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 Chosen
The
brave first steps that forged a life of love
By
David King
A
short while after my grandmother passed away in the Spring
of 2002 I sat with my grandfather on the couch of his Cape
Cod home. “She chose me,” he said sobbing into a handkerchief,
his hands clasping my grandmother’s wedding ring. It was the
first time I had ever seen my grandfather cry. But I had to
wonder what he meant that my grandmother “chose him?” It brought
me to tears, but also made me wonder why my grandfather, the
commanding architect who had a penchant for photography, Mercedes
cars and woodworking—a veritable renaissance man in my eyes—would
ever have felt lucky to have been chosen. Not only was he
the premier father figure in my life but also the epitome,
in my eyes, of what a truly gallant man was supposed to be.
In the middle of winter, 1942, my grandfather, Howard Progner
did something very brave—he walked into the office of my grandmother’s
father and asked for permission to marry her. He had already
asked Jean Allison, my grandmother, and she had accepted.
They had a long courtship. From high school in Yonkers my
grandfather pursued my grandmother. He went off to Brown on
a football scholarship, the star quarterback. She was valedictorian
of her class at Barnard, president of the undergrad association
and a member of a delegation that greeted Queen Mary upon
her visit to the states. My grandfather sustained his courtship
despite being states away.
What is more impressive than the years he spent pursuing her
was the divide he crossed to do so. My grandfather lived across
the tracks in Yonkers, the son of Eastern European immigrants,
German-speaking Slovaks. My grandmother, on the other hand,
was the offspring of her mother, Evelyn B. Corwin, who belonged
to an honest-to-goodness Mayflower family, and her father,
Robert Paton Allison, who hard worked his way up in the railroad,
eventually managing Teddy Roosevelt’s second campaign train
and later leaving to become vice president of Irving Trust,
where he oversaw the building of the bank’s new headquarters
at—Number One Wall Street.
Unsurprisingly, my grandmother had her share of suitors. In
the end my grandfather won her hand in marriage over the son
of a well-off diplomat. Howie from the wrong side of the tracks
bested the hoity-toity diplomat’s son and, after his soon-to-be
father-in-law consulted with his daughter—making sure this
was what she really wanted—he won her hand. They were married
in May of 1942 in the home of my grandmother’s father.
But class difference wasn’t the only reason my grandfather
felt so lucky to have been chosen by my grandmother. The newlyweds
found themselves working opposite shifts in different cities
to make ends meet. It drove them crazy. So when a relative
offered to let them stay at a farmhouse in Ithaca they jumped
at the chance to look for new work and raise a family in the
country. My grandfather worked at a chain company and my grandmother
became pregnant. Six months into the pregnancy the house caught
fire. Everything was lost except for my grandmother’s giant
hope chest, which my grandfather carried out of the house
on his back. The property was uninsured. But neighbors gave
the couple all that they could and put them up in a small
apartment, where their first child was born.
Meanwhile the country had entered World War II and, like most
other men, my grandfather volunteered. He, however, was rejected—an
old football injury made the army suspicious that he was suffering
from bone disease. Not long after, he received an even worse
diagnosis: tuberculosis. They sent him off to the sanitarium
in hopes that the air would cure him. Meanwhile, my grandmother
had become pregnant for a second time. After three long winters
of having to cut firewood and take care of her babies, my
grandmother had had enough of rural living. Her family invited
her back to Yonkers and she decided it was time to go. My
grandfather thought he would join her. The terminal patient
checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders
and returned to Yonkers with the family.
Life was still a struggle. My grandfather’s insurance had
paid out death benefits because he was not expected to live
and no one felt like employing the walking dead. Eventually,
a friend gave my grandfather a job at a gas station. With
the help of other friends, he became a carpenter’s helper
on a construction project. He worked his way up, position
by position, and eventually became manager of the housing
complex. Meanwhile, the doctor who headed the city’s public
health department warned my grandmother she should not have
any more children, because her husband wouldn’t be around
much longer. So my grandparents decided to have another child.
At 45, my grandmother went back to school for a master’s degree
and became a teacher.
No one ever remembers seeing my grandparents fight. My grandfather,
the cool, practical thinker, my grandmother, the passionate
intellectual. Eventually they retired to Cape Cod, buying
a home near the ocean. That is how I knew them—as relaxed,
retired, ethical, intelligent, warm, caring people. It wasn’t
till the twilight of their lives that I found out how much
it meant that they had made it that far—60 years together.
In spite of all their struggles they carried each other through
and overcame seemingly insurmountable odds.
I tell this story because I believe I have met the love of
my own life. I’ve already asked her family for their permission
to marry her, even though her mother made it clear to me it
is her daughter’s decision. (And no, my love won’t be “given
away” on her putative wedding day.)
I tell this story because I want to ask Jamie Bond if she
will do me the honor of being my wife—of triumphing over time
and circumstance together for the rest of our lives. Sharing
each other’s will, intelligence, love, warmth and intense
caring for each other so that we both become better for it.
Our story isn’t an epic one. Our first date may have been
less than magical, thanks to my planning. We met at the now-closed
Borders on Wolf Road in the Spring of 2008. I invited her
to Troy Night Out to meet some friends and get dinner at Jose
Malone’s. She accepted. My friends had mostly already departed,
and dinner was average. But she agreed, perhaps against her
better judgment, to go see a movie with me, and off we went
to see Indiana Jones and the Legend of the Crystal Skull.
At the end of the night I gathered up the courage to ask her
if she wanted to go on another date. I had a previous engagement
the next day, I told her—tickets to fights in New Jersey,
and one of my friends who was scheduled to go had canceled.
There was a ticket with her name on it. I could slap myself
now. She politely declined. But when I returned home, I happily
found her online and we began to chat. Before we knew it it
was morning, and, sleep-deprived, we agreed to meet at the
76 Diner in Latham for breakfast. It feels like we haven’t
left each other’s sides since. Yes, she came to the fights.
I may even have told her I loved her on the . . . well, technically,
third date. And yet she was still there, holding my hand,
as we listened to the new Death Cab for Cutie album on the
ride home while my friends snickered in the back seat.
We have been through our own trials. No arguments; we don’t
do those. We talk and listen. But I’ve had my dramas—financial,
physical, family related—and she has still been there, holding
my hand, keeping me focused, happy, and perhaps despite both
our expectations now focused on building a life together,
and I hope one day a family.
So Jamie, being of sound mind (today at least) and honest
of heart, I ask you, will you marry me? Will you make me the
happiest man in the world? Will you take this journey with
me? Will you let me call you those random pet names that make
no sense? Will you continue to indulge my musical tastes,
nerdy habits and penchant for fresh-squeezed lemonade? Will
you continue to look at me with those wide, gorgeous brown
eyes and smile when I make a bad joke? Will you let me take
care of you? Will you let me sleep by your side at night even
though I always come to bed too late? Not to put too much
pressure on you, but I think my mom, our cats, and your mother
and grandmother really have their fingers crossed for this.
I promise I will be there for you throughout all of life’s
trials, just as you have been there for me. I promise to do
everything I can to make sure you are smiling. Jamie, will
you do me the greatest honor and choose me?
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