The punks broke in, and I got the girl

Twenty years ago today, I won the lottery. My prize was beyond valuation, and I really can't compare it to the one I won ten years ago last Monday, when Zach was born, other than to say that without this one, the other one couldn't have happened. Twenty years ago today, I married my best friend, Kelly Jean Loop.

I'd always had a thing for cute, girl-next-door types (and still do), and Kelly was (and still is) that to the nth degree. Throw in her smarts, wit, warmth, and how fun she is to be around, and she’s more than I ever could have asked for. I was smitten from the moment I first set eyes on her, and that she was attracted to me was beyond my belief or comprehension. I still feel that way. And when I look back on our first two decades of marriage, it reminds me of how, in a twisted way, I'll forever be indebted to the punks who tried to burn my mom's house down.

In the early days of my childhood, I spent my life in boring but safe bedroom communities in the East San Francisco Bay Area. Shortly after my parents divorced, we found ourselves moving from one rental to another, and my mom, who was determined to purchase a house of her own, took a job in the growing Silicon Valley workforce.

Commuting from Newark made her long days even longer, so in 1976, she purchased a condominium in San Jose and moved me and my siblings south. As much as an achievement as home ownership was for a divorced mother with four kids, there was no denying that relocating us to the east side of San Jose involved major culture shock. I remember my mother asking her real estate agent if the neighborhood was a safe one, and despite some signs to the contrary, he assured her that it was. And initially, though the change was great, it seemed to be.

Still, with frequent police visits and word of break-ins and drug dealing, this clearly wasn't paradise. Many of the shady, teenaged punks I suspected were causing the trouble congregated regularly in a building next door to ours, which was far from comforting. My mom did her best to befriend the thugs, and for a time, that appeared to help, because they didn't pick on me as they did most of the other kids in the neighborhood. But as I entered high school the following year, racial tensions and gang fights on my campus were making the evening news, and these problems often spilled into the surrounding neighborhoods—including ours.

Months passed, and I did my best to avoid trouble and to find sanctuary at school. But before long, the warning signs around us reached their limit, and an event occurred that would forever change my life. Grounded and on strict orders to come straight home from school, I was gifted by our principal with an unannounced minimum day. Figuring my mom would never know about it so long as I was home by my normal time, I headed to my old junior high school to play basketball with some friends. Imagine my surprise—no, shock—when one of my buddies pointed to my mom, who was supposed to be at work, approaching us. As I started to make excuses for why I was there, I can only remember her saying one thing: "Get in the car."

We rode home in silence. Something was clearly wrong, and the minute we arrived home, I could see what. Police cars and fire trucks were gathered outside, and the men who'd driven them there were scurrying about everywhere. Walking inside, I couldn't believe what greeted me, as our house had been ransacked almost beyond recognition. Every cupboard, closet, dresser, and even the refrigerator and freezer had been emptied of its contents, which were strewn in piles across the floor.

The good news was that not much had been taken. The bad news was that when they were done, the crooks had taken the contents of our coat closet, thrown them on the stove, and turned all the burners on high. Only the presence of a detective investigating a burglary in the adjoining unit who heard our smoke alarms and called the fire department prevented the place from burning down. But the smoke had done its damage, as oily, black soot and a sickeningly sour odor permeated everything in the house.

Putting our lives back in order was a slow and painful process, and it dramatically increased the fear I felt each time I stepped outside our front door. If you've ever had a break-in, you know the feeling of violation you’re left with afterwards. And yet, when my mom announced that we'd be moving, I argued tooth and nail, especially once I learned that she was house hunting in the safer haven of the west side. By then, I'd adopted a street mentality that where we lived was "real" and that the parts across town were superficial and populated by spoiled, rich families. This was an exaggerated stereotype, of course, but it was what I'd been taught. That I had a kinda sorta girlfriend named Donna at my current school didn't help matters. And so it was that, once we'd made the move to a large detached house on a relatively quiet street not far from Campbell—an upgrade by any measure—I stubbornly insisted on riding the bus across town rather than transferring schools.

