being my business, ! am just as hardboiled about winkling out the said truth about inyself as I am about others. So I have to look myself straight in the eye — not easy, without exceptionally strong cye muscles — and admit that Dottie Jo is ancther man's wife. As 1 am another woman's husband. This admission is all the more ’ painful because it comes on the weekend of Sacred Love for Christians — and, you may be as- tounded to hear, University of Lethbridge sociologist Reginald Bibby reported in a 1990 survey that 86% of Canadians identified themselves as Christians. But I have a special compulsion to admit to ry Profane Love — which, as I need not tefl those - well-adjusted readers, comes from _ the Latin meaning “outside the temple” — for Dottie Jo... Which is: tomorrow is ous 40ih ’ We met on Apzil 10, 1953. We parted two days later. And Dottie Jo and I have never But every April 10, I remember. “You are the most romantic man I ever met,’ a young woman -— not Dottie Jo — once said to I have striven to keep this a secret — hiding behind a tough, cynical carapace. (If you don’t _ know what a carapace is, you are eat less well-educated than J thought.) Bat I cannot ive 4 Hie. The fact is that, public scold about declin- ing moorals and defender of family values thar ! am, ! am in Jove with another man’s wife. It began that morning — 49 years ago. She was 16.1 was 18. We met in the pool of the Sitver Sands Mote in Hollywood, Florida. She was with a pretty blonde ‘ friend named Jane. They were visibly unattached. Everyone cise in the vicinity was cither very old — i.c., about as old as Jam now, alas! — or * youngish but mamiod, with children. They splasted in the pool, Dot- tic Jo and Jane. My brother Gary and | also sptashed in the pool. The splaches eweatuatly met. They were coy splashes for a while, but even then, kiddies, the ripples had a way of noceting cach other. If only I could recall our first words. Anyway, Gary, bluc-cyed and blond, gravitated toward tike- side of our ancestry, shyly ap- proached Dottie Jo, almost aut- brown and black-haired, the . legacy of a Cherokee forebear. She was lovely. She had beautiful limbs and a, forgive the banality of the adjective, sunny personality The gitts were holidaying with Dottie Jo"; parents. They lived in ladianzpolis. Someooe at the motel who . kpew chem whispered that Dottie Jo’s father was a Lange operator in the steel business, his bome a showplace. I, unworldly then as now, oovldn’t have cared fess. That night we borrowed Pop's car and took the girls to a drive- in. Never mind that oor family had seen the movie the night be- we could recapiure that magic, reader. ; , But I beiteve it was the suff of youth itself. The next morning we were all up early, cavorting in the pool, in ART IN MERCHANDISING Are you considering an applied arts career with built-in job ‘flexibility? Consider our ART IN MERCHANDISING PROGRAES. This two-yzar dipolma course will prepare you for work in the Visual Presentation field which includes: ‘Take charge of your fature! Phonr 324-5590 today ox write to: Student Services Vancouver Community College Langara Campes 100 W. 49th Avenue Vancouver, B.C. - VSY 226 the ocean. We four went out that night. We came back in the darkness. We took a stroll on the warm Florida beach. Gary and Jane valked together. I was overpowered with emo- tions poorly identified. The girls were driving north the next morn- ing. ; Dottie Jo had a boyfriend in the north. 1 had a girlfriend. The hour of parting drew near. We would perhaps never sce cach other again. } could not bear it. | threw cau- tion to the warm, sensuous breezes. As we walked [ abruptly took Dottie Jo’s hand. | dare not stop walking. Something beyond redemption might await so fatal a pause. ‘ Rapfinder's - North Vancouver store has moved ° toan exciting new And we're celebrating ’ New LOcaTION: until April 30! By offering you some of the lowest prices ever on our fabulous new line of drapery and upholstery fabrics in both stores. You'll find more space. I kissed her forehead. I said: “Are you my buddy?” She must have answered some- thing. It is lost in that moment frozen in amber. We got back to the motel — how? My legs were rubbery with a love that had no intention — no possibility — of declaring itself. Dottie Jo, Jane and the family left very carly the next morning. We took pictures in the weak dawn light. I still have them. 1 phoned Dottie Jo a week or so ago. | . . We'd talked once before — nearly 30 ycars ago. She married her boyfriend. They had two children — 35 and 34 now, far older than the kids Dottie Jo and I were then. She's a grandmother. She lives in the same house. And with the same Se husband. She’s 56. I reddened when she told me something P’d forgotten — that I'd written a poem for her calied, to my mortification, “Ditty for Dottie."’ , She may have thought that a grown man calling her from 40 years and thousands of miles away to remind her of cur “‘anniver- sary”’ was the stupidest thing since hammers were put in a bag. But she was kind enough not to say SO. ; She said she really appreciated my call. We'll never meet, of course. We left the shades of our vanished youtli on the sands of the warm Atlantic Ocean. Joyous, innocent, and never to grow old. course, more selection of decorative fabrics for location. 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