By John Kass

May 26^th,2024

He was a butcher who wanted to become a writer. He had butcher shop sawdust on his boots from cutting boxes of chickens in his family’s South Side market shop as he walked into a summer school class at Columbia College:

The Psychology of Consciousness, a bullshit summer class for a bullshit A.

He hadn’t yet decided what he’d do, though he didn’t want to spend his life chopping and cutting meat. Perhaps he’d be a newspaperman, writing restaurant reviews and politics and maybe prizefighting. There was so much out there. But he had no idea how to reach those goals. He was a kid. His dreams were all over the place. By contrast she was focused, serious, a beautiful modern dancer, long and lean, dreaming only of one thing: the bright lights of the stage.

They met decades ago, in that ridiculous waste of time of a class, more than 40 years ago, lifetimes ago, when they were young.

It was then when he put away the things of a child. It was then when he finally grew up. It was that young woman.

She had black hair, jet black eyes, a true Sicilian beauty, just finished with a dance rehearsal so her skin was flushed. And when she looked at him, staring right through him, and then he was gone. The class instructor had them put their desks in a circle, then turned out the light. He told them to meditate and close their eyes.

He didn’t close his eyes. She did not like that at all. He didn’t want to be rude. He just couldn’t help himself.

Some 15 minutes later the instructor turned on the lights and asked the class to share their mediation experiences. The first student said he “felt so close” to everyone in the room. It got worse.

They began gushing out their feelings of their pretend closeness. And just like that they were one with the room.

“I felt everyone’s consciousness,” said the second student.

“I felt the spirit of everybody in our circle,” said another. “I could feel your aura.”

It went on like that for a time. Each student feeling a oneness, a closeness. He kept staring at the Lovely Sicilian Beauty. Finally it was her turn to speak.

“I don’t feel close to anybody,” she said. “It’s ridiculous to think you’re close to me. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

The others were stunned. The young woman had broken their collectivist fantasy bubble.

And just then he knew: She was the girl for him. He would marry the Lovely Sicilian. She had backbone and beauty. She had the brains and the spirit. He realized then that he’d marry her if she’d take him. But first he had to talk to her.

The instructor stopped the group gushing out their feelings of pretend closeness, and ask them to put their desks into small groups. She was in a small group on the far other side of the room. So he picked up his desk and carried it all the way over there, introduced himself and asked her name.

“Castella” she said.

“You’re Italian?”

“No,” she said, eyes flashing, her eyebrows popping up straight up in an old country ‘no.’

“I’m not Italian,” she said. “I’m Sicilian.”

My heart flipped and flopped like a fish. After class I asked if I could walk her to the ‘el’ and paid a fare just so I could stand next to her as the A train rushed by. I asked her to breakfast the next morning. The big song on the radio then–yes we listened t0 the radio for music and we read newspapers–was Phil Collins’ “Hold On.”

And that’s what I did.

I held on.

“I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh, lord
And I’ve been waiting for this moment, for all my life, oh, lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh, lord, oh, lord.”

Immediately I was focused, determined to get a job at a big paper and make a real living. But that’s a story for another day, if you’re interested. This is our story of our anniversary. We got married at St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church over the 1986 Memorial Day weekend.

She was a beautiful bride. I was the nervous groom. Just look at the photo.

Years later we had the twins. And there was a perfect day when I skipped work and we all went to Lincoln Park. It was a sunny autumn afternoon. We floated the lagoon on paddleboats and fed potato chips to the ducks. I took a dad photo on the most perfect day of our lives. The boys toothless. She was beautiful then, and she’s beautiful now. I’m so blessed to have her love.

We’ve been together more than 40 years now. She was there through it all, strong by my side through the open heart surgery, the heart attack, the stroke, and that gallbladder thing. It’s a journey. I’m there for her. She’s there for me. We’re married.

We love working together at johnkassnews.com , debating stories, photo choices, and driving to Chicago to visit our favorite bistros.

If you meet a young woman don’t focus on beauty, focus on character, backbone and spirit. And if you’re lucky enough to stand with her and give your oath to God, I hope you too will be as blessed.

After all these years, I think she’ll keep me.

It’s good to be married.

 

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About the author: John Kass spent decades as a political writer and news columnist in Chicago working at a major metropolitan newspaper. He is co-host of The Chicago Way podcast. And he just loves his “No Chumbolone” hat, because johnkassnews.com is a “No Chumbolone” Zone where you can always get a cup of common sense.