This was no small undertaking, as it involved several hours of travel, both by foot and on multiple buses, each day. So it was no surprise that once things cooled off completely with Donna, I was ready to begrudgingly switch schools. I told my friends goodbye, adding that I was sure I'd be back in short order after facing the horrors that surely awaited me. I can still remember the day I enrolled at Blackford High School, skeptical of everything I was told by my new counselor and quick to point out every shortcoming I could find at the much-smaller school. Once registration was completed, I plodded off to class to face my fate, determined not to fit in.

To my surprise, people were quite friendly at Blackford. A couple of girls who’d noticed that I spent my lunch periods sitting in the library reading took it upon themselves to get to know me, and to encourage me to get out and meet people. Taking their advice, and because I'd always had an interest in photography, I quickly fell in with some geeky guys who shot pictures for the yearbook who encouraged me to accompany them to one of the school's basketball games. While I knew the team couldn't hold a prayer to Silver Creek's division-winning one, I agreed, and a few nights later, found myself sitting in the bleachers with them, feeling uncomfortable, alone, and entirely out of place.

And then it happened. Just when I thought I might drop dead on the spot out of sheer boredom, I looked up and saw her. It goes without saying that for a teenaged boy, one of the attractions—often the main attraction—of attending a campus sports event is the cheerleaders. So, at a new school, not really knowing anyone, pretending to cheer for a team for which I didn't yet feel any spirit, I was soon busy surveying the new crop of short skirts and pompoms. And as I did, I spotted someone with the most amazing green eyes I'd ever seen and a smile that absolutely took my breath away. I asked my companions about her, and they told me that her name was Kelly Loop. I couldn't take my eyes off her and, acting completely out of my normally shy character, I told them I wanted to meet her. They seemed surprised by my bold behavior, but because they both knew her, they called her over.

As she bounded up the bleachers, I watched with the turbocharged hormones and easily-swayed heart of a sixteen-year-old in utter fascination as this adorable creature actually responded and approached us. This was like something out of a movie! If I managed to utter anything to her I really can't say, because I don't remember much, other than that she was bubbly, friendly, and even cuter (if that was possible) close up. Much to my new friends' amusement, I was completely smitten, and once she’d departed and taken her place back in line with her squadmates, I spent the rest of the game in a Kelly-induced fog, trying not to stare but finding it impossible not to do so.

And that’s how it all started. At some point, I'll tell the rest of the story of how Kelly and I got together, but suffice to say that it involved getting to know her as she dated friends and friends-of-friends of mine, a situation I'd have found torturesome aside from the fact that since I figured I didn't stand a chance of ever dating her myself, at least I could live vicariously through my buddies and spend time in Kelly’s presence. The concept of us ever marrying would have struck me as more than impossible during high school—and even once we’d begun dating—and I remind myself frequently of how lucky I am to have ever met her. I'm a romantic fool and have always pitied people I've watched endlessly trying to “find someone," and I pinch myself when I think about how easy it was for me to find my soul mate.

I realize it's not supposed to work out this way, but amazingly, it did. As Zach is fond of saying, "Yay, me!" And lucky me besides. And shame on me for not planning some big hurrah to celebrate two decades of partnership with this wonderful person I call my wife. I'd envisioned as long as two years ago repeating our cash-strapped-but-fun honeymoon through the coastal areas of Northern California and/or buying the upgraded diamond ring Kelly so richly deserves. But the the constraints caused by a still-nursing Zienna and the economics of purchasing our house put both of those on hold, at least for now. Dang, responsibility is a drag.

Years ago, when we first began dating, I gave Kelly (with much hesitation, because its contents scared me so badly at the time) a Valentine's Day card that said something about hoping we'd grow old and gray together. I'm pretty sure that's happening right now—in fact, looking in the mirror, I know it is. And I can only hope that Kelly is half as happy as I am.

Here's to twenty more years, and beyond.