Old time love

Every Saturday morning the young man woke up early, ate a light breakfast with a cup of tea and set about his preparations. He made a sandwich, filled a bottle of water and packed them neatly into a rucksack which he hung across his shoulders. He went outside mounted his bicycle and took off into the morning.

He had a long ride ahead of him but every Saturday, he would make the 80 kilometer trip without fail. For almost a year, in the blazing heat of summer or the near zero rainy winters, he never missed one.

He had very good reason to get to where he was going. He could not afford to be late, or he would miss his chance at what he saw was his life ahead of him.

The odd times he was running behind schedule, he would make it up by peddling harder. A few close calls on the potholed roads were a reminder to get up earlier the next week so there was no need to rush. But, a man of his age only has so much memory for such things.

Hours later he would get to where he was going, sweaty and often short of breath, but never late.

A firm knock at the door as he took off his cap, was greeted by a serious looking woman but one that welcomed him into her home each week. He would nod shyly and enter into the hallway.

On the days when the sun shined, he would be led out into the garden where a spread of tea, scones with jam and some sandwiches awaited. In the winter, it would be in the dining room where the fire burned in the corner and instead of sandwiches, soup would be served. He would sit down and be told to wait.

The stern looking woman would go away and a moment later return with a pretty eighteen year old by her side. The girl would sit down opposite the boy and the woman, her mother, would take a seat between the two.

They would talk and talk about all they could dare together while her mother sat reading a book or knitting. even if she looked busy, she was always attentive to the conversation that played out across the table.

They had two hours. That was all the time the boy could afford before he had to get back on his bicycle and head home. He had to be back before dark.

As the weeks and months of this Saturday ritual progressed, the stern woman started smiling as the boy arrived and relaxed her oversight so the two could speak alone together. A year later, they were married.

In a world of swiping left and right to find partners and very little effort to overcome the inevitable challenges of a relationship, I think it is no wonder so few last. Many do not really know each other before they commit and with decreasing conversation skills, they are less likely to find out what they need to know about the other person before it is too late.

These days, it seems to be a numbers game where people say 'I can't find the right one'. Perhaps there is no right one. Perhaps it is the one you are willing to invest your time, effort and attention into. The one that you are willing to ride 80 kilometers to see, no matter the weather.

Maybe, with all of the technology support, the texting apps and dating sites, it is just too easy. Very little work involved means very little work invested.

I think of this story when I hear some of my friends complaining about this and that in their relationships. It reminds me to be more attentive and work harder in my own relationship. It isn't always easy.

The story itself I heard when I was just a boy. I was with my grandfather in his lumber shed and I asked about my grandma, who died when I was very young. He told me the story of how they met and what he did every Saturday to secure her hand.

When he was finished, he took me to the back of the shed and pulled an old sheet off something in the corner. Dusty and rusting, stood an ancient bicycle.

Taraz
[ an original ]