Meeting Bill

An unlikely love story to keep hope alive

I was five minutes late for the workshop and several others had already gathered around a long table set up on the lawn. As I approached, I saw the instructor’s eyes squinting from underneath the brim of a ball cap. He was scowling.

“You’re too tall,” he barked in my direction. “Follow me.”

It was true; I probably was too tall to work comfortably at the table. Dressed in my usual t-shirt, button fly Levi’s, and well-worn cowboy boots, they added at least a couple of inches to my already five eight frame.

As we strode to the nearby barn, I could hear the snickers behind us.

“Ooo, teacher’s pet…”

A long denim apron covered a checked shirt and polyester pants. The posture and muscular build indicated a young man, but his clothing was puzzling. I couldn’t guess whether he was eighteen or forty.

Later, I learned that his grandfather, with whom he had apprenticed in the art of stained glass at sixteen, had recently died, and he was wearing the old man’s clothes. I’d also learn that he was just over thirty years old, six years my junior.

My cheeks were hot with embarrassment as we entered the cool darkness of the old barn. I removed my sunglasses and he took off his cap, revealing the largest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. I quickly looked away.

I no longer had the slightest interest in men. Recently separated after enduring nearly ten years of an increasingly abusive relationship, following almost five years of an often tempestuous marriage, and a devastating heartbreak before that, I was done. It seemed fairly obvious that I was incapable of a loving, healthy connection with anyone. In fact, I had signed up for this introductory workshop to learn a skill that might take my mind off my problems and my life.

It was held on the grounds of a historic farm that had been turned into a living museum, where I had volunteered for many years. I was familiar with the long wooden table in the barn where we stood - I had fashioned arrangements of dried flowers and arranged jars of preserves there in the past.

Now, I concentrated as he showed me how to wield a tiny metal tool to score and cut glass. Avoiding looking up into those blue eyes again, I studied his hands as they deftly drew a line across a small sheet of glass, then used his thumbs, one on either side of the scored line, to easily snap it into two pieces.

His helpers assisted the other students outside as I seemed to be given a private lesson by this man, a self-proclaimed bachelor who had “no business” with women, after suffering some heartbreak himself. He was patient and kind. His scowl was replaced with a sympathetic smile after I cut myself on a shard of glass, then burned myself in an attempt to solder my clumsily cut pieces together. The pathetic result of the afternoon was an ornament appearing to be made by a child - testament that this was not to be my craft.

The master at work 1989

However, two months later, I ran into the young man again on the same grounds during their annual Pioneer Day. Wearing a long dress and lacy shawl, my unruly hair pinned up on my head, I walked by his booth, where beautiful examples of his work were displayed. He called to me, those eyes peering out under a newsboy cap, a boyish grin on his face. I brought him a freshly baked gingersnap, and returned the smile.

Two months after that, I was again attired in period dress as a volunteer docent inside the farmhouse during their Christmas on the Farm. A couple appeared carrying a stained glass window, a donation from their son, they said, for a raffle to benefit the museum. Spying my name tag, his mother said, “He’s out in the car, recovering from surgery. I’m sure he’d love it if you’d go and say hello.”

A pale but still unreasonably handsome man sat in the backseat of the jeep, a colorful glass lamp on his lap. He explained that it was all made of small glass jewels that he had wrapped in copper foil and stuck on the lamp mold with wax during his recovery. He’d been unable to stand and cut glass. The result was breathtaking, like something from Arabian Nights, I thought.

A month later, I received a phone call inviting me to take an actual class at his stained glass studio. I spent the rest of the winter learning and practicing after work. That spring, he asked me to go fishing. That summer, he proposed.

And I refused.

No more men, remember?

But he persisted, and eventually I relented, and we married the following year. That was thirty four years ago this June. We’ve built a business and a sanctuary together.

Marsi and Bill 1990

Would I have been happy without a man? Maybe. Would my life be different? Definitely. More travel, adventure, and corgis, perhaps. But would I trade it? Never.

My mantra is “keep dreaming, don’t be afraid of risks, and never give up.”

You just never know what life has in store for you. Stay open to it. You probably won’t regret it. I certainly don’t.