St. Agnes is the patron saint of virgins. A beautiful girl of a wealthy Christian family back in the year 304 CE, she was martyred at the age of thirteen because she refused the advances of a high-born Roman suitor. From then, on January 20th, the eve of St. Agnes feast day, when properly implored by a virgin, St. Agnes reveals in a dream the man the virgin will marry. It’s real, look it up.
As a teen, I was a devoted Episcopalian. I studied about and loved many of the saints, especially Agnes. I went to church at least once a week and attended bible study with our priest. Father Mac lived across the street from us with his wife, a piano teacher, and two little daughters. I babysat the girls a few times. Father Mac and my dad would swap stories over a beer on Saturdays. At one point I considered becoming an Episcopalian nun doing good works around the world. That was a bit in conflict with my ambition to be a multi-lingual interpreter and world traveler who lived most of the time in France with ten internationally diverse children – different fathers, no husband in the picture. I guess that is the wonderful part about being a teenager – dreams don’t have to reflect reality. I remember on a couple of occasions when I didn’t want a goodnight kiss from my date, I would use the nun card and tell him I had to stay pure. It usually meant no next date with that guy, but it was a good way to end a going-nowhere relationship. Most of my dates in high school were going-nowhere dates anyway, but I liked to be asked and always had a good time.
As a high school senior my friend, Mike, asked if I would go out with his cousin, a University of Washington freshman, who was from out of state, living with an aunt and uncle, and wanted someone to take to parties. I was that kind of friend. It was understood that Bob had a girlfriend back home in Iowa but needed a girl-friend to take out for social events – no romance involved. Sure, I’d love to go to university parties. Bob was a super nice guy, kinda shy but easy to talk to. He was on a football scholarship so most of his time after class was taken up with football. His scholarship was limited, and he didn’t know if he would stay at UW. He was very homesick. He took me to a couple of high school dances, and we went to UW events and a football team party, but I saw him only about once a week even though he lived down the street. I had a crush on a boy at school who couldn’t see me for dust and had had a summer fling with a guy from another school that ended when he left for college. Nothing big going on in my romance department, but I still had plenty of fun times.
In September, I joined an organization called Junior Achievement, promoted by my Civics teacher, Mr. Keller, whom I admired. A group of teens from both high schools in town were divided into smaller units and mentored to develop businesses. Each unit created a company, sold stock in the company, created a product, marketed and sold the product and, at the end of the year, did a Year End Report that was judged. You could earn scholarships from the efforts you made in your company. Our business, we named ESCO, was sponsored by the local utility Puget Power. We had three advisors. We made and sold extension cords.
After a few meetings brainstorming our product and other business options, the company voted on officers. A boy named Ken, from the rival high school, was elected President and I was elected Secretary. Everyone in the company worked in manufacturing and selling but the officers (I don’t remember who was Vice President and Treasurer) had separate meetings and duties. Ken and I were together often. At our first meeting, I was impressed by him. He was gorgeous, tall and athletic, and very smart. But as we got to know each other I began to despise him. He was an annoying tease, he mocked and goaded me, an arrogant boar. He evidently was a big-deal three-sport athlete at his school and the best pitcher in the Kingco League, but it wasn’t impressing me. He talked incessantly about his “fiancé”, a model, who lived in San Francisco and was older than he was. He dressed the best, in clothes that he said she sent him as gifts. Gag a magot – was my mental response. We met with city business leaders and did some publicity for Junior Achievement. It made me grind my teeth when we had to go places together or have meetings apart from our weekly company meetings.
I wrote in my journal of my woes and disappointments as well as the fun times. On January 20th, St. Agnes Eve, I said my regular prayers and then prayed that St. Agnes would send me the dream of my true love. Of course, I had a couple of boys in mind, but hoped not to influence her with specifics. When I woke, I realized I dreamed of STUPID KINARED. That is what I wrote in my journal. I couldn’t believe it. Why would she send me a dream of the very LAST person I would even speak to? St. Agnes was relegated to “suspect” on the saint list, and I promptly kicked her to the curb so to speak. STUPID KINARED and I had never dated and never would so what was her message?
Two weeks later, Ken asked me for a date.
“What would you say if I asked you out for Saturday night?” was his exact question.
“I don’t know, try it,” was my answer – stifling a gag. I knew he was pulling my chain.
“Well, would you go out with me Saturday night?”
“Sure,” I said knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t show up, relishing the idea of me waiting for him, and then having some lame reason the next time we met. I skied every Saturday and never dated on Saturday night because I was so knackered by the time I got home, I couldn’t hold my head up. That was perfect. I knew he wouldn’t show, and I wouldn’t care.
He showed up. I was warming my cold aching body in a steamy, hot bath, thinking of the dinner Mom had waiting for me when she knocked on the bathroom door and said there was a boy named Ken asking if I was ready for our date. I was beyond surprised – and a little ticked off.
“I didn’t know you had a date for tonight,” she said.
“I didn’t either,” I said.
“Well, what shall I tell him? He’s in the living room talking to your father.”
I thought about it and decided I didn’t want to be the one who failed to show for the date. I’d never hear the end of that. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” I said. I had no idea what the date was, but I sure hoped it included dinner because I was famished after a long day of skiing and only a little lunch several hours before. I dressed for a dinner date.
He took me to a Seattle U basketball game. I HATE basketball – a bunch of sweaty jocks with squeaky shoes running from one end of the room to another. Pointless and boring, I never can figure out what’s going on. I was miserable, I was cold, I was hungry, and I hated my escort. The date from hell. I didn’t speak to him except in single syllables. By the time we got in the car, he was irritated by my behavior. He opened the car door for me, then slammed it so the car shook. I started quietly sobbing with my face turned to the window, hoping to get home quickly, have something to eat, climb into my warm bed, and forget the night ever happened.
We were part way home and he asked, “Would you like to stop at the Burger Master for something?” I perked up a bit. “Yes. That would be great.” My stomach nodded in approval. Maybe something would be salvaged from this disaster after all. He pulled into the parking lot. It was a drive-in restaurant where a waitress came to the car, you ordered, and then she brought the order to the car. We weren’t going into a warm restaurant. “What would you like?” the waitress asked. Without looking at me or asking a question, he said, “Two vanilla milkshakes.” I hate vanilla milkshakes. I’m a chocolate malt girl. Things were not looking up. I had never been on a date when I was not consulted – first, about where we were going, usually school dances or a movie, and second, what I wanted to eat if we were at a restaurant. Who did this arrogant joker think he was, God? My bad mood deepened. When the shakes arrived, I said, “You drink them both, I don’t like vanilla milkshakes.” He did and we left.
Instead of driving me home, he drove to a place by the lake. Quiet and secluded. “I’d just like to talk to you,” he said. “About what,” I grumbled. And then he talked. I don’t know what about because I wasn’t listening. He asked me to take my coat off because he was allergic to fur, and it had a fur collar. I declined. I asked about Sue, his “fiancé” and got a non-answer. There was no kissing, no making out, no nothing and he took me home.
In the morning, my mother asked, “How was the date?” “Never in the history of dates has there ever been a worse one,” I replied. “You’ll never see that guy here again. I sent a clear message.” Later in the day as I was doing homework at my desk my mother came into my room. “You know the guy you said I’d never see again? He’s at the door asking for you to come out to talk to him.” Sure enough there he was standing by his car, with his best friend he wanted me to meet, bouncing a basketball between them. The gall of this guy, the absolute impudence, the audacity! I was intrigued. What made him come back?
From that day on he either called or came by to see me every day, sometimes driving across town to pick me up after school to take me home, or driving up to the slopes to ski with me on Saturday. His persistence slowly won me over. I began to see his charm. We would go out or he would come hang out at my house. My parents loved him. My mother made him his favorite blueberry pies and my father barbequed steaks when he came to dinner. We dated exclusively for the rest of the school year and summer. We fought, we broke up, we reconciled, rinse and repeat. We had great times together and it was never boring. Bob had to find a new girl-friend.
Two years ago, I was going through old journals and papers. Most of the journals from early days were tossed when we moved from Seattle to Tucson, but I found the one from my senior year. Over the years Ken and I talked about that first date. He didn’t remember it being so bad – obviously. I showed him my entry from St. Agnes Eve when I said I dreamt of STUPID KINARED (capitalized and highlighted). He laughed. I had totally forgotten that St. Agnes foretold our marriage in a dream that I had scoffed at and ignored.
Now over sixty years later, when we go to bed at night, he leans over to kiss me and says, “Thank you, St. Agnes.”
Never underestimate the power of a saint. They work in mysterious ways.
PS: Our JA company received an award as Company of the Month one month and an honorable mention at the end of the year and Ken received a scholarship award as runner-up for President of the Year. After high school, Ken signed a pro contract with the Detroit Tigers as a pitcher with spring training starting the following February. Ken never took me to Burger Master again. We didn’t attend basketball games either. We attended plays, movies, dances, and the very nicest restaurants in town. He is the BEST date I ever had. Sue continued to write to Ken even after we married.
wonkagranny 