 |
||||||||
 |
||||||||
|
||||||||
|
'The perfect match'
By STEPHEN NOHLGREN © St. Petersburg Times,
Eighteen years ago, Harriett had descended into a sleep-deprived funk after her second husband and her best friend died in the same week. She was 60, living in St. Augustine and watching way too much night-time television. On a whim, she placed a personal ad in a small local newspaper, looking for a "gentleman" who could escort her to local dances. Howard had buried his first wife seven years earlier, battled the demons of alcoholism and was looking for a fresh start. After he answered the ad, they sat in her carport and swapped the stories of their lives.
Both came from Baltimore. Both adopted sons, one year apart, through the same adoption agency, with the same pediatrician. Both had lived in row houses built by the same contractor -- in the same design. As a child in Chestertown, Md., Harriett had played on the front lawn of a rich neighbor. He was a director of a fertilizer company that later would employ Howard for 27 years. As Howard chatted in her carport that first day, Harriett thought he was charming. And so they began to dance together, then spend all their time together. At Christmas, he invited her to his house to dinner, serving coffee on special china that he and his first wife had bought in Germany. One cup was missing, shattered in a long-ago mishap. Harriett gasped. About a year before Howard had appeared in her carport, she had stopped at a yard sale to buy children's clothes for a great-niece. She's not a collector but was taken by a solitary cup. "I said, "Oh, what a beautiful cup. Where is the saucer?' The lady said, "I have no idea where I got that cup.' I paid a nickel for it and brought it home." She kept it on a knickknack shelf until that Christmas dinner at Howard's. Her suspicions were correct. It was the perfect match. When she and Howard moved in with each other shortly thereafter, they even shared the same monograms on towels and linens. Her previous husband was John McKnight. His first wife was Judy Miller. All the monograms read JM and HM. They are truly kindred spirits. Right off the bat, they took off on a five-year, travel-trailer jaunt around the United States, Mexico and Canada, an adventure that many would blanch at. They found it liberating. As they aged, their wanderlust abated, and they settled in Crystal River Village, a mobile home park, to be near Howard's son. Howard is now 81 and on oxygen, his lungs damaged by years of working with fertilizer. Harriett is 78 and deaf without her hearing aids. Howard's prostate surgery seven years ago has limited their love life to touching and cuddling. Still, they treasure their closeness. "The neighbors get a kick out of us," Harriett says."When we take the dog for a walk, we usually hold hands. I don't know if he does it to pull me along or to keep me from falling." Every night, they cruise the park on a golf cart, with Millie, their miniature schnauzer, sitting between them. Howard spends hours in front of his Compaq Presario writing letters and surfing the Internet. Harriett tends to the house and the dog. Their one regret relates to finances, a familiar challenge to people who want to marry late in life. Had they taken out a marriage license, Harriett would have lost the tidy widow's pension and extensive medical insurance she gained from her second husband's job with the railroad. With large medical bills, she says, "We couldn't survive" on just her Social Security and Howard's. Five years after their first carport discussion, they found a solution. A Lutheran pastor came to their home and married them in God's eyes. "There's nothing in the Bible that says two people can't be married without a license," Harriett says. They took their vows in May 1989 and consider themselves married. Still, Harriett's name in correspondence varies according to the circumstances. She gets letters addressed to Harriett McKnight, Harriett Miller, Mrs. John McKnight, Mrs. Howard Miller and Harriett McKnight Miller. "I wish the government wouldn't make me do this," she says. "I'd rather be Mrs. Miller."
 © 2006 • All Rights Reserved • St. Petersburg Times
490 First Avenue South • St. Petersburg, FL 33701 • 727-893-8111 
|
From the Times Seniority pages |